“The plan was way too chancy," Stuart said. "It was a cumbersome Rube Goldberg ploy: We tracking you and not missing a step. You picking up on Foster. Foster sniffing you. We seeing him jump. Snatching him before he fled or Russian hard men did shooting to protect him. Everything had to be in sync. Seventy-thirty at best were my odds.”
The radio fixed on a station, its signal strong. The news. A cultured Viennese accent beat through the static. Someone had ambushed someone outside the Franz Joseph Hotel. The victim had died. The killer had escaped. An elderly woman claimed he had light hair and was of medium build. Police had launched an extensive manhunt.
Foster’s thugs, the Vienna police, half the world wants me, Pablo thought. He felt cold. He wrapped his thin raincoat tighter around
