A short while ago, he had again performed what had become a maddening ritual: he called Márta Lang’s personal number. Nothing.

They don’t even know the boss is dead, Agger had said.

Yet there was one person Janson could think of who would know what there was to be known and would speak to him freely. Of course, first precautions had to be taken—to protect both himself and the man he was going to visit.

Piraeus’s Great Harbor was a vast, circular inlet, cupping the ocean, so it seemed to Janson, like an open manacle—or one that was closing. Necessity had drawn him here all the same. He had no intention of signaling his movements to anyone with a professional interest in them.

For the past couple of hours, he had considered and rejected a dozen other ways of leaving the country. Watchers would surely be swarming in and around the Athens airport by now; quite likely agents would soon be mobilized at the major airports at Thessaloníki and elsewhere. In any case, traveling on his own passport was out of the question: given the involvement of the embassy, the chances were too great that a U.S. advisory had been issued to international points of embarkation and arrival. But when he made his way to the one local he knew who specialized in forging official documents—a man who owned a stationery shop near Omónia—he found surveillance agents in position: a visit would have compromised either his contact or him. Hence his recourse to those whose livelihoods taught them the formalities of international transit—and when the formalities might be overlooked.

Janson wore a suit, which make him an incongruous sight in the Perigaili Bar, but his tie hung unknotted around his collar, and he looked adrift, almost despondent. He stepped forward with a weaving gait. Decide on a part and then dress for it. He was a prosperous businessman in dire straits. If the air of desperation didn’t achieve the intended results, two minutes in the rest room and a square-shouldered shift in demeanor could erase that impression entirely.

He took the stool next to the sailor and gave him a sidewise glance. He was solidly built, with the kind of soft, fleshy build that spoke of a large appetite but often hid considerable muscular strength. Did he speak English?

“Goddamn Albanian whore,” Janson muttered under his breath, just loud enough to be heard. Imprecations directed at ethnic minorities—especially Gypsies and Albanians—were, he knew, a reliable conversation-starter in Greece, where the ancient notion of purity of bloodlines still ruled.

The sailor turned to him and grunted. His bloodshot eyes were wary, however. What was a man dressed like him doing in a such a dive?

“She took everything,” Janson went on. “She cleaned me out.” He signaled for a drink.