THE WIND HAD DIED DOWN and, while there were no stars visible, the rain still seemed to be holding off. Smith and Randi stayed in the center of the empty road, taking a different route back to their car. It was quiet enough that they could hear Johannes throwing the deadbolt on his door and Smith felt a little regret at the sound. He could have spent the next ten years in that place exploring the secret history of the Cold War. And of Christian Dresner.

Randi finally managed to connect with Star and he leaned in toward her phone as they walked.

“Hey, Randi. How’s Germany?”

“Cold. I need you to find someone for me. Gerhard Eichmann. He escaped East Germany with Dresner back in the seventies.”

“An actual name! I like working with you better than Jon.”

“That hurts,” Smith said loud enough for her to hear. “But since you bring it up, how’s that going?”

“Don’t be sad, Jon! You know I love you. But as far as how it’s going, I’m not sure yet.”

Out of the corner of his left eye, Smith spotted a shadow moving between two buildings. It was probably just a stray cat or loose awning, but he immediately began scanning the both sides of the street. “You better hurry. I have a plan and I might just beat you to it.”

“I’m not worried.”

He spotted what looked like a human shape around the side of a van rusting away in an alley just ahead. Randi gave an almost imperceptible nod to indicate that she saw it, too.

Once again, he was missing the Merge that he was becoming increasingly reluctant to use. It was a little frightening how quickly he’d become reliant on it.

“Careful, Star,” Randi said, still speaking casually. “He’s a lot brighter than he looks.”

In the end, he didn’t need sophisticated vision enhancement. Two men emerged from the shadows and ran into the street in front of them as two more closed from the sides. A quick glance back confirmed what he already intuitively knew. One more behind.

“Gotta dash,” Randi said into the phone. “Talk later.”

“Looks like five total,” Smith said quietly.

“Yeah, but they all look like morons.”

It was a fair observation. Each had either extremely close-cropped hair or a shaved head. Neck and face tattoos complemented heavy jackets and boots with jeans partially rolled up. At least one swastika was visible—on a silver chain hanging around one man’s neck.

They kept moving forward, not stopping until they were a meter or two from the men blocking their path. The ones coming in from the sides didn’t seem to be in a hurry and the one in back had slowed to a crawl, giving himself room to intercept if they should make a break for it.