“Nothing yet.”
A group of four American college kids stopped as one of them took a picture of the back of the church. One of the couples stood close to each other, with a sort of awkwardness that told Morgan theirs was a new relationship. The other couple had been together long enough to be more interested in other things but shared a kiss before they moved along.
They didn’t give him a second glance. Good. Being invisible had its perks in the business.
Morgan buzzed with energy, like he always did at the start of a mission. He felt the reassuring weight of his black Walther PPK in its shoulder holster, well hidden under his black trench coat. It wasn’t a popular concealed weapon anymore—too heavy and not as much firepower as the polymer nine-millimeter pieces that many favored. But he was a man with classic tastes, and he had a soft spot for the gun. It felt solid in his hand, nicely balanced, with light recoil. That, and he could hit a fly at ten paces with it.
Morgan leaned back against the stone of the centuries-old Gothic church and feigned drawing in smoke from the Marlboro when he caught movement in his peripheral vision. Across the small parking lot, a man emerged from the front door of the Ventana Hotel. He had a coarse face, a receding head of blond hair, and a strong nose, but a weak chin that he hid, poorly, with a goatee.
“It’s Pulnik,” said Morgan. “Moving west from the hotel.”
“Keep your distance,” said Bloch over the comm. “Team, get moving. Stick to the plan. Morgan, do I have to remind you—”
“You don’t. It’s my damn plan. I’m sticking to it.” Morgan tossed the half-burned cigarette and ground it against the pavement, then set off after the man.
Their quarry was Havel Pulnik, a sleazy small-time underworld businessman who happened to be the second cousin of Enver Lukacs, the evasive big fish they were really after. With no leads to Lukacs, Zeta Division had had Pulnik under surveillance for months while he had begged his family to have Lukacs contact him. His persistence, and theirs, had finally paid off when one of Lukacs’s people set a meeting with him in Prague.
“We’re on the move.” That was Bishop, the leader of the Zeta Tactical Team, somewhere within a two-block radius.
Morgan walked thirty feet behind Pulnik. The streets were teeming with tourists from all nations—he could tell the people from warm climates, who were bundled up as if they were in the Himalayas in the dead of winter. As he passed a souvenir shop, Morgan caught sight of Spartan. She had a good four inches on him, her close-cropped blond hair hidden by a dark gray beanie. She was looking through postcards on a rack, positioned so she could catch glances of their quarry.
Morgan then caught sight of Bishop, walking a ways ahead of Pulnik. Spartan set off a few seconds after Morgan had passed, walking on pace with a group of Germans who seemed to be going out for a stroll rather than gaping at the sights.
“Looks like he’s moving toward the plaza,” Spartan said. “Good call.”
Morgan walked on the cobblestones, worn smooth over the years. Prague had old-world elegance, with a picturesque hodgepodge of architectural styles—but all, unlike the utilitarian bent of American engineering, with an eye for beauty. The condition of the buildings, however, betrayed its Soviet past. They did not have the polish, the fresh paint, or the recent renovations found in England or Germany.
Morgan liked it, though. The city had character. A gloomy, character, sure. Nothing more appropriate for the city of Franz Kafka. But anywhere he went, at least in the old city, there was no mistaking that, yes, he was in Prague, all right.
It was a short walk before Morgan followed Pulnik into the historic Old Town Square. The perimeter of the sprawling tourist attraction was lined with restaurants with outside tables, where tourists braved the cold with hot drinks. Many others sat right on the ground. One girl was drawing the Old Town Hall—its gothic spires reaching toward the sky. Most were standing around, listening to guides, studying their smartphones, or just milling about, taking pictures of the old buildings that marked the square’s edges. A band was setting up, a standing bass, a clarinet, a banjo and a washboard, with a half-dozen people already sitting in a semicircle, waiting for them to begin. A handful of protesters were there too, demonstrating about refugees from the Middle East. The younger and more diverse crowd was for, the older and local against. They kept a tense peace, but Morgan had a feeling things could break out in violence quickly.
Pulnik was making his way toward the green bronze statue of Czech philosopher Jan Hus at the center of the square.
“Fan out,” Morgan said. “I want people on all sides. We need to see Lukacs coming.”
“Moving in, northwest corner.” The voice belonged to Peter Conley, code name Cougar—Morgan’s old partner from his CIA days. There was no one Morgan would sooner trust with his life.
Morgan walked to the middle of the east side of the square and watched as the others got into position. He surveyed the tourists, who were oblivious to the importance of this moment. The wheels of their world turned, and they were none the wiser. They didn’t know anything about the silent machinery hidden deep in the bowels of their world. All they saw was the surface.
Morgan was here today to stop one of these cogs from turning. Enver Lukacs was the name of this particular cog—a shadowy underworld player with a finger in every poison pie. His currency was contacts, linking people who were selling black-market items and services with those who wanted them. Weapons, drugs, mercenaries, slaves—Lukacs had it all. If they got him to turn over even a fraction of what he
