But these Greeks: Who were they? Not CIA employees. These were professionals, to whom a job had been outsourced. The kind of men you kept at arm’s length—until you needed them. Often that meant a sanction, an act that no official members of a security detail could be entrusted with.

But Janson was getting ahead of himself, he knew: there was no cause for a sanction order. Not yet, anyway.

Janson crawled on his belly along the untamed arbor, staying close to a long retaining wall made of piled shale. The scrub of maquis impeded his progress. Blades of crabgrass tickled his nose; tall weeds sprouted in clumps every few feet, and Janson took care not to flag his presence by disturbing them. Two minutes later, he raised his head quickly above the berm line, verifying that he was within a few feet of the man with the sketchpad. That man was standing now, the stick of charcoal having been carelessly dropped to the ground like a cigarette butt.

The Greek’s back was to him, and he could see how powerfully built the young “artist” was. The man’s gaze was resolutely on Agger, on the marble bench before the fountain, and his muscles seemed strained for immediate response. Then Janson saw him reach for something under his caftanlike shirt.

Janson lifted a large piece of shale from the rock terrace, taking care to maintain absolute silence; any unexpected noise, such as the sound of two rocks rubbing against each other, would cause the Greek to whirl around instantly. Janson hoisted the rock above his head and flung it with all his strength, aiming for the back of his neck. The man had begun to turn when the shale struck him, and he staggered to the ground. Janson stepped over the low wall and seized the man by his hair, clamping his forearm against his mouth. He flipped him over the wall and onto his back.

He yanked a flat-sided gun—a powerful automatic pistol, a Walther P99—from the man’s trouser band and saw that it had a perforated cylinder permanently attached. A silenced weapon: meant to be used, not displayed—a weapon for fulfilling threats, not simply making them. The man was a professional, with professional equipment. Janson ran his fingers along the man’s embroidered collar, feeling for the microphone, and made sure that the contactor switch had not been activated. He flipped over the fabric, exposing a small blue-black plastic disk with a copper wire running out from it.

“Tell your friend it’s an emergency!” he said, whispering in his ear. He knew that the task would not have been outsourced to people who did not speak English and might misunderstand orders. “Let him know that you have been betrayed! As you have been!”

“Den omilo tin Aggliki,” the man said.