Janson pushed his knee against the man’s throat until he gagged. “Don’t speak English? Then I guess there’s no reason for me not to kill you.”

The man’s eyes widened. “No! Please, I do what you say.”

“And remember. Katalaveno ellinika.” I understand Greek. A half-truth, anyway.

Pressing the hidden contactor toward the front of his collar, the Greek activated his microphone and began to speak, the urgency made more intense as Janson gouged his Walther into his temple.

Once the message was relayed, he slammed the Greek assassin to the shale wall. The man’s cranium absorbed most of the impact; he would be unconscious for an hour, probably two.

Through his binoculars, Janson saw the businessman in the light gray suit stand abruptly and stride toward the arbor. Something about the way he carried the folded newspaper made it clear that it was serving to conceal something else. The bespectacled businessman looked warily around as he made his way into the arbor, his hand still enveloped by the folded copy of Eleft-herotypia, the Athens daily.

Janson glanced at his wristwatch. Too much time was passing; Agger could easily be overtaken by anxiety and decide to return to the office. That was standard procedure anyway with a no-show: one was not to wait beyond a limited amount of time.

Quickly, Janson positioned himself at the end of the arborway. As the man emerged, Janson lunged, swinging the Walther P99 into his face, shattering teeth and bone. Blood spewed from his mouth and spattered on his white shirt and jacket; the paper dropped and the silenced weapon it concealed clattered to the stone underfoot. Swiftly Janson turned over the man’s lapel, exposing a small blue-black disk, identical to the one worn by the other Greek.

Janson returned the Walther to his waistband and rubbed a small spot of blood from his hand. An inner bleakness was creeping upon him. In the past few days, he had fallen back into everything he had once prayed he’d left behind him—the violence, the gambits, the lethal subterfuge, a career’s worth of ingrained habits. Still, this was no time to gaze into the abyss. He had to focus, to analyze, to act.

Were there others? None that he’d detected, but he could not be certain. The Japanese tourist? Possible. Unlikely.

He would have to take the risk.

Now Janson strode over to Agger, who was still on the marble bench, perspiring heavily.

“Paul,” Agger said. “Thank God! I was starting to worry that something had happened to you.”