Chapter Eleven
With her compact ruck over her leather jacket and pistol in her waistband holster, Sophia moved with the victory march across the cobblestones. The crowd turned a corner of the market square, from the east street onto the north street, funneling past vibrant, slender buildings, shopfronts and café terraces. The buildings—painted mint green, lemon sorbet and pink bubblegum—were pressed together like books on a shelf; there were no alleys between them, no means of escape. Sophia was careful to stay clear of the lemon-colored structure; somewhere in there was an operative, one who might even recognize her.
Charcoal-gray flags rippled through the crowd, waved by a cadre of marchers. The flags bore the emblem of a white dove with wings spread in flight, the shape of the bird re
