By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

“Of course you do.”

“Why the Cobenzl?”

“You know the Cobenzl?”

Castillo nodded. It was on top of a hill at what Castillo thought of as the beginning of the Vienna Woods. The street leading up it—he remembered the name: Cobenzlgasse—was lined with Heuriger, Gasthausen that sold new wine, which, Castillo also remembered, had a hell of a kick and produced memorable hangovers.

“Mr. Pevsner likes to watch the sun set over Vienna at this time of the year,” the American said. “He thought you might enjoy it yourself.”

“I’ll go,” Castillo said.

“Mr. Pevsner will be pleased,” the American said.

This guy thinks I’m an asshole and wants me to know he does.

Unfortunately, he’s right.

I was taken just now like a bumbling idiot. Like Peter Seller’s Inspector Clouseau.

Castillo dried his hands.

“The car’s outside,” the American said. “I took care of your tab.”

“Thank you,” Castillo said, adding mentally, the asshole said politely.

The car at the curb was a Mercedes, a new 220, with deeply tinted windows and Prague license plates. The other East European stood on the curb holding the rear door open. The large East European got in the front seat and the American motioned for Castillo to get in the back.

“It’ll be a little crowded in here, I’m afraid. Say hello to Ingrid.”

The woman Castillo had thought was the American’s wife was already in the car. She smiled at him.

“Guten abend, Herr Gossinger,” Inge said offering her hand.

“Guten abend,” Castillo replied.

She was, he saw now, a trim woman with luxuriant dark red hair.

She’s much better looking than I remembered. I just didn’t pay attention to her before.

Does terror kill my sex drive, or is it that that area of my brain is completely filled with lewd images of Patricia Wilson?

The American got in the backseat—and it was a little crowded; he could feel Inge’s hip against his—and the door was closed.

“Inge works in our Prague office,” the American said. “Among other things, she brought the cars from Prague for us to use.”

What the hell is he doing? Telling me that Inge is available? Or even, presuming I’m a good boy, that Inge is the prize?

Or just making polite conversation?

“Do you know Prague, Herr Gossinger?” Inge asked as the car started to move.

“Yes, I do,” Castillo said, politely.

[SEVEN]

The other car was another black Mercedes, another new one, but the big one, like Otto Görner’s, the 600 with the V-12 engine. Its windows were similarly deeply tinted, and it, too, carried a Prague license tag.

It was parked sideway, across three pull-in spaces, at the observation point on the Cobenzl, which was nothing more than a flat area paved with gravel, and with a steel, waist-high fence to keep people from falling down the hill. There were no other cars, although there was space for seven or eight.