Commandant Rafael Griffon was not quite himself that day, so he plucked two flutes of wine off of the passing tray and handed one to the princess.

“Merci, Commandant,” Anna said, leaning daintily on the marble rail. The two of them stood in the gentle shadows at the margins of the corps de logis courtyard. Beneath the glassed roof of the courtyard, dozens of military men and continental notables milled about, strutting to and fro behind their glittering left breasts, talking of hunting and divisional honors and motor sports. It was altogether too soon for the two of them, a French officer and an Austrian heiress, to escape the burdens of the evening, but it was soon enough for them to create some distance, to enjoy each others’ company just apart from the great peacocking of officers. Here, on the interior side of the colonnade, the din was lower. The murmuring voices and the sweet trilling of the string quartet were all muddled and mixed up together by the time they reached the stairs. The waiter’s footsteps echoed clearly over it at first, but suddenly subsided as he passed out between the columns.

“Je vous en prie,” Rafael replied. “Surely you cannot be so bored already, no?”

“Of course I can be. Why shouldn’t I be?” Anna said, rolling her big, pretty eyes.

And why shouldn’t she be? This was not a party for her; it was an obligation. The visiting President of European Parliament had met with the President of the Austrian Republic and they had chosen Hofburg Palace as the site of their gala in honor of European Security and Unity or some such. Anna surely found European Security and Unity dreadfully boring.

Rafael found European Security and Unity dry at best. But he had something else to be excited about: the President of European Parliament was in mortal danger. If not today, then two days from now, when she would attend the Vienna Opera Ball.

“All of these strapping fellows and all of their stories!” he said. “You entertain frequently here, I am sure, but…”

“And isn’t that the problem?” she said, tapping a gloved finger on her cheek. “A colonel with a fine chin there, a general with a lovely voice there. They all blend together. And besides, most of them have big bellies. And claim credit for things they haven’t done.”

“How should you know that?” Rafael prodded, supposing he knew the answer.

“Come now, Commandant, I am not a silly girl. You know they boast emptily. Why should I not know they boast emptily?”

Rafael swirled the wine a bit, mostly out of habit. It wouldn’t do much good for this wine served pinched off in a little flute. Ah, well. He hadn’t taken a flute of wine off a tray for a fine drinking experience, had he? He leaned onto the rail with her. “Of course, yes. You are perceptive, and most of them… there is little to see beneath the fruit salad. Although…”

He tilted his temple a few degrees back toward the courtyard. He scanned the crowd and laid his eyes on one man in particular: a large man in the ash-grey dress uniform of the Bundesheer. He was faced away, now, and his shoulders flared like wings and he seemed to loom over whomever he was speaking to. His wide, bulldog-like head was shaven down.

“That man does not boast emptily,” Rafael said.

Anna laughed a dry laugh with a little twist of disappointment. “Oh, are you a flatterer? Just because he is Austrian…”

“No,” Rafael said. “I am not being a flatterer. That man has seen more action than the rest of the men at this gala combined.”

Anna crossed her arms. “So far as I can see he is just another officer of a peacetime army who shuffles budgets and conducts parades. How should you be able to tell? What action have you seen, monsieur commandant?” She faced him and leaned in. Her smile was foxy and keen.

It was why she had accompanied Rafael here, after all. To learn more about the dashing, mysterious French test pilot of Senegalese descent. Rafael thought fast: he wanted to entertain the lovely young heiress, but he needed to know more about the titan with the major’s golden star on his shoulder.

Why not both?

So Rafael had a sip of the wine and put on his best wolfish smile. “Oh. Well. You are a pilot yourself, are you not?”

“I fly aerobatics, yes.”

“Then I know I mustn’t tell you the lies.”

“So high performance military aviation isn’t so exciting, then?” She looked disappointed.

“Oh, it is. But you know how it is, no? Aviation has its moments of true thrill and terror. But they are hard to explain to someone who does not know what a stall is, let alone a flight envelope. So I have my lies for the occasion.”

“Two truths and a lie, then,” Anna proposed.

Rafael thought. “Ah… hm. This one cannot be told; it is too classified. That one is too long. But… ah! I have my three.

“For one: I was forced to land a stealth craft at Nice Côte d’Azur after the radio transponders failed, and I feared that I would be shot down if I tried to land at a military field.”

Anna nodded thoughtfully.

“For two: for several years I was dead according to the Ministère des Armées after being involved in an incident involving a defector from the Groupe d’Intervention.”

Anna’s eyes narrowed. Perhaps she thought that was the lie?

“For three: I have ejected only three times. Two of the times were from the same aircraft.”

“You mean the same… type, surely?”

“No, the very same jet. Twice. Is that my lie?”

“Oh, you have me all twisted. It is… the first. The first is the lie.”

Rafael smiled. “You are good. What tipped you off?”

“The second is too outlandish; it must be true. And the first is just… not quite right. Your home airfield would scramble an aircraft to confirm you visually before doing something so drastic as shooting a bogey. In peacetime, I mean.”

“It is true. I did choose to land at Nice, though! I was concerned for my fuel situation if forced into unexpected hold.”

“And so you have accomplished your goal,” Anna conceded.

“Which was?” Rafael grinned.

“I must know about the ‘incident.’”

“Ah, but first, I need your two truths and lie. Or perhaps…?”

“Perhaps?”

“Perhaps you might tell me how I might strike up a conversation with that tremendous man we have noticed.”

Anna had been disappointed when she thought that Rafael might have revealed the boring truth of military aviation. But now she looked crestfallen. Her bare shoulders slacked with a sigh and her cheeks tinged red and tilted aside.

“So… no,” Rafael ventured.

“I think yes, perhaps;” she said. “If you are so smitten with him… perhaps I should have guessed that about you dashing aviator types.”

Rafael leaned back and smiled his best enigmatic smile.

“I have heard that man, Christopher, has been to the Catherine Apartment already today. That means he is seeking. But you have heard about the Catherine Apartment, perhaps? Take care that you and he are seeking the same thing. Upended expectations can be so… gutting.”

Rafael wanted to apologize to the darling girl, but the little rhetorical game they were playing just wouldn’t allow for it. Ah, well.

“I am quite sure I will find what I am seeking there. Perhaps you…?”

Anna sighed. “No. I shan’t be interested.”

As Anna von Habsburg gave him the directions to get to the Catherine Apartment, Rafael let his gaze wander back out to the courtyard.

The big man in the grey uniform was gone.

From the Domed Chamber, the path was longer down the chancellery wing, but the shorter path down the Leopoldine wing of the castle was full of the state rooms that were so thoroughly occupied with prying eyes this week.

Pass up the stairs by the silver treasury and pass through the hall between apartments. Past the statue of the Alterritter, turn left and walk through the study. Open the door softly and tread quietly through—the floorboards underneath the heavy red rug have that elderly, pliant quality to them that tends to transform footsteps into deep, disturbing whumps.

Emerge into the central courtyard, currently dark and empty but for the looming bronze statue of Emperor Franz I atop his octagonal base. Stay along the north wall. Walk quickly and purposefully along the wall, behind Franz’s back: anybody can be watching and you would much prefer to remain inconspicuous if you happen to be seen.

Enter the south wing: the Leopoldine Wing, the moody late-Renaissance counterpart to the baroque majesty of the chancellery wing, through its northernmost double-door. Follow the hall straight and pass two doors. Open the third, and proceed down the stairs. Move fast and do not get this wrong—the offices of the president are in this hall and the Gardebataillon would not be amused to hear a story about taking a wrong turn from the function on the other end of the palace.

At the bottom of the stairs you will be greeted by the cellarer. He is an old, proud man who wears his suit and tie night and day, and he will very politely ask you what you are doing in the cellar this time of night. Tell him you’ve been told the international collection is worth seeing. He will betray no hint that he recognizes that this is unusual, and he will allow you in. Knock twice on the third barrel of wine as you pass, then open the barrel by using the spigot as a handle.

Having made to the end of the directions, James Reed closed the barrel carefully behind him, and he turned to let his eyes adjust. He was in a tiny hallway, and in one step he was facing a little wooden door. This, too, opened, and a gentle wave of sound buffeted his ears. It was a soft, indulgent polyphony: the tinkling of ice cubes in highball glasses, the sweet whispers and moans of paramours, the warm hum of some American saxophonist and his backing band on the sound system. James closed this door, too, behind him—thickly padded with soundproofing—and picked his way through the densely furnished (and almost as densely occupied) room.

At first, James saw nothing, but he hardly needed to. The room’s essential character was fully embodied in its unique smell: a low rumbling of perfumes and colognes run through with certain common threads of sweet fruit, the tacky aroma of too much sandalwood, and an unmistakable backdrop of human musk.

The full, indulgent splendor of the room slowly revealed itself to James as he became accustomed to the lilting candlelight. The low-piled carpet was nearly invisible under antique furniture, itself nearly invisible under an avalanche of red cushions and throw pillows. The greater number of the sofas and chaises were occupied by men and women in a range of dress and undress. What clothes were visible were lacy or silky. And expensive.

James worried. Did he belong here? Surely not. He was short and had a pale wetness to his constitution and a dim look about him: the kind of Englishman usually found drunk at the back corner of the company Christmas party. Surely, the ladies and gentlemen of the Catherine Room…

“Mon Cheri,” sighed a woman on a nearby chaise. She was supine, resting on her elbows and crossing her arms in a way that framed the tops of her bare breasts. She tossed her hair out of her face. “This one has had too much,” she said, gesturing with her eyes at a blond man in a heap on the floor. He was bound, hand and feet, in neatly arranged leather cuffs, and in the dim light, long, neat marks could be seen burning in a dull red along his back, butt, and thighs. “But I, not enough.”

“Oh! Um,” James said.

“Come! I am aching,” she said.

“I, ah, thought… perhaps I should warm up, first,” he said with a great show of diffidence.

The brunette emitted a silky giggle. “Oh, there is no need for that.” She reached for a nearby tulip glass. As she did so, her hair slid off her bare back and fell in curls down the side of her face. “Unless…” she said, putting her lips to the rim of the glass. “You have someone else in mind.”

James stared.

“You are roux, non? What do you English say?” she said, furrowing her brows in a drunken squint. “Kick for the other team?”

“Ah, um, well… you could say that.”

“You act so embarrassed. It is not necessary.”

“I’m looking for a man,” James said with sudden, uncharacteristic boldness.

“Much better.”

“A large man. Austrian.”

“Oh? Austrian?” The woman’s mouth twisted and puckered with ill-concealed amusement.

“I heard he had come by.”

“Oh. A particular Austrian. Say, Mikolaj?”

“Yes, Renée?” replied a man, emerging from the other side of a wooden divider. He was nude. A military man with a military cut, long legs made for running, and an abdominal display to die for. He regarded James appraisingly.

“Our new friend is looking for a large, strapping Austrian man. Seems like he thought to meet him here.”

“Oh, yes. Large. No mistaking him. Told me his name was Christopher. He came to find another but left disappointed.” Mikolaj stretched up along the side of the divider, loosening out some stiffness in his picturesque arms and legs. “Wouldn’t tell me what he was about, though.”

“What do you mean?” James said.

“Just that he was looking for someone. Not who. Or what.”

“… What he was…” James mumbled, turning the word over in his mind. “Ah. What do you suppose he was looking for?”

Mikolaj laughed, an easy but energetic laugh that set his abdominal muscles and all the things around them bouncing up and down. “A bottom, I suppose, but who’s to say? Men surprise me all the time.” That last remark seemed directed, practically slung at James by the slant of the man’s smile.

“Ah, yes. Maybe I shall see if he comes back,” James said.

Mikolaj shrugged and shared a pitying look with Renée. “See Angela for a drink. Get comfortable, mon ami.”

James obliged, giving a drab-afternoon-in-the-city nod to Renée as he stepped over her sleeping paramour. Many different scenes, all with a certain rhyme to them, played out across the length of the room. It was late in here, and the wreckage of the night’s encounters, as well as their unsated survivors, lay strewn about the dense clutter of lounge furniture, sleeping, indulging, or chatting in low tones. Angela, James guessed, was the nearly-upright woman reclining on an overstuffed chair. She had a yet-unruffled black dress, a matronly look about her, and a formidable bar cart on hand. But James gave her, too, a nod, and bypassed her, seeking the back rooms.

Christopher had given his real name here, then. It seemed odd that he should. Was he totally careless? Or was he a regular here?

James didn’t get much time to mull over the possibilities. He was already at the back of the room, in a corner partly obscured from rest of the apartment and its denizens by a set of dividers and an oddly placed armoire. There were three doors. Bright light spilled out through the crack beneath the leftmost one. A pair of white panties had been slung over the doorknob of the middle one. The right was still, silent, and unremarkable. On a hunch, James lifted the panties off the middle doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open.

It was pitch black and perfectly silent inside. There was a new smell: something sour-sweet. James closed the door behind him—like the door at the entrance to the club, this one was heavily soundproofed—before feeling around for the light switch.

James turned on the lights and frowned at the dead man on the floor.

PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT. PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT. PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT. PLAT-PLAT-PLAT-PLAT.

The gunshots were percussive and oppressive in this indoor range, even through the standard-issue ear protection.

Sergeant Susanne Kauter of the Gardebataillon watched with her hands clasped behind her back as Lieutenant Bouterk shot his last target at the range. Bouterk always liked to finish his shooting sessions by emptying his last magazine into a fresh target in a near-frenzy. “Real combat conditions,” Bouterk would explain to his subordinates with a flat smile. Meaning, of course, that if he had the misfortune of being caught in a fight with only his sidearm, he did not plan on—or anticipate that he would be capable of—following doctrine about confirming the target, sighting to the center of mass, firing, and reacquiring a sight picture before firing again. Instead, he would be yanking the trigger as fast as he could in the hopes that he could overcome the circumstances with sheer numbers.

He released the empty magazine, locked the slide open, and rolled the target back in. There were four holes in the center of mass and twelve elsewhere on the sheet, leaving one unaccounted for. A proud marksman would find plenty to tut-tut about, but the man’s attitude might just get him out of a jam someday, Kauter thought.

Kauter removed her cap and saluted after Bouterk finished packing up his gear and turned to notice her. Bouterk returned the salute, but his eyes narrowed immediately. “At ease,” he said. The range was empty, but he motioned her out through soundproofing airlock doors and into the antechamber, a little room with four bare compact fluorescent lights overhead, a desk, a water cooler, and two chairs. They both removed their ear protection.

“You came to report, Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Your shift is tomorrow night. Last night and today, you were to be off-duty.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Never mind that, I guess. What is it?”

“Lieutenant Herst was found dead upstairs early this morning.”

“What?”

“He was badly beaten. He was found in… erm… the Catherine Room. He was murdered.”

The Lieutenant sucked in a deep breath. His bony face, with pronounced cheekbones and a pointed chin, always seemed to have a look of focus about it, but never more than now. “What’s the reason you’re telling me this? Something is… wrong.”

“Yes, sir. I am telling you because I believe Major Leon is the culprit.”

Bouterk looked her dead in the eyes. “You’re accusing Chris of fratricide?”

“The body was discovered last night. He knows by now. He should have summoned you, no?”

Bouterk said nothing.

“He hasn’t. And… you should see his body for yourself.”

Kauter pulled her phone out of her pocket, unlocked it, and swiped a few times before turning it around to show the Lieutenant.

Lieutenant Bouterk’s eyes bored into the screen for a few seconds, then they flicked back up to Sergeant Kauter’s. “You are sure?”

“Yes.”

“Could it not have been many men?”

“I don’t think so. He was strangled to death, you can see on his neck. Does that seem like a group beating?”

“No, of course not. Not… a… dalliance?”

“Those are bruises and broken bones, not just welts, sir. And Herst is a strong man. Only a man like Major Leon could have done that to him.”

Bouterk shook his head. “Of course. You are right. How did you come by…?”

“I heard from a private under his command. I don’t think they’re all die-hard loyal to him,” Kauter said. “We need to act quickly,” she added, trying to barrel forward past the awkward topic of her possession of pictures of a corpse on her personal phone.

Bouterk took another breath and stood rooted to the concrete. “Yes. We need to get word to Command Vienna that he cannot lead the investigation. Speak nothing to your platoon—you have not yet, yes?”

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Good. We need to wait for Command Vienna. I will be sure they are fast. I promise not to keep your men in the dark for long.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you tell the dignitaries? Tomorrow is the big show. The Opera Ball.”

Bouterk thought about this—to his credit. And to his credit, he made the cautious decision. “No. I will arrange for Sergeant Liam and his men to adjust their duty rotations with the VIPs. We can watch without tipping off Major Leon.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

Bouterk left the little room in a hurry. Sergeant Kauter watched him go.

Lieutenant Bouterk slid a pint glass along the laminated table, where it left a beaded trail of sweat. He dealt the cards right on over top of it.

Lieutenant Alexander Sweche picked up the glass and sipped appreciably. “A pint glass? Unusually fancy, Paul.”

“What can I say? I was jealous of the party last night.” The two of them sat alone at a table in the middle of the 1st. Company break room, swallowed by the hum of the ventilation and the buzz of the strips of fluorescent lights set in their yellowing covers.

“And tomorrow night’s,” Sweche added.

They dealt a few rounds of rummy. Bouterk was playing better than usual and Alex worse.

Halfway through his second beer, Alex frowned.

“You’re good company, Paul, but I’d rather be at the opera.”

Bouterk had to laugh at that. “Aren’t you on duty for it tomorrow night? You get to go.”

“Yeah, but…”

“It is more than most people can say.”

“But I’m on duty,” Sweche moaned.

“And if you weren’t you would never be important enough to go to the Vienna Opera Ball, Lieutenant. Take some pride in that,” Bouterk said with a smile, one blended from mirth and amusement.

“Bah.” Sweche drank.

“You are a handsome man, Alex. You will find yourself a good lass.”

“I live in the barracks, Paul. Don’t… tell me you’ve forgotten what it’s like.” Sweche’s vowels were already flattening, his tongue starting to trip over consonants. Bouterk carefully maintained his smile.

“I have not forgotten. I know I married early, but it is not the only way. Just remember… the debutantes are all very pretty, and all very needy. You will find a good woman, not a needy one.”

Bouterk raised his glass.

Sweche raised too. “To Mary, you lucky bastard,” he said, toasting to Bouterk’s wife.

“To you,” Bouterk added.

“Me and my wife, duty,” Sweche said. “Or maybe I am Chris’s, is that it?” Sweche drained his glass, and Bouterk offered the rest of his can.

“Chris has his own wife,” Bouterk said. Now was the time; he’d waited long enough. “Say, is he in his office tonight? I know he is on duty tomorrow, but you know…”

“He is, but he is going to go home in a few hours. To his own wife. Not with me,” Alex added, finding the joke much funnier than his delivery warranted. He fell out of his chair laughing.

Then he tried to push himself onto his knees and back on to his chair, but he fell again, his useless arms buckling beneath him.

“Paul, I don’t feel so well.”

Bouterk knelt down and patted Sweche on the back.

“Sorry, man, you’ve had too much to drink. That was my fault, I think. Bad to do the day before a duty.”

“It was just two, wasn’t it?” Sweche stammered.

“Was it? I wasn’t counting,” Bouterk mused.

The view of the winter sunrise over the Danube from Major Christopher Leon’s flat was breathtaking. Alina Leon should know: her side of the bed had the better view, and it was taking what little breath she had left.

Today, the view was better than usual; the sky was bright and clear and the sun poured in through the blinds that Chris had just opened. Even so tiny a gesture—a tug of a beaded chain—looked impressive when it was Chris doing it, the atlassian array of muscles in his back all united in every motion.

The room opened up with light, prying a soft moan from Alina’s lips. Chris glanced her way.

“Come back,” she pleaded.

“I’m late,” he said.

“No you’re not.”

Chris sat on the side of the bed by Alina, facing the window. She began tracing a finger along his side, following a taut oblique.

“Later than I would like,” he said, still looking out.

He had been preoccupied with the window, both late last night and early this morning. The view of the skyline that rose over the east side of Vienna was charming, and of course the sunrise couldn’t be missed, but Alina had seen that Chris seemed to be looking mostly at the street that ran between the buildings and the river, at cabs and mopeds and vans and flatbeds skirting around the edge of the crowded district under the lights. At least, whenever he hadn’t been looking at her. It was a busy week, and she had given him a night to remember, to take his mind off it all. And she’d done well. Last night, as she’d straddled him, wound her hips around, hugged his neck, he’d forgotten the window. He’d even forgotten his service pistol, the hideous black-and-grey polymer thing, in its holster still belted to his discarded pants. He was ordinarily diligent about removing it, checking it, and placing it at the perfect angle on the bedstand.

It was still there, somewhere in the heap of ash-grey polyester in the kitchen. Alina hoped to keep it that way for just a little bit longer. She slid the covers off and crawled up behind her husband, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts and cheek into his back, searching at his thighs and groin with her hands and fingertips.

“No, I think you would enjoy being later, this once,” she hummed.

“Mm. Maybe I would.”

She swung herself around to his front, facing him, and they fucked once more.

When they were both done, she clung to him, feeling the sweat of their bodies and the moisture between their legs, feeling his weight press her down onto the bed.

And then he got up, and she could do nothing to stop him.

She sprawled on the bed, laying her chin to the side to rest on the sheets and letting her arms lay at whatever angle they may.

Only a few seconds had passed before she could hear the rustle of the pants, the tightening of a belt, and the faint slide of polymer on polymer as Chris withdrew the sidearm—just far enough to observe its loaded chamber indicator—and replaced it. He returned to the bedroom, pants on and somehow restored to their perfect crispness.

Chris toweled off his huge upper body while Alina moped, motionless but for the rise and fall of her bare chest with her breath.

“The ball isn’t for many hours,” she said.

“I have much to do before then.”

“Not that much. Form, check equipment, and off you go…”

Chris shook his head. He was searching for his undershirt now. “More work than you know. And that’s good. A woman so beautiful as you should never need to know work.”

“Oh, I know it,” Alina said, with a big theatrical sigh. She turned her head to stare up at the ceiling fan and hugged herself. She knew it: a woman so beautiful as her should never need to work. But she also knew more about his work than she let on. He was going in far too early for a mission beginning in the dying hours of the night. But how was she to complain at him if she wasn’t supposed to know that? She wanted him here.

She wanted him desperately, urgently, to stay here. For just a few more hours. She needed him here when the police arrived.

Bouterk had called it in, hadn’t he? The police should already be on their way.

All the better if he couldn’t get to his service pistol when they showed up. Was it too late for that?

A thought struck her like a hammer to the ribs. She lay extra still to steady the reverberations. If she showed any sign that her heart had started beating any faster, Chris hadn’t seemed to have noticed. He was watching the street as he buttoned his shirt, straightened his epaulets, affixed his cords.

“Do the big wigs in command, do they know how hard you work?” she asked.

Chris paused to smirk knowingly at his wife. “Of course.” He turned back to the street, tying his tie. “Command Vienna knows I’m the right man for this job.”

That was just what Alina had been fearing.

Not every room in the Vienna Opera House is resplendent, but every room is luxurious.

Lieutenant Sweche’s polished boots clicked the last few steps across the marbled floors of the upper-story hall, and he knocked on the little square wooden door under the graceful arch-work to the office. Freshly showered, freshly shaved, and freshly clothed, he was excited for the big night—who wouldn’t be pleased to be the very image of the sharp military man he was?—but a little anxious. He knew the Major had started early back at company HQ, but he didn’t know for what, and he wasn’t sure if he had been expected to join him: an unusual lapse in the chain of communication for their battalion. But what could be the harm in reporting directly to the operational staging area and headquarters they would be using for the Vienna Opera Ball tonight?

Nobody answered the door, but Sweche figured that was probably alright. He pushed it open and walked in.

A red plush carpet ran out to the marble margins of the little room, which was large enough to hold about six wooden L-shaped desks separated by little half-walls. Great plaster figures loomed on half-size ionic columns over in the corners—Vienna just loves its neoclassical statues, Sweche thought—and the ceiling vaulted up toward the far side, following the rooftop of the building.

In the room, Sweche spotted a fellow soldier, a smart-looking young man in a tan coat-and-tie, black boots, and black gloves. His visor hat, adorned with the Polish eagle, lay aside on one of the desks, and he was chatting idly with a young woman in a red blouse and immaculate black pants. He, Sweche guessed, must be one of the EU men with the president of parliament, and she would probably be a civilian coordinator with the opera or one of the other groups involved in the show tonight. Five other men and women, also civilians, sat at desks, taking phone calls or getting themselves settled for a long night. Strange that none of the other Gardebataillon men were here at the moment.

Sweche caught the eye of the Pole and nodded his greetings. He was walking over for proper introductions when all of his carefully laid plans fell completely to bits.

The door to the adjoining room flew open with a wooden bang and two men wearing ash-grey Gardebataillon parade uniforms stomped into the room. They had rifles slung on their backs, and they were dragging a body by its wrists.

When the body’s legs had cleared the door, they closed the door, let go of the body’s arms, and unslung their rifles.

The body belonged to Paul Bouterk.

He was wearing a parade uniform like theirs. His right arm was bent at a sickening angle below the elbow, his face was pale, and his neck was purple with bruising.

He had been strangled, and Sweche knew by whom.

“Nobody enters or leaves. Nobody speaks of this,” one of the men said. He scanned the room and frowned. “Keep doing your jobs over the phone, but only in German so I know what you’re talking about. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

Sweche stared at the body. His body trembled with a rage, one that threatened to seize control, like it was not his own. Not Paul. He had just seen Paul yesterday. Paul was too good a soldier. Too good a man. To go out like this? Sent up by one of his own?

“Damnit,” Sweche said. “Let me through. I’m with the Major. Where’d he go?”

The two soldiers shared a look. The one on the left shifted his hands on his rifle, his finger fidgeting along the top of the grip near where the safety selector was. Not a good sign, Sweche figured. The man glared back at him and said “we’re with the Major. This doesn’t have anything to do with you, Alex. Just forget about it and don’t make this hard.”

Damn it all, Sweche thought. Maybe he wasn’t in with the Major like he thought he was.

The soldiers exchanged words, and the soldier on the right stepped forward. He gestured at the Pole and Sweche with his chin, rifle at the ready. “Your sidearms.”

Sweche exchanged a look with the Pole. The man was furious, his fists, arms, body, legs, jaw, and brows all clenched with rage. But they both knew their odds. Two sidearms tucked in two holsters were no match for two rifles in the hands of watching soldiers. Their eyes met, and a tiny bit of meaning passed between them, over that strange connection between complete strangers.

Both of them surrendered their service pistols stiffly but without a fight.

As they did so, all of them in the room became aware that the dull din from down the halls was quieting.

The show was beginning.

The civilians sat nervously down at their desks, eyes searching the room for any sort of relief or comfort, unsure if they should, indeed, continue to work their phones and coordinate their colleagues. Most of them seemed to look to the woman in the red blouse, who herself seemed to watch the Pole carefully. The Pole stared daggers at the sentries.

Sweche knew what was coming next.

There was a tight, loud drum roll on the snare, a tiny hiss reverberating down the halls from the theater. The man who had just taken the handguns had his back turned.

There was a quarter-note rest.

In one smooth motion, Sweche stepped aside, putting the back-turned soldier between him and the one at the door. He swept the hem of his dress uniform coat up and out of the way, and he drew his concealed handgun and aimed it.

There was a cymbal crash as the chorus entered in the key of F major. Sweche squeezed the trigger and fired. He aimed, squeezed again, and fired. The two men fell dead.

There were shrieks of surprise from the civilians—even the Polish officer had started with the suddenness—but over the percussion and the chorus, Sweche figured—hoped even—that the ball attendees may not have noticed. He ran forward to check the bodies, ears ringing. All three were dead: Paul and the two traitors.

Amateurs, Sweche thought. Shouldn’t double-dealers like them know to search for concealed weapons?

“You, soldier,” he barked. “You’re PESCO? EU?”

“Yes,” the man replied.

“Are they outside? Get them in immediately. The VIP is in danger.”

The Pole did not waste any time on the reply; he was already at the phone, and in two heartbeats he was shouting orders into the receiver.

“And you, miss,” Sweche continued. But the woman in the red blouse was already on her phone herself, waiting for her counterpart to pick up as she swiped madly at the tablet on the stand in front of her. “You have security?” She met his eyes and nodded. Already working, then.

The slow, hymn-like National Anthem of Austria was echoing down the halls. That meant, of course, that the President of Austria was entering his balcony to view the ball. Had the President of European Parliament joined him? Would she be waiting for the European Anthem to be played? Surely not; surely decorum would not have her enter after him. Damnit, Sweche, he thought at himself. No sense trying to guess at when Leon would strike. What was important was getting there as soon as possible.

He ignored the standard-issue handgun he had just surrendered—he disliked that blocky, ugly thing anyway. His snappy little concealed handgun would be just as useful. Which was to say: not nearly as useful as a rifle. But Sweche groaned inwardly as he seized one of the dead men’s rifles. The Gardebataillon still paraded around with these huge cold war-era battle rifles, long and ungainly, complete with extra heavy wooden stocks lacquered to a shine. It was not the ideal weapon for a dead sprint into a close-quarters fight.

Sweche released the magazine and checked its top. Brassy rounds glinted up at him. Large ones. He reseated the magazine and charged the rifle. For all its flaws, it would certainly suffice to shoot a big man dead.

“You have two minutes,” he shouted at the room. The Polish soldier and the event coordinator nodded, still bent over their work. Sweche hoped dearly that two would be enough.

He had one last order of business, just in case. He fumbled around the neck of the dead man he’d just looted the rifle from, and he pulled up a dog tag. Corporal Karl Byllack.

Sweche snatched the tag off the chain, jumped to his feet, and burst out into the hallway.

It was empty out in the halls. As he pounded closer, the full, reverberating splendor of the chorus resolved into something audible. Mutig in die neuen Zeiten… The third verse was beginning.

Sweche slowed his gait ever so slightly and checked forward and backward. There was nobody in this stretch of hallway, only warm, dimmed lanterns and baroque golden filigree on the walls. Now was as good as any other time. It was no longer useful to be Lieutenant Sweche.

Lieutenant Sweche stopped running. He took a deep breath, shut out the world around him, and mentally touched a deep, dark place inside himself.

The person who emerged on the other side of the hall, wearing the Gardebataillon uniform and lugging the battle rifle, was not Lieutenant Sweche. He had never been Lieutenant Sweche. He was now a man who bore the features of Corporal Karl Byllack.

Byllack turned the corner into the lobby. He pushed a startled—and then audibly terrified—usher aside, also throwing down the velvet rope to the balconies and starting up the stairs. Why hadn’t the honor guard posted anyone here at the foot of the stairs? That could only mean…

There was a brief applause from the auditorium as the Anthem ended and Byllack crested the final red carpeted steps. There, in the middle of the hall, he spotted the backs of two more ash-grey soldiers, dwarfed by the man they flanked. Major Leon. They were taking the last steps to one of the central balconies. Major Leon was reaching for the door handle.

The timpani and strings began thundering the opening to the European Anthem: Beethoven’s Ode to Joy, the mighty paean to worldly unity.

“Major!” Byllack shouted. He just needed to stall. One more minute and maybe he’d have enough help to bring Leon in alive. “Major! Stop!”

Major Leon turned. The choir within the auditorium erupted into the first verse.

Freude, schöner Götterfunken…

“Why have you left your post?” Leon growled.

“It’s urgent, sir; we’re blown. We need to leave.”

Tochter aus Elysium,

Leon’s great nostrils flared, his fists clenched. “You know there is no turning back. We die for the glory of His Majesty.”

His Majesty? What? “But sir, wouldn’t it…”

Wir betreten feuertrunken,

“Are you having doubts?” Leon’s eyes narrowed.

Himmlische, dein Heiligtum!

Byllack raised his rifle, and then all Hell broke loose.

Leon was ready for trouble, and he was fast. As Byllack brought the rifle to level, Leon took two steps forward and seized the barrel shroud, wrenching it forward, bringing with it Byllack’s body and face into a painful union with Leon’s balled fist. Byllack rolled onto the ground, disoriented by the force of the blow and grasping at his fleeing consciousness.

Just then, Leon’s compatriots began shouting. Byllack became distantly aware that a commotion had followed him up the stairs.

A rainbow of dress uniforms, medals, and cords, bearing an armory of international rifles—four men? Ten men? Byllack wasn’t sure—was storming up. Just then, rollup metal gates clattered down across all of the balcony doorways, barring access to the auditorium. His friends—or Sweche’s friends, he supposed—back in the office upstairs had come through.

As the situation devolved into a scrum between EU guardsmen and Leon’s thugs (Wem der große Wurf gelungen…), Byllack hauled himself to his feet and charged out of it, further down the hall. His vision still swam and head still throbbed with pain… he didn’t see Leon… had he…?

Byllack turned a corner. Leon was hustling down the staircase toward a side door.

Eines Freundes Freund zu sein…

Byllack stumbled down the staircase as fast as he could, some distant corner of his mind cursing himself for not being able to get down faster without simply falling the rest of the way in his current state.

Mische seinen Jubel ein!

The mighty surge of the choir vanished as he emerged into the cold, noisy night on Kärntner street. He jerked his neck left and right to search for Leon and spotted him to the left, running north up the street toward the nearest likely getaway—a crowded walking street between two hotels. Leon was about to reach the street, about to start weaving between cars, the distance between him and Byllack a hundred meters and growing. There was only one thing to do.

Byllack knelt, bracing the wooden stock on his right shoulder and pressing his cheek down onto it. He found Leon. He peered through the iron sights. He prayed that the real Karl Byllack, barely five minutes dead, had bothered to sight this rifle correctly. The lights glared in his vision. He felt light-headed, light-minded. This would be a wildly irresponsible shot to take in the best of circumstances…

He blinked and lost Leon.

He looked up. A sea of blue-and-red lights had crashed down on Philharmoniker Street from east and west, bright and pulsing and painful to look into. Byllack spotted Leon taking a swing at the first cop out of his car, laying the man out. But then he himself went down in an avalanche of black pads, face shields, and batons.

Byllack stood. He sucked in a breath. He didn’t have to think long—he knew what he had to do next. He released the magazine from the rifle, ejected the round in the chamber, threw the rifle down, and ran the other way.

In a small conference room behind the second-to-last of the eight doors in the backmost hallway of the fourth floor of the fifth phase of a squat office complex surrounded by trees and parking lots in Langley, Virginia, a woman who looked very much like Sergeant Kauter resisted the urge to stand at attention. Patrick Levi came in behind her, closing the door with a soft click behind him and setting a paper cup of coffee from the cafeteria down for both of them. “Sir,” he said, addressing the man at the head of the short conference table. “Do you need more time…?”

“No, thank you. I have the gist,” Deputy Director for Operations John Thule replied. He was tall, shapely, and hard-eyed like so many of the seasoned operatives who had risen to that post before him. His hair was close-cropped, hairline high, holding the line with dignity. He always threw his coat over the back of his chair at the nearest opportunity and always seemed to have his winter-white sleeves rolled up over his elbows. “Have a seat. I’d like to hear it from you while I finish reading,” he said as he continued to scan the report on the table in front of him.

“Sir,” Patrick said, pulling up a seat. The woman who looked like Sergeant Kauter sat, too, and she had some coffee. “Where should we start?” he said.

“The mission, I suppose. Let me make sure I understand it. My predecessor gave the orders.”

“David, right.”

“He was acting on a context that indicated Major Christopher Leon as a far-right true-believer in a sensitive military position. What did he tell you?” John glanced between the two of them.

“He said he had a ‘hunch’ something was coming,” Patrick replied. “But we know what that meant.”

“Right,” John said, alongside a one-beat chuckle. “Well, it’s probably what you guessed. Collections passed along a tip saying that Leon had tapped everything he had for something, and that given the timing of the activities they were observing, that something must have been Mrs. Metsola’s visit to Vienna. Analysis did some corroboration, added what details they could in twelve hours, and got the report straight to David, who put you two on point.”

“Yes, sir.”

John’s eyes returned to the report. “Mr. Levi, as First Officer you have the authority and wrote the report. I’ve been briefed that your duties are… quite broad. Command, strategy, operations, and support. Reading between the lines, your job is to run the mission from here, solo, and to never let anyone else at the Agency know how it gets done.”

“Yes, sir. My job exists so that I’m the only one in Operations who has to know about the ‘network’ I operate. Besides yourself.”

“So you flew your network-of-one…” he looked up at the woman who looked like Sergeant Kauter. “How should I address you?”

“Ms. Nicole, sir” she replied.

“Thank you. Call me John, please.” Back to the report already. “It seems rude to refer to you as Team Seven, Second Officer in-person, but that is how you are described in every report I have seen so far.”

“Standing orders, sir,” Patrick said.

“I’m not holding it against you,” John said with a shrug. “For that matter, keep the report language the same for now. Anyway, Nicole flew directly to Vienna on a provided passport. Booked a Radisson for a few nights. Then attended the Tuesday night gala under the identity of Commandant Rafael Griffon. Hmm.” John flipped back a few pages.

“We had Support make good on a favor the Direction Générale owed us,” Patrick offered. “They secured an invite for ‘Rafael’ for us.”

“Do they know about Nicole’s capabilities?”

“No,” Patrick said. “In the Agency, it’s just you and me and a handful of old hats in Science and Technology. Outside the Agency there’s not a soul. We told the French that I was the officer on point and had them make me a passport and everything.”

“I see.” John flipped forward to where he had been and resumed scanning. “Once there, you engaged in general fact-finding until you could ascertain Major Leon’s disposition. It didn’t take long. How were you so sure?”

Patrick turned to Nicole.

“I wasn’t,” she said, with a pleasant smile.

“Elaborate, please, Nicole.”

“My capabilities, sir—John. Following new leads, pivoting, discarding theories… acting on my feet, in general, is much easier for me than it is for a typical clandestine officer. It just costs me less to get into places or ply people for information.”

John said nothing for a moment as his eyes raked over the next page in the report. “So you adopted the identity of James Reed to gain access to the illicit club.”

“Yes,” she began. “James was a completely manufactured identity. It required no placement work or research for Mr. Levi. No contact with friendly assets or officers. Not even a phone call. Little risk to the rest of the operation. All it cost me was a few hours to follow up on the hunch.”

“I see,” he hummed. “And it proved out. You found the body, identified it as Herst. Given the state of the body, it all but confirmed that Leon had disposed of him as an obstacle to his operation. Then on Wednesday morning you assumed the identity of Sergeant Kauter to report it to Lieutenant Bouterk.”

“Duty rolls confirmed that Kauter was off-duty that day. It is, of course, my highest priority to never, ever show up in the same room as a person I’m doubling.”

John looked up and locked eyes with hers—Sergeant Kauter’s eyes—for a moment. He thought something, then thought better of it, then returned to the report. “And that night you posed as Lieutenant Bouterk in order to neutralize Lieutenant Sweche.”

Patrick leapt in before she could reply. “The assessment that David passed along was that Sweche had contact with most of the same far-right elements as Leon. Reichsbürger types, Monarchicos.”

“Hmm,” John said, eyes on the report. “So you eliminated him with drink. Traditional, in a way.”

“Yes. Vodka was the poison that was on hand. I gave him boilermakers until I was sure he wouldn’t be available to assist Leon for a day or so.”

“Risky. Some men will answer the call anyway.”

“I’ve done it a dozen times. I have a feel for it.”

“If you say so. Wednesday night and Thursday morning you spent as Mrs. Leon.”

“I learned from Sweche that Leon was still in the office, which meant I had an opportunity. I decided to ‘surprise’ Major Leon as he left the Hofburg. The real Mrs. Leon was, per her routine, wintering in Sardinia.”

“The hope was that you would compromise his attention when the Cobra unit showed up at his front door to arrest him. I suppose I can guess exactly what that means.” He looked up.

“Probably.” Sergeant Kauter’s face betrayed no hint of interest for this matter.

John looked back down. “But they didn’t come. Bouterk had reported his suspicions about Leon to Brigadier General Rieger at Command Vienna, and presumably impressed upon him the importance of bringing in outside control, and quickly. That didn’t happen. It seems that Rieger declined to act on Bouterk’s report.”

“Yes, sir,” Patrick said.

“You suppose Rieger deliberately covered for Leon? Might have the same sympathies?”

“We don’t know that, sir,” Patrick said.

“But you suppose.”

“… Yes, sir; that’s my hunch,” Patrick said.

“I think so too. We’ll have Analysis go through it with a fine-toothed comb. Now, faced with this…” John said.

“This was a scramble, I admit,” Nicole said. “I knew that Sweche was out of the picture for at least 24 more hours. So his identity would be safe to use and, we thought, in a good position to get close to Leon. So I reported as him to their operational HQ on Thursday.”

“A scramble only you could have pulled off.”

“If you say so…” sir, she almost added, before catching herself.

“We don’t roll the dice with her, sir. She’s too important,” Patrick asserted into the space. “We can blow an op. The top MEP can die for all we care. Our agent…”

John looked up. Patrick barreled on.

“… is one-of-a-kind. It’s got to be DEFCON 1 before I order her to risk her life.”

John thought, looking at Patrick with his hard, brown eyes.

Silence settled onto the little conference room.

Finally, he said, “Wise. Think hard, even if it is DEFCON 1.”

Patrick and Nicole shared a look.

“I take your meaning, anyway, Mr. Levi. Nicole didn’t roll the dice on your orders—she took initiative in a controlled manner. Sweche turned out to be a dud, but still. The rest is history,” John said, closing the manilla folder. “Leon is in custody and we’ll make sure the Austrians pass along what they get out of him.” As he went to continue, Nicole interrupted.

“Just like that? Bouterk…”

“What about Bouterk?”

“A loose end. A mistake. I didn’t need to risk him to blow Leon’s op.”

John sighed, idly thumbing the corner of the folder. “I don’t see any loose ends here besides Rieger. Would David have given you a hard time about the Lieutenant? Forget it. He died in the line of duty doing the right thing, protecting elected officials from a dangerous would-be assassin. And the good guys won. He has nothing to be ashamed of, and neither do you.”

“…Yes, sir.”

“John, please. Now, one more order of business before I send you home for an afternoon off.”

Nicole knew that Patrick was about to grumble about having work to do, so she spoke eagerly. “What’s that?”

“I would like a demonstration of your unique capabilities. Mr. Levi has briefed me on them. He tells me Science and Technology never successfully figured out how or why you can do this, or if anyone else can learn to do it. But I need to see it to know what I’m getting into here.”

Patrick grimaced a bit, but Nicole just smiled. “Of course. Any requests?”

“Xi Jinping.”

“My standard Chinese is pretty mediocre, but I guess that’s not important. More to the point, these are women’s pants.”

“Ah, I see. Tsai Ing-wen, then?”

Patrick fidgeted in his seat while the woman who looked like Sergeant Kauter closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

The transformation was quick and astonishing. The woman’s facial features didn’t seem to move or shift so much as they seemed to be suddenly different, as though you had snapped out of a daydream and had to remember who you had been talking to.

“Hěn gāoxìng jiàn dào nǐ,” she said.

Patrick and the woman who looked like Tsai Ing-wen left the conference room and walked briskly and wordlessly down the little carpeted hall, their shoes thumping on the hollow floor as they passed nondescript doors. They turned right down the main corridor until they reached the elevator landing and then took the elevators down to the first floor.

Patrick and a woman who looked like Eva Green emerged on the first floor and made their way over the tile floors to the secure wing cafeteria. “You’re teasing me,” he complained.

“Damn straight,” she replied.

After grabbing some pre-wrapped turkey sandwiches from the tall display fridge (and a fistful of mayonnaise and mustard packets to try to salvage the dry, sad meat) they went over to one of the break rooms. All were empty: Phase 5 was, unsurprisingly, a bit of a ghost town on a Saturday afternoon. Patrick closed the door, and the two of them picked out chairs by the ping-pong table.

“‘Nicole,’ huh?” Patrick asked.

“What should I have told him?” she replied between mouthfuls of turkey.

“You always told me your name was Miriam.”

“For you, yes. Didn’t seem fair to give him that.”

“What?”

“It’s my name. For you. Or your name for me?” Miriam said, gesturing with the triangular half-sandwich. “You get the point. At any rate. It’s not his.”

Patrick considered this, adjusting his glasses. They were large and thick, the teardrop kind of aviators with two bridges. Miriam had always thought that Patrick could have inherited them from his dad, they were so dreadfully dated. But they worked well enough with his firm, angular chin, wide forehead, and short but perpetually bedraggled hair. And he usually dressed smartly enough—nice navy slacks, crisp long-sleeved shirts—to avoid looking like a terrible dork in them.

“So you give everyone a different name? To use?” he said, finally. “Even when you’re not undercover?”

“Yep,” she said. “With David it just happened to be Second Officer.”

“You never told me. You just told me it was your name.”

“It is, though. Mine and ours.”

“Do you have… a name? The one?”

“Come on now, you already know the sob story, Patrick. The first name I can remember being given is Russell. But I was only ten when I realized the ‘real name’ I had was The Project Mockingbird Subject, and Russell was just what my caregiver called me when I was three.”

“I knew about Mockingbird. I didn’t know about Russell. I guess it didn’t last long.”

“Some of the caregivers couldn’t wrap their heads around calling me Russell when I was presenting as a little girl.”

“Mm.” Patrick wiped some crumbs off his pants as he stood, and he picked up a ping-pong paddle. “Do you have a favorite?”

Miriam smiled. “Miriam.” She grabbed a paddle of her own and took up the opposite side of the table.

“You’re just saying that.”

“Not at all.”

“Now you’re just messing with me.”

“I usually am.”

Patrick shook his head, then served. After they started the first volley, he changed the subject. “John Thule.”

“The new top dog in Operations.”

“That… was much too easy. I didn’t like it.”

“I thought so too.”

“David would’ve given us so much shit for Bouterk.”

Patrick scored the point as he was saying so, and served.

“He would’ve been right to,” Miriam said after returning. “I feel pretty rotten about it.”

“And he would’ve had a lot of questions about the back half of the op.”

“Why not report and extract?” Miriam demanded in an impression of their previous boss, clipped and gruff. “Vodka, of all things? Why risk getting so close to the target? Why not simply dispatch if you were so confident and so close?”

Point to Miriam. Patrick ran his hand through his hair, laughing. “Just like that. And damn if they wouldn’t have all been good questions.”

Miriam served. “Wouldn’t have had it any other way, really. We did our best and he wanted better.”

“Feels ungrateful to be asking for an ass-chewing here, but… yeah.”

“But this John guy. He was… eerily comfortable with… more than just our performance.”

“With you.”

“We had to assure David for three hours that I wasn’t just a prank set up by Director Burns.”

“And for three months that you weren’t going to just turn coat for a million rubles and a kiss. Or yuán.”

Point to Miriam. She shook her head. “And here John is with a ‘good work and I look forward to seeing more of it.’ It’s just not right.” She served again.

“Speaking of more of it…”

“You’re gonna make us work this afternoon? What about boss’s orders?”

“Oh, fine. David wouldn’t have given that to us, though.”

“I’m not above taking advantage of present circumstances.”

“I should hope so; that’s your core job function. Anyway, we’ll regroup on Monday. I have a feeling I know where we’re going next.”

Point to Patrick. “Oh?” Miriam said.

“Paris. I think the stuff about Leon and Sweche came through a guy we have in Paris. He was right about Leon, wrong about Sweche, and didn’t mention a damn thing about Rieger. The Analysis folks are going to get to thinking our friend there is trying to play us.”

“Notre cher ami,” Miriam added. “I’d be pleased to pay him a visit.”

“Glad to hear it.”

It was Patrick’s serve.