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ago,” Julie Brengard told him succinctly.
    “With all the political and financial shit going on here, RS makes more sense than Luz Roja.”
    Rafe could pretty much have guaranteed there was no Colombian connection, but the far left, revolutionary Marxist organization known for bombing political rallies didn’t quite fit either. “Something you can handle, or do you want me in Athens?” he asked in fluent Greek. The RS was a local tango cell. Small and contained. Financial institutions might not be right up their alley, but the enormous death toll guaranteed a loud and clear statement. They were branching out. Still, the local team could handle it.
    “Thanks. I’ll yell if we need your expertise. We’ve got it covered. Sorry to haul your ass over here for nothing.”
    “I’m very fond of Mykonos, might take a vacation since I’ll be there in a few hours.”
    Brengard made a rude noise. “Known you for how long? Twelve years? Far as I know, you’ve never taken a—”
    “Another call. Gotta go,” Rafael cut her off as the comm beeped, indicating a second call. “Navarro.”
    “The PLJ Savings Bank in Dresden took a massive hit ten minutes ago.” Nielson, Control on the op, sounded her usual cool, calm, and collected self. “Waiting for more intel, it was early enough that not many people had reported for work. The early birds bucking for promotions had their hopes and dreams nipped in the bud. Took out an entire city block in the heart of the financial district and scrambled six more on the blast’s outer perimeter. Go find out who and why. You and Winston have been rerouted and are en route directly to DRS. Call when you have something.”
    Not a wasted trip after all. Too bad about Mykonos. The mental image of Frosty Winston in nothing more than a string bikini and suntan oil would have to remain in his imagination.
    Rafe scowled. Suntan lotion and frostbite. Boggled the mind.

THREE
    Dresden
    Germany
     H  oney stuffed her fists into the side pockets of her down coat, hunched her shoulders, and shivered just looking at Lewis Slavin. The chilly breeze carried with it an oily stench coupled unpleasantly with a sharp chemical tang.
    Their local operative handed them each a filtering mask before they approached the bombsite. The dust in the air was thick enough to require masks hours after impact. The masks would prevent them breathing contaminated air, and Honey pulled it on, adjusting the straps as she walked. One could see the particles of dust still swirling with snowflakes in the crisp breeze.
    “As yet, analysis hadn’t ascertained chemical or biological hazards.” Slavin adjusted his mask. ”You don’t want to suck in any of this dust either way. We’ve already gathered evidence. Not a whole hell of a lot though,” he spoke into his lip mic, not competing with the whop-whop-whop of helicopters overhead. The choppers were using thermography cameras as they flew over and around the area. T-FLAC’s spy satellites, too, would be taking high-res pictures, both here in Dresden and in Athens.
    “But some,” Slavin told them, pointing where he wanted them to walk. “We’re still searching. We’ll find more as the day goes on and we can see better. Everything is waiting for you at Bäcker’s place when you’re ready, knew you’d want to see this before you headed over there.”
    Ground zero’s smoking rubble offered no warmth to counter the freezing early morning weather, but the middle-aged operative didn’t seem to notice. Slavin absently brushed falling snowflakes away from his mask. “Nobody’s claimed this. Yet.”
    “They will,” Navarro responded, bending to pick up something, examine it, then tossing it away. He dusted off his hands. “They always do.”
    He wore a thick, black coat over jeans and a cream-colored, fisherman’s, cable-knit sweater. The clothes looked good on him, not that it mattered to her. Even behind the protective mask, those dense, black eyes took in