By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

"Okay.”

“That probably won’t be until Charley gets back.”

“Back from where?”

“I told him to bring me a Sacher torte,” Hall said.

It took Naylor a moment to take the meaning of that. “What’s Charley doing in Vienna?”

“Meeting with a Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner,” Hall said.

“Jesus Christ!”

“Allan, I think it would be better if Miller wore civvies. But make sure he has a uniform with him.”

“Done.”

“As soon as I can, I’ll explain all this to you, Allan.”

“I’d like that, Matt. I hate to stumble along in the dark.”

“As soon as I can, Allan.”

“Good enough,” Naylor said. “And thanks, Matt.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Hall said and broke the connection.

[SIX]

Hotel Sacher Wien Philharmonikerstrasse 4 Vienna, Austria 1650 8 June 2005

There had been no familiar faces in the lobby of the Bristol, nor on the sidewalk outside, nor on Kaertnerstrasse as Castillo walked to Philharmonikerstrasse and the Sacher.

And there was no one in the bar when he went inside.

The barman remembered him from last night.

“Ein anderes Dzbán, meine herr?” he asked.

“Ja. Bitte,” Castillo said.

He had finished about half of the beer when the American couple he had seen last night came. The man remembered him, too, apparently. He nodded and gave Castillo a brief smile as he walked past him to sit where they had sat last night.

Castillo had just signaled the barman for another Dzbán when two men came in. He could not remember havin

g seen them before. They were in their forties, and, from the cuts of their suits, Castillo decided they were from somewhere east. Czechoslovakia or Hungary. Or maybe Poland.

That aroused his interest.

But neither man paid any interest to Castillo at all. One of them took some stapled-together papers from a ratty-looking briefcase and both men studied them with care. They spoke very softly—almost whispered—as if afraid that someone would eavesdrop on their conversation. Castillo could not make out what they were saying.

When he finished—slowly—the second bottle of Dzbán, Castillo signaled for another and then went to the men’s room.

He had just begun to relieve himself when he heard the door whoosh open and turned from the urinal, aware that his heart had jumped.

It was the American from the bar.

The American smiled. “Beer goes right through me,” he announced.