By Order of the President (Presidential Agent 1)

Castillo nodded and returned his attention to the urinal, more than a little embarrassed at his jumping heart.

And then . . . Oh, shit!

Someone had pulled his jacket down, effectively immobilizing his arms.

“Careful,” the American said, “you don’t really want to piss all over the silk brocade wall.”

The American patted him down, finding both knives. He took the folding knife and flipped it open with a flick of the wrist.

“Nice,” he said. “I suppose a journalist does need something like this to sharpen his pencils, doesn’t he?”

Then he closed the knife and put it back in Castillo’s shirt pocket.

“What I was looking for was a wire,” the American said, and then, in Russian, said, “Adjust Mr. Gossinger’s jacket, Sergei.”

Whoever was behind him pulled the jacket back in place.

Castillo had trouble maintaining the direction of the flow of his urine into the urinal but did well under the circumstances.

The American went to the adjacent urinal and pulled down his zipper.

He looked over at Castillo.

“Beer really does go right through me,” he said.

Castillo said nothing.

When his bladder finally emptied he pulled up his zipper and wondered what he was going to do next.

He saw that the men’s room wall was indeed upholstered in red silk brocade.

If they were going to hurt—kill—me, they certainly had the opportunity. What the hell is going on?

The American completed his business with a satisfied sigh and Castillo heard him pull up his zipper.

The American went to a washbasin and started to wash his hands.

Over his shoulder, he said, “When you finish, Mr. Gossinger, Mr. Pevsner hopes that you will join him on the Cobenzl.”

“May I turn around?” Castillo asked.

“Of course.”

Castillo turned.

One of the Eastern Europeans—the larger one—was standing three feet from him with his hands crossed at his crotch. The American was still washing his hands.

As much to have something to do as for reasons of hygiene, Castillo took the half steps to the small row of wash-basins and started to wash his hands.

The American carefully dried his hands.

“Well?” he asked.

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to join Mr. Pevsner on the Cobenzl?”

“Do I have a choice?”