Ratko smiled, remembering the small panic that had swept through the Foundation’s support staff when they received the phone call, thirty minutes earlier, telling them that the recently appointed foreign minister would be keeping his appointment with the executive director. A series of flustered underlings compared notes, for the appointment had gone unrecorded. Nobody wanted to admit to having made a scheduling error, and yet someone must have done so. Through his Schmidt & Bender scope, Ratko had seen the little redheaded woman’s consternation. Just two weeks ago, you double-scheduled the Swedish minister of foreign affairs and the man from the U.N. disarmament program, the redhead said, berating a particularly thickheaded junior secretary upstairs. The junior secretary protested that it wasn’t her fault, but did so with an air of hesitation that was tantamount to a confession. Another secretary, coming to the other’s defense, maintained that the error was probably on the side of the Czech bureaucrats. Yet it would be simply impossible, a hopeless breach of protocol, to tell them so.

Now Ratko watched the red-haired receptionist lead the minister inside to a fancy antechamber, where vision and sound alike grew indistinct. The Serb turned up the electronic light amplification of his scope and switched the microphone to a special signal-enhancement mode so that the input from the parabolics would be further digitally improved—sharpened, with meaningless noise filtered out.

“Our executive director will be with you shortly,” he heard the redhead say, as the aural signal was restored.

“You’re very kind,” the Czech diplomat said airily, removing his hat. “And this is a beautiful estate. Do you mind terribly if I take a look around?”

“Sir, we would be honored,” she replied as if by rote.

Silly bureaucrat—searching for decor tips to give to his wife. He would return to the drab presidential palace in Prague and tell his friends about the deluxe details of Peter Novak’s Amsterdam lair.

Ratko had done Warsaw Pact exercises with Czech soldiers back when he was in the Yugoslav army, long before the six republics of Yugoslavia struck out on their own, and at each other. The Czechs, he always thought, had a very high opinion of themselves. He did not share it.

A man walking very slowly in front of the house caught his attention: would Janson be so bold? The man, seemingly a tourist, stood against the low railing beside the canal. Slowly, he took out a map.

Ratko directed his scope toward him; the angle was not ideal, but as he took in the tourist’s slight build and short hair, he saw how mistaken he had been. No matter how cleverly Janson disguised himself, he could never pass for a twenty-something woman.

Once more, Ratko felt a warmth stirring in his belly.