This is a chapter from a novel I am working on. It is about halfway through the story itself. And begins with Cyrus, our protagonist, leaving a meeting with the man who orchestrated the kidnapping of his friend, Ezra.

Cyrus briskly walked away from his tet-a-tet at the Wurstkuchl, a world-famous sausage hut on the south bank of the Danube. Nasseri was impressed that he’d done his homework, but Cyrus felt all it had done was piss off his counterpart. The intel he had gathered from his contacts in both Israeli and Palestinian intelligence had been spot on. The de facto leader of the Gaza Liberation Network’s new military wing was in over his head. Nevertheless, he still held on to Cyrus’s friend at some undisclosed location and would serve as Cyrus’s counterpart through negotiations for his release.

The cobblestone streets of Regensburg’s Altstadt clicked and clacked under the steady footfall of Cyrus’s desert boots. He hated wearing them when he traveled because they were more cumbersome than his driving loafers. But he also didn’t know what he would be doing or where he would end up. Besides, it looked like rain, and no self-respecting son of a bourbon heiress should ever be caught dead wearing loafers in a downpour.

It was early afternoon. Cyrus would have to work quickly, but he needed to find somewhere to process the information. Forty-eight hours ago, the task of negotiating his buddy’s release had been foisted on him. Now, he was diving headlong into sorting it all out. He knew that doing so meant he’d run up against the organs of American bureaucracy, the slow-moving machine he once helped direct from 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Finding his own answers would mean more legwork, but it would likely mean Ezra would be home in time for March Madness. Since becoming close friends over a decade ago, they’d always carved out time for the first weekend of big games.

The shops and doner kebab stands he passed on the walk from the famous sausage hut along the Danube to his hotel were filling up with kids grabbing snacks after school. Their winter hats nearly toppled off their heads as they hastily put them on before leaving for home, gloves dangling from the sleeves of opened coats, FC Bayern shawls wrapped tightly around their necks, and backpacks laden with books and homework. The thick and damp air gave the impression that rain was imminent, but nothing fell. Cyrus steeled himself from the cold dampness of that late winter day in the old Roman outpost.

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He needed to find a cafe or pub to tuck into, but he didn’t want to rush. That was the mistake people made when doing something borderline illegal. They run or make haste and, in doing so, draw attention when attention is the last thing anyone in that situation should ever invite. ‘Play with speed, but don’t panic,’ his college coach used to yell. The same axiom could apply here. Walk with purpose and conviction but methodically. Well, at least that’s what he’d been told by his buddy in the intelligence community.

“This isn’t James Bond, flashy cars, expensive suits. The point is to blend in, look average, and pass the first look test,” Rich told him over drinks one night after a long day holding down the fort. He had been seconded from Langley to serve as a liaison to the White House. Though, if shit ever hit the fan and a liaison was needed, the President just called the Director, and that was that.

“I thought you liked Bond?” Cyrus asked.

“Oh, I love the movies, but they’re just entertainment. In the real world, Bond would get knocked off fairly quickly.”

“I see.”

Cyrus walked south along Unterebachgasse, a narrow street too big to be an alley but too narrow for it to be anything more than for deliveries. He passed by a snug Vietnamese takeaway joint selling doner kebabs and the best lo mein in the city–or at least that’s what the sign said. The former White House staffer didn’t understand German, but some language is universal. If he were younger and not on a mission, he would have stopped at the soccer store just a few doors down, jerseys, cleats, and advertisements for tickets to FC Bayern’s next match hanging in the window. College students, either coming or going from school or a late night out, were entering and exiting historic buildings converted into flats servicing their demographic. When he arrived at the intersection with GesantenStrasse, he smelled the faint aroma of brewing coffee. Just to the right and around a slight bend, across from an enormous bookstore and a language school, Cyrus spotted a cafe to tuck into.

In the foot traffic of school kids and patrons looking for an innocuous midafternoon bump, Cyrus had to settle for a spot on the patio outside. Inside, the music was faint, but not his speed. And combined with the murmurs of conversation and adolescent laughter inside, the cobblestoned terrace, with its ample heat lamps, became a better location to sort out his next steps.

Cyrus exited the cafe on the west side of the building and into the patio that took up nearly half of the tiny platz around which several businesses had storefronts. The steam from his coffee cup visibly rose in the cold late winter air.

“Mochten Sie draussen sitzen,” said a voice coming from behind him. It was one of the cafe employees, tallish, still youthfully skinny before the man muscle or man fat builds after too many beers and doner kebabs in college, light hair, light eyes, cleanly shaven face–though Cyrus wasn’t quite sure if that was because of a daily morning shave or there was never any hair to begin with.

“Uhhh…” Cyrus started to respond with a look of confusion.

“Ahh, English?” The cafe employee asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Yeah, sorry, my German is atrocious.”

“Do you want to sit outside? I can turn the heat lamps on.”

“Yes, I do. Thank you very much.”

“Most people are sitting inside today because it’s cold.” The cafe employee provided the information robotically equal parts as an afterthought and a command in case Cyrus couldn’t tell.

“That’s probably a wise choice, but it was a bit loud in there.”

“Ah, yes. I like sitting outside sometimes too.”

Cyrus didn’t know if that was just to be nice or if he actually meant it. That’s the thing with second languages. Folks are so focused on getting the words right the emotion is taken out of what they say. Regardless, he was appreciative.

Nasseri had left him with a new demand. If Cyrus wanted to get his friend back, he would have to meet him in Amman in 72 hours. It seemed like an arbitrary number to him. Why not 24 or 48? How would he get there? Did he know anyone in Jordanian intelligence? Would any of his contacts in Israel or Palestine be willing to help?

Deep in thought, Cyrus was startled by someone asking him a question.

“Ist heir noch frei,” asked a heavily accented voice. Cyrus looked up and saw a well-dressed man, around his age and height, who clearly spent time in the gym.

“Uhh, I’m sorry, I don’t speak German.”

“American,” said the interloper, sounding excited.

“Yep.”

“Is this seat taken,” he asked, this time in English–a slightly southern American accent, much like Cyrus, one honed and sculpted after years living outside the South. Cyrus had been sitting at a long beer garden-style table, and the only heat lamp the employee had turned on was directly beside it.

“No, it’s not.”

“Ahh, great,” he said as he unbuttoned the top button on his gray wool-cashmere blend blazer and slid in just across from Cyrus, placing his coffee mug on the table. “I don’t come across a lot of other Americans up here. Well, I live in Munich and there’re tons there, but not when I get out into Bavaria.”

“You live in Munich?”

“Yeah, for business; moved a few months ago. What about you?”

“I’m just here for a few days on travel. Playing the tourist.”

“Oh, sorry, I’m Robert.” He reaches his right hand across the table.

“Cyrus.” He reciprocates and shakes Robert’s hand.

“The weather’s a bit shit, but it’s still a beautiful city. I’m up here about once every other week.”

Cyrus, trying not to be obvious, scans the surrounding area in the way he would expect someone in the intelligence community to do so. Though he only had a week-long course eight years ago, Cyrus felt he knew what he was doing. A seasoned veteran of counter-intelligence would suggest otherwise. Robert seems to take notice and leans in conspiratorially.

“It’s okay Cyrus, you don’t have a tail. Well, except me. I’ve followed you since you arrived in Munich this morning.”

Cyrus puts his coffee mug down, sighs, looks down, then back up again. Stares directly at Robert.

“Who the fuck are you? Are you one of Nasseri’s people?”

“C’mon man,” Robert says, incredulous at the thought, “Do I look like one of Nasseri’s people?”

“Well, no, you don’t,” Cyrus responds in a less aggressive tone, “Are you with the State Department?” His contact at State had been keeping a close tab on Cyrus’s movements, which made him believe it had to be someone at Foggy Bottom.

“Ha, dude. Do you think the State Department would send a single guy? Or even be quick enough to pull this off,” Robert asks, hands out, palms open, hoping Cyrus starts connecting the dots. “You left Dulles, what, maybe 16 hours ago, right?”

“Ah, Langley?”

“They told me you were a smart cookie.” Robert smiled and nodded his head.

“Well, how the fuck did you find me?”

“Are we going to do this again?”

“So yall knew? Why am I not surprised?”

“Yeah. You know we technically can’t do shit domestically, so they sent me to follow you once you arrived in Munich. And make contact AFTER you meet with Nasseri. He didn’t look happy when he left, by the way. What’d you say to him?”

“He was mad because I did my homework, but what else did he expect? He knew who I was and what I possibly had access to.” Cyrus was shaking his head.

“What’s next?”

“He wants me to meet him in Amman in 72 hours. So, I’m going to have to get there.”

“We’re going to have to get there.”

“Oh.”

“You thought they would have me tail you, tell me to make contact, then let you take your next steps solo? That’s a risk we won’t take.”

“Honestly, I don’t know what to think right now.”

It went unsaid, but they took a considerable risk in letting Cyrus continue his mission. If things had gone south at the meet, there would have been an inquest. Painful questions asked. Pained answers given. Fingers pointed. Recriminations and maybe even a leak or two. If Cyrus’s friend didn’t make it out, well, heads might actually roll. Everyone knew that after the shitstorm settled, folks would have been transferred and shuffled around. Except for a few folks nearing retirement, no one would expect anyone to be pushed out. Musical chairs for the oversight committees, action for action’s sake. A whole lot of smoke and mirrors to change absolutely nothing.

Cyrus didn’t know that Robert wasn’t just sent to help him along. But he was sent to see how Cyrus handled himself. They were looking to recruit him and thought this would be an excellent exercise to test his mettle. Eight years in the White House should have been enough, but if bureaucracies are one thing, they’re redundant.

They sat silently for a moment, Cyrus sipping his coffee. Robert pushed back from the table to stretch his legs. The heavy gray clouds continued to threaten rain. That no one traversing the cobblestoned streets of the old city carried an umbrella let the two Americans know they’d be spared a surprise downpour.

“Okay, so finding a way to Amman won’t be a problem–the Company has a jet on standby. I know the station chief in Amman. He’s a real asshole and will hate you for showing up because he’ll see you as an added responsibility.”

“I’ll have to check out of my hotel; it’s just down one of these alleys,” Cyrus said as he pointed south. From studying google maps on the plane over and looking at the map included with his iPhone, he knew most of the alleys and small streets eventually led back to his hotel just north of the Thurn and Taxis castle, which along with a park that looped around much of the Altstadt delineated the border between the old city and the rest of Regensburg.

“I’ll follow you, and while you’re checking out, I’ll organize the flight.”

They stood. Cyrus put their ceramic mugs in the bus bins the staff had placed on the patio when they opened in the morning. Unsurprisingly it was empty.

“Alright, shall we? It’s this way,” Cyrus said, pointing toward a back alley.

They snaked through the tiny walkways passing the secret entrance to an Irish Pub aptly named Murphy’s Law. As they came around a bend heading left, but still technically in the same alley, they passed two late-night clubs with glasses from the previous evening sitting on the outside window sill. It was a detail that stuck out because it was something that folks were rarely allowed to do in the States unless there was a patio. And if they had, most of those glasses would have ended up shattered across the alley, shards ready to puncture anything and everything they come in contact with early the following morning. They hung a slight right, then a sharp right a few steps after that.

As they traversed the remaining two blocks, Robert and Cyrus passed a smoke shop, a hostel, and a sex shop, along with signs indicating a nearby school. Yet another contrast with his home country that would require far too much effort to ponder at that moment. They reached the back entrance to the boutique hotel Cyrus had picked out at a moment’s notice. He felt it was far enough away from the parlay that it afforded protection if things went south. If they did, Cyrus could sort his way back there on foot, giving him more flexibility to lose whoever Nasseri brought. To be fair, though, he didn’t know what he was doing. Luckily, none of that mattered.

“I’ll go in and check out; it shouldn’t take long,” Cyrus said, turning to Robert and gesturing toward the hotel’s back exit.

“Sure thing, I’ll organize transportation to the airport and sort out the plane to Amman.”

Cyrus entered the long corridor from the back to the front of the building. It was painted white but somehow managed to look dim and uninviting. Maybe that was the point. They wanted folks to use the front entrance because the office with all the files and security tapes was along the back hallway, plus the storage closet with bulk-sized cleaning supplies for the upper floors. There were bathrooms–one each for men and women. They were closer to the small and cozy lobby with an adjoining compact space for guests to have breakfast.

“Ah, Herr Soltani,” Klaus, the receptionist, said, greeting Cyrus. He hated being called Mr. Soltani, but Herr instead of Mister was so much easier to bear for some reason.

“Servus, Klaus,” Cyrus responded. On the flight, he learned that servus can be used like the Italian ciao.

“How may I help you, Herr Soltani?”

“I have good news and bad news. The good news is that my meeting went well. The bad news is that it went so well, I must leave before even staying the night.”

“It pleases me that your meeting was successful, aber we must continue to charge you for one night,” Klaus responds with a conciliatory tone.

“Yeah, that’s no problem, Klaus. It’s quite understandable. I’ll go grab my things and will be back to close out.”

Cyrus walked two flights up the narrow staircase. How do they get all the furniture up this thing? Like the sex and smoke shop blocks from the school, it wasn’t something he’d be able to ponder anytime soon. He grabbed his single weekender, placed his laptop in his chic messenger bag, and paused momentarily. Staring out the window overlooking the garden on the castle grounds. The landscaping crew was hard at work maintaining the perfectly manicured lawn, preparing for the blooming of spring flowers, and going over the plans for the vegetable garden.

Just weeks after leaving the White House and spending time walking the acres of his parent’s estate to sort out his next moves, he’s found himself enmeshed in yet another crisis. Something he was hoping to avoid. But maybe this was the life he was meant to lead. In the same way he and Sanaz fell for each other despite trying so hard not to, this is exactly what he’s supposed to be doing. What about Karla? She’d been there with him when he got the call from Ezra’s wife. Did something remain between the two of them? Were torches still being carried? Could he walk away from this life? Could he say no? Could he live a simple life in Bardstown?

Those answers would have to wait, too, because his friend Ezra needed him. And Robert was downstairs planning their next steps. Amman awaited. The cantankerous station chief was ready, waiting to lecture Cyrus on why what he’s doing is so ‘goddamned dangerous’ and responsible for ‘yet another ulcer.’ But as the Germans would say, Pflict ist Pflict.