Prologue

Prague: August, 1944

The evening air was heavy and damp. Summer kept hanging on. The smell of rotting fish mixed with exhaust fumes as trucks cut through the narrow streets of the city. Nothing seemed clean anymore. It was hard to imagine Prague was once the crown jewel of the Hapsburg Empire.

He'd spent the afternoon checking the route. Strolling past Panska and the office that had housed the Prager Tagblatt until the Nazis shut it down. Past the castle, the palace, and the basilica, with their jumble of Romanesque, Renaissance, and Baroque architecture. Trying to look unobtrusive. Just another Czech citizen out on a late summer day.

The city made him uncomfortable. Back home before the war, he'd prowled dark streets and alleys, courting danger, practically daring it to appear. But now, danger meant death if he was caught. He was careful to avoid people and crowds.

The restaurant smelled of stale beer, and the tables were coated with grime. Maybe it was the European tolerance for a state of clean that would make Westerners cringe. Or maybe it was the only way the people in occupied countries had to rebel against Nazi discipline. A few patrons had come in, old men mostly, their bodies shriveled with age. One hobbled on a cane.

After observing the place for an hour, the American decided it was safe to enter. He leaned in at the bar, a glass of beer in his hand, but his gut twisted every time someone glanced his way.

The door squeaked as someone came in. He turned around. The new arrival ordered a Schnapps. The bartender, busying himself with a glass and the bottle, didn't look up. The man tossed his drink down in one gulp and thumped his glass on the bar. The bartender refilled it.

"The Kinski gardens are beautiful now, yes?" the new arrival said in German, looking down the bar.

The American replied in heavily-accented German. "I prefer the park this time of year."

The new arrival shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly. "Yes. It is cooler there."

After ten minutes and another Schnapps, the new arrival dug deep in his pocket, tossed a few coins on the bar, and walked out. The American stayed a few more minutes and then left also, turning toward the river. Dusk was upon him, dark shadows softening the edges of buildings. He was careful to make sure he wasn't followed. Three streets north and two streets east. Just another citizen out for a walk.

As he passed the narrow cobblestone alley behind the museum, a voice from the shadows said softly, "Good evening, comrade."

The American looked up, startled.

"Sorry. My little joke. " His contact smiled. "We will speak in English. But we whisper."

The American managed a nod. "What should I call you?"

Kafka's jaw tightened. "The Butcher of Auschwitz."

"Yes." Joe had learned for himself one sunny day not long ago. He remembered wondering how the sun had the nerve to keep shining.

"We have heard rumors. Obscene medical experiments. Inhumane. Vile," Kafka said.

Joe nodded. "We thought the insanity belonged only to Hitler, Mengele, and the madmen here in Europe. But now…" He reached into his jacket and pulled out a sheaf of papers tied together with string. He untied them and handed them to Kafka.

"I can't tell you," Joe said. It had been Magda's doing. She had "intercepted" the courier. He owed her. "But I will vouch for its authenticity."

"The name on this letter…the American. He is —"
"I know who he is."

"Do you know him?"
 "No."

"I do. He is involved in the war effort. My superiors speak well of him."

"They will not believe this."

A chill edged up his spine. Everything he'd worked for was suddenly in jeopardy. "Does that mean you're not going to pass it through channels?"

He opened his hand. "Give it back, then. I'll handle it myself."

Kafka moved the letter beyond his reach.

"How did you know that?"

"Do you think we did not check you out as well?" Kafka smiled. "What is you Americans say? It is a small world, yes?"

"Where can I find you— in Chicago?"

"Listen, pal, I'm not gonna—"

He made himself small as the soldiers stumbled past the alley. When their beery laughs faded into the night, he turned around. Kafka was gone.

***

The old man lifted his head at the sound. It was probably the dog sniffing outside his door, waiting for a treat. He folded the newspaper and pushed himself up from his chair. His landlady got the mutt last month. For security, she said. Some guard dog. He never barked and always wagged his damn tail when he saw the old man.

He didn't mind. The dog was better company than its owner. He shuffled to the door, stopping to pull out a box of Milk Bones he'd stashed in the closet. He pictured the animal wriggling in pleasure as he waited for his treat. It struck him that the dog was his sole link to a life of warmth and affection. Well, life had always handed him the bent fork. But he'd survived. Like a sewer rat always on the move, he'd foraged what he needed, sometimes getting more, sometimes less.

Clutching the dog treat in one hand, he opened the door with the other. Two men pushed their way in. One had a pony-tail and wore sunglasses; the other wore a fishing hat pulled low on his forehead. The man with the hat grabbed him in a hammerlock while the other pulled something out of his pocket. A syringe. The old man struggled feebly but he was no match for them. Ponytail plunged the needle into his chest. The old man's hands flew up. The dog biscuit fell and skittered across the floor.