CHAPTER 1

The inside of his hotel room was dark and quiet. He had slept hard and dreamlessly, wrapped tightly in a sheet and blanket, still wearing soiled clothing from the night before. His grey wool overcoat was hanging from a hook on the wall with his muddy pair of winter boots placed neatly on the floor beneath. Down the hall, a housekeeper was moving slowly from room to room. Listening to the movements he awoke slowly, hearing the soft shuffle as the cleaning cart was pushed along onto another room, the sound of a door shutting behind it.

Red's eyes were wide open now, though he hadn't yet moved a muscle. His mind was still hazy with sleep, but in a quick moment he remembered where he was. Potsdam, Germany. Damn, he cursed softly, frowning. He glanced at the night table and, unfurling an arm out from under the covers, passed over a bottle of whiskey and fumbled for his watch, squinting at its face. It was just after seven a.m. Surprised he had slept so late, he rolled over carefully and sat up, reaching for the small laptop under the edge of the bed as he stood. Retrieving the whiskey bottle from the night table, he made his way into the bathroom.

Opening the laptop, he powered it up by the sink as he looked into his own eyes in the mirror, squinting as he assessed himself for visible injuries on his face. Satisfied, he carefully pulled off his dark sweater, shirt, and undershirt all at once, wincing in pain despite the care he took. A dark bruise appeared low on the left side of his chest, and he felt carefully along his ribs. In his experience, the greater the pain, the greater the likelihood that his ribs were bruised and not broken. Bruised, he concluded, as he leaned and looked closer in the mirror, further down along his side. The bandage he'd taped there was dried with a fair amount of blood, though not sufficient enough to be a cause for alarm. Carefully, he pulled the tape and bandage away, wincing again. Reaching in to the shower, he turned on the water, letting it run hot before he stripped and stepped in. The water felt good against his bruised body, and he was in no hurry as he scrubbed himself clean.

Once out of the shower, a towel folded around his waist, he glanced at the computer screen and hit another key to establish a satellite connection, knowing it would take time. It was worth the time; the various protocols in place would conceal his whereabouts. He shaved conscientiously, then sat down and turned the computer screen in his direction as he busied himself pulling out several items from his toiletries bag: cotton balls, gauze bandages, surgical tape. Having no disinfectant remaining, he poured the whiskey over the knife wound and gritted his teeth as it burned.

The laptop lit up in the corner of his eye and he tapped a few keys to retrieve messages. He studied the wound for a moment, and grimaced as he collected the needed items to stitch himself up. It took only a few stitches, and his inspection didn't reveal the wound to be substantially deep. He bandaged himself up well, loaded the articles back into the small bag, and walked with the laptop back into the main room.

The news was not encouraging. Things were happening fast, and his current window of opportunity was quickly closing. The latest information from his sources placed Elizabeth Keen traveling to Leipzig with the search for her on at this moment, although the focus appeared to be incorrectly focused in Prague. A cryptic message from Dembe indicated he'd need to contact him sooner rather than later. He shut the laptop off and cursed softly under his breath again. She was alone, completely on her own, and this thought troubled him most of all. Time was now of the essence. He needed to find her immediately and get her out of the area and back into the States as quickly as possible. In the back of his mind, he was working the puzzle of their exit out, not allowing himself to consider the possibility that he would fail to locate her first.

Red had to stop and remind himself from time to time that Lizzie, even alone, was more than capable of handling herself. Quick on her feet, she acted with intelligence and efficiency, adapting to changing situations with startling ease. It was his own fear that made him uneasy. His connection to her was, very often, all he had left of real worth to him. There was so very much left to be done, and so very, very much to be said; to share with her. His real fear was losing her to an unseen hand at work. How ironic; as it was usually he who was, so often, that very unseen hand.

Shutting off the laptop and moving now with a sense of purpose, he dressed quickly, buttoning up one of his typically finely tailored dress shirts paired with a stylishly matched silk tie. The pair of denim jeans, atypical for his preferred style of dress, followed, then wool socks and his boots, quickly cleaned of dried mud. He removed the empty holster from his belt before he slipped it on and then retrieved the small Ruger LC9 from under his pillow, thumbing the safety back on. Fastening it into the holster securely, he then wrapped the holstered weapon in his soiled shirt from the day before and deposited it into the tourist backpack along with his small laptop and toiletries bag. He covered the items with the dark sweater. The backpack was light, and it didn't appear full, which was what he wanted.

He slipped on his navy suit jacket, checking that his wallet and passports remained safely tucked into the inner breast pocket and found the emergency burner cell phone still in the side pocket. He folded his remaining items into his duffel bag with his extra clothing and, at the sound of the housekeeper moving into another room, he opened the door quietly as he pulled on his wool overcoat and scarf, his fedora dropping onto his head. With the tourist backpack over one shoulder and the duffel bag in hand; he disappeared quickly down the hallway.

The hotel had been quiet and warm inside but he felt more at home out on the frigid street. Every step forward was a step closer to her. He pulled his overcoat collar up on his neck and blew into his cupped hands, glancing casually up and down the street as he pulled out a cigarette to light, inhaling and exhaling slowly before taking out his gloves and pulling them on. Personally, he didn't care for cigarette's, but it was a useful tool to survey his surroundings at leisure, with an air of nonchalance. Red started down the street, a light snow crunching under his boots as his eyes moved attentively, taking in everything as walked and smoked, opting for the leisurely route with his pace purposefully unhurried.

Once he felt satisfied there were no immediate eyes on him, he hailed a taxi to the train station and stepped across the street and into a sidewalk café. He ordered a coffee at the counter, effortlessly lifting a fellow patron's cell phone. He stepped outside, coffee in hand, and dialed as he walked.

"My friend, you have a message for me?", he listened carefully to the sparse words. There was now a known location for her; Leipzig, with an appointment scheduled at Leipzig University for the lunch hour. Red glanced at his watch, estimating he could be there well before. "On my way now. As for later, I was thinking Amsterdam. I'll be in touch. Thank you, my friend."

He slipped the battery out of the stolen cell phone, lighting a second cigarette as his boot heel crushed the remains of the phone he'd already snapped in half. He exhaled smoke and scattered the pieces as he walked along, looking for all the world like nothing more than a German business man just off the train, pausing for a coffee and a smoke.

One of the car rentals counters adjacent to the train station was next, and by half past eight he was driving out of Potsdam, in a rather nice German automobile, setting a solid pace to intercept Lizzie.