“It would be nice to know if there is a ring of Czech police around this hotel.”

“If there are I can’t see them,” said Ruthie peeking through the drapes out the window.

“Anyway, I’m going to check the headlines, just in case anything’s changed.”

“Are you going to put on some proper clothes?” said Ruthie, pulling the curtains shut and leaning against the wall, allowing her bathrobe to fall open.

“Do you want me to put on some proper clothes?” said Patton, loosening the tie of her own robe.

“I think you know the answer,” said Ruthie.

“Come on, we can scoot over there in these luxurious robes. Just let me grab my gun.”

“A pistol. How romantic,” said Ruthie.

“Can’t be too careful,” said Patton.

Ruthie giggled and followed Patton into the hall where they fumbled with the key Nemo had left them, hoping that no one got off the rickety elevator or came out of one of the other rooms. But the second-floor corridor of the Hotel Charles III remained quiet in the early afternoon, and soon enough Ruthie was pulling the shoulder of Patton’s robe down while Patton flicked on the TV in time for the news headlines.

The explosion in Munich was the third story and at first nothing seemed different from a few hours ago. Patton could feel Ruthie’s lips fluttering against her shoulder and was just about to protest, weakly, that they couldn’t possibly, not here in Nemo’s bedroom, when the feed switched to a reporter in front of the remnants of Ingrid Weiss’s house. In the background, a small crowd had gathered at the police barrier.

“Shit,” said Patton, sitting up so suddenly she was afraid for a moment she might have given Ruthie a split lip. She pulled her robe back up and leaned forward until she was just inches away from the screen. “Shit,” she said again.

“What is it?” said Ruthie.

“Lucky they’re standing so close. Otherwise I never would have seen them.”

“Seen who?” said Ruthie.

“Those three guys there,” said Patton, pointing to three men who stood stolidly at the police barrier staring toward the site of the explosion.

“Who are they?” said Ruthie, now sitting forward on the edge of the bed with Patton.

“They may have been promoted since I last met them, but I knew them as Sergeant Bob Macmillan, Private First Class Ted Grosswald, and Private First Class Franklin Rendell.”

“And why are you so concerned to see them?” said Ruthie.

“No reason really,” said Patton. “It’s just that they want to kill me.”