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or a code word?
    He made a circuit around the mall of newsstands, fast-food shops, and currency exchanges, walking slowly to let anyone interested
     in contacting him do so. When no one stopped him, he went across to the baggage check-in area, checking the suitcase he’d
     been given. Upstairs, he cleared through security and walked down the hallway to a duty-free area that reminded him of a massive
     department store. As he headed toward the airline gate, he realized that “King Street” might refer to a display of some sort—booze
     or perfume, maybe. So he went back through more carefully, perusing the pyramids of Chivas Regal and Baileys, stopping by
     the Bulova watches, sniffing the Chanel. The only one who came close to him was a three-year-old German girl trying to escape
     from her mother. He made his way down the tunnel to the gate, where the stiff plastic seats were about a quarter filled. His
     carry-on baggage contained sales material relating to his dental cover story; he’d managed to read through it twice on the
     flight over. He was just debating whether to try a third time when a middle-aged doppelganger for Porky Pig—had Porky Pig
     worn a goatee—pushed down into the seat beside him. Dean noticed that the man had a wire-bound street atlas of Krakow in his
     open briefcase.
    “Hate Polish National,” said Porky, in what to Dean sounded like a Scottish accent. His light tan loafers were made of thin,
     expensive-looking leather, but the material of his blue suit pants had begun to pile.
    “Yeah,” replied Dean.
    “Have you flown it?”
    “Never before,” said Dean. “First time to Poland.”
    Which was about the only part of his cover story that was actually true.
    Porky told Dean that he was a barrister for a reinsurance company, heading to Poland to depose witnesses in a negligence case.
     He frowned slightly when Dean gave him his fake name and cover. Few people wanted to talk about dental fixtures, though Dean
     wondered what he would do if he ran into a dentist.
    “Staying in Krakow?” asked Porky.
    “Just a quick business meeting.”
    “Then where?”
    “Russia,” said Dean. “It’s wide open for braces. And cosmetic fillings—we have no quality competition. Our crowns are among
     the best.”
    “I’ll bet.” Porky changed the subject to the weather.
    As they were talking, a petite Asian woman took a seat across from them. Her pale white hose pulled Dean’s eyes up her legs
     to a short red miniskirt. Above it she wore a mostly unbuttoned black silk shirt beneath a faded denim jacket. Her milk-white
     neck and slim face managed to look somehow vulnerable and bored at the same time.
    Their eyes met; the woman’s frown deepened instantly. Dean smiled. The woman got up from the seat, shaking her head as she
     walked away.
    “Mostly what I do,” said Porky, who had changed the subject once more as Dean indulged in a little gratuitous lust, “is take
     depositions. Industrial cases. Defective jackhammers, faulty pressure valves, that sort of thing.”
    “Intriguing,” said Dean.
    “Yes.”
    Porky started detailing his current case, concerning a railroad company that was being sued by passengers, or rather the survivors
     of passengers, after a coupling failed on a brake system, with horrific results.
    The story was about as interesting as dental fillings. Was this guy the agent who was supposed to contact him?
    Dean interrupted a finely wrought description of pneu- matic couplings to ask if he could look at the street atlas in Porky’s
     briefcase.
    “Sure.” Porky’s sandwich-sized hands jammed against the sides of his briefcase as he unwedged it. The atlas had a few pages
     creased over, but Dean got the distinct impression the creases had been added to make it look used. He studied the city.
    “Maybe I can help,” said Porky. “What are you looking for?”
    Dean said, “King Street,” and waited for Porky to tear himself out of his fat suit and reveal himself