"English, definitely English. No good. Here, take a look," said the girl, passing the camera over.

Her companion adjusted the focus on the telephoto lens and frowned. The slim brown Sobranie poised between her lips –- it was unlit; they were much too expensive for her to actually smoke –- tilted dramatically downward for emphasis. "I don't know, Anežka. The clothes are English but him, he's too... well fed. I'd say American."

They were lingering at one of their favorite and most consistently productive haunts, a small shaded park at the foot of the Old Castle Steps that had a perfect view of the outdoor cafe at the Hoffmeister, checking out potential marks.

The fall of communism had brought on its heels a growing surge of immigrants to Prague: artists, adventurers, dreamers. In other words, flat broke and therefore useless. But every passing year also brought increasing flocks of visitors, many of them wealthy, gullible and ripe for the picking. Americans, of course, made the best targets.

Something about this one gave her pause. For one thing, he was alone, which Americans rarely were. For another, he looked as though he were absolutely at home, comfortable in his skin, with none of the smiling unease or sweaty bonhomie of the typical tourist. He was younger than she had taken him for at first glance. Traces of baby fat still blurred the otherwise hard lines of his face, though a permanent scowl had already begun to etch parentheses around the petulant mouth. The dark glasses he wore unnecessarily on this overcast day did not quite cover the pale goggle marks of a skier's tan. Compactly muscular frame draped in classic Savile Row tailoring, he sprawled indolently over the spindly looking wrought iron chair, playing idly with the cork from the bottle of wine that stood on the small table. He had drunk only one full glass and barely touched his lips to a second in the last half hour.

She watched as he signalled impatiently for a waiter, the gesture revealing the dull-gold breadth of a good watch. He signed the bill with a large battered Montblanc fountain pen, then stood and walked into the hotel, the doormen all but bowing and scraping as he passed. Everything about him spoke quietly but emphatically of serious Money.

Anežka nudged her friend's ankle. "So what do you think, cipka?"

"I think," said Lena, lowering the camera from her eye at last, "that we need to find out a little more about our pigeon."

By long custom, they divided their plan of attack. Anežka entered the hotel lobby to whisper into the ear of Jiri the pimply desk clerk, who usually needed little persuading to slip off to a nearby supply closet for a few minutes' sticky fumbling. Meanwhile Lena strolled across the park and sat in the chair the pigeon had recently vacated.

Old Krzysztof harrumphed as he cleared the table, snatching the mostly full wine bottle away from her reaching hand with a proprietary glare. "What are you up to now, diabelek?"

She was fond of the crotchety old man, despite his tendency to nosiness. He was a useful resource; after twenty years of working there as a waiter, there was very litle he missed when it concerned the hotel and its guests. Besides, it was nice to be able to speak in her native tongue. Her Czech was fluent, moreso the longer she stayed here, but talking with Krzysztof was as comfortable as taking off her shoes at the end of the day. With encouragement he could tell stories for hours, although she was careful to avoid any mention of home. "Of course Prague is beautiful," he would bellow at her when launched on one of his rants, usually after he'd had a few drinks. "Warsaw was destroyed because it was worth fighting for!"

"What makes you think I'm up to anything?"

He snorted, the ends of his white mustache fluttering. "Save that innocent face for someone who'll buy it and let you keep the change. A word of advice, not that you ever listen: next time, at least pretend you're taking pictures of the Hrad. Where did you get that, anyway?"

"Liberated it from a group of Japanese tourists last week."

"Not like you to hang on to the merchandise. Contacts dried up on the black market, did they?"

"Never mind," snapped Lena, nettled. Truth was, the Leica was the nicest thing she'd ever stolen; it had the reassuring heft and precise engineering of a fine instrument and she was loath to part with it. A foolish impulse, but she told herself it was still of value as a disguise and therefore a necessary tool.

Krzysztof sniffed. "You want to burn your hands, what's it to me?"

She lifted one bony shoulder halfway to her ear, then let it drop heavily back into place, an exaggerated pantomime of indifference she knew would fool the old man not at all. "What do you know about the Amerykanin?" she asked as casually as possible.

"Keeps to himself. Holds lots of private meetings with local businessmen. Gets calls from the States at all hours. Very demanding. Terrible tipper."

"Shits higher than his ass?"

"Thinks pretty well of himself, yes."

Lena digested this, chewing thoughtfully at her lower lip. "But who is he?"

"His name is Michael Kinsey," said Anežka, flopping into the chair next to her. "According to the hotel register, he's a real estate developer from Colorado." She was unable to add anything much more substantial except for one interesting item. "One of the Housekeeping girls says he nearly cornered her in his bedroom; fortunately, she'd left the hallway door open and he backed off when a porter walked by. Now they refuse to service his suite unless there are at least two of them present."

"Huh. Nice guy."

"A real prince. So what's our approach?"

"I'm not sure yet. I want to take a look at his personal effects, get a feel for him."

"You girls ask me, you should be careful. That one is up to nothing good."

Lena's mouth gathered unconsciously into a mirthless smile. "So much the better."