24The damn hat saved him. Green felt with a brushy brown feather in the band. Subconscious recognition froze my trigger finger. Hans van Hoof had worn the same silly chapeau in Berlin. I’d been so certain he was five hundred miles away, I’d ignored the visual cues telling me I was being followed by an old friend.
He grabbed me with his good right arm and pulled me tight against his solid body. I let go of my gun and hugged him back. His coat was rough against my cheek and smelled comfortingly of the same harsh soap he used on his hands.
A former Belgian army major, Hans had lost his left arm in 1999, leading an assault against a band of Libyan terrorists hiding out in the center of Berlin. He had the skills I needed to plan the Ariadna action. Sheer good luck? Doubtful.
I broke the clin
