“He is. And sometimes a single man may accomplish what a full team cannot.” Santoro paused and then came at it from a different angle. “My surmise is that there are other hits we don’t know about. Maybe several. I think our Colonel Ledger is not merely slamming around collecting scalps. I think he is more in control than we give him credit for. Bear in mind, he was a police detective before he worked for the demon Church, and he’s learned a lot about international politics and espionage tradecraft. Including interrogation strategies.”

Kuga grunted and sat forward. “Well, that’s an ugly damned can of worms. You think he’s been getting names from his showier hits, killing some and using coercion on others?”

“It’s possible, even likely.”

“And those blabbermouths wouldn’t fess up because they know how we’d react. Anyone who talked to him would take that information to their graves rather than risk a visit from a Fixer … or from you.”

“Sadly, yes.”

Kuga suddenly laughed. It was short and bitter, but genuine. “Goddamn, Ledger is pulling a Rafael Santoro on us.”

The little Spaniard’s face showed no amusement. “We need to review what each of the people at those locations knew. Most are like Casanova—they know there is an American Operation and that it is tied to materials coded as G-55. But our circle of factual knowledge about the actual operation—the dates, location, intent, and timing—is very tight. I cannot offhand think of a single person, not even Alexander Fong, Gerald Engelbrecht, or Mislav Mitrović, who knows enough to matter.”

Kuga rubbed his eyes and blew out his cheeks. “So … who does that leave?”

“The leaders of the four Fixer teams and HK, of course, but they’ve all been confined to the Pavilion,” said Santoro. “Gerald Crumby in London, the Cat in Romania, and maybe three others who are here in this house.”

Kuga walked across the room and back, avoiding the debris and broken glass. He stopped and stared out the window, hands thrust deep into his pockets.

“Then we need to make sure each of those targets is covered.”

“Oh yes,” said Santoro. “I will make those calls now.”

CHAPTER 116

SCANDIC BERLIN POTSDAMER PLATZ

BERLIN, GERMANY

Peggy Ann Gondek stood in the middle of the hotel room and looked around. She’d closed the door after bypassing the key card lock and stood now with a Snellig dart gun in her right hand. The Ruger SR22 was tucked into a discreet clip on her belt, hidden by a baggy cardigan. She also had a double-edged stiletto strapped to her left forearm under her sleeve.

The closets and bureau drawers were empty, room curtains and blackout drapes drawn, bed messed. A small laptop lay on the desk.