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operations for his employer.
    Bekkend, the bureaucratic glue that held the organization together, met him there. The quintessential desk jockey, his thick rimmed glasses nearly fell as he struggled to keep hold of the stacks of documents he was taking to Rose’s office.
    “How was Reyhanli?” Bekkend said.
    “You were on the call too?” Antoine asked, surprised that Bekkend knew about the mission.
    “No. But someone has to do the paperwork. According to the ‘official record’ the plane travelled to Cyprus.”
    “Master of misinformation,” Antoine said. “Maybe you can work the other way around.”
    Antoine started to give Bekkend the card, but his hands were full. Instead, he slipped it into the front pocket of Bekkend’s shirt.
    “I need this examined,” he said.
    “Anything particular?”
    “I need the fingerprints lifted and the person identified,” Antoine said. “Find out who is the real person behind the name. I have a feeling he does not want to be found.”
    “Spy hunting?”
    Antoine nodded.
    “Does Rose know about this?”
    “With Jason and the lost bomb, I doubt it. She’s busy with other things,” Antoine said, indicating on Bekkend’s shirt pocket. “Now, if you would be so kind?”
    “I will get the name and real agency this person is working for. How much is it worth it to you?”
    “Drink on the rooftop bar,” Antoine suggested. “Everything has a time and place, but a good laugh and a good drink are always welcome... especially the latter.”
    “By the way, where did you say you got the card?” Bekkend called over his shoulder from down the hallway. 
    Antoine looked after him, grinning. “I didn’t.”
     
    ***
     
    Vienna, Austria
     
    The airport hall of arrivals was a welcome sight after the three hour flight from Moscow, despite being packed full of other passengers’ relatives and drivers. Olga walked the line of name signs that stretched out in front of her, her bag trailing behind. She merged into the crowd as soon as possible to avoid attracting attention.
    “Miss Kovalenko,” a voice said. “Miss Kovalenko!”
    A woman squeezed through some bystanders. She was young like Olga, but dark skinned.
    “You must be…?” Olga said and stretched out a hand, leaving her luggage on the floor.
    She noticed the woman was a bit out of breath.
    “Hello,” she said and gripped her hand. “I’m Kate Jackson, your host at the UN. You can call me Kate.”
    Olga smiled.
    “Olga.”
    They exited the terminal.  A limousine was waiting. The first signs of summer were fresh in the air. Their driver put her luggage in the back of the car. Olga walked to the open door and let herself fall into the seat.
    “It’ s a nice city,” Kate said.  She got in next to her. “You will enjoy your stay.”
    “I’m sure of that,” Olga replied.
    They drove over the Danube Bridge. Modern glass buildings mirrored the sun and Olga could see the Vienna International Centre of the United Nations building. She would visit there soon.
    “I wanted to personally pick you up and run you through everything,” Kate said. “That way, I can also show you the city.”
    “How kind of you.”
    They don’t know who I am. They think I’m just a representative. I’m a perfectly disguised wolf in sheep’s clothing.
    The car engine hummed. Traffic was constantly floating, but a red light stopped them.
    “ Everywhere you go, you find the same fashion around the world,” Kate said. “Same shops, same brands. Signs of globalization.”
    Olga caught a glimpse of the Vienna opera house and pointed to it.
    “I have to say that this sand-colored palace of pompous arks and windows, takes me back to my childhood.  It was full of-dreams and hard practice to become a ballerina.”
    On the other side of the street, people sat outside sidewalk cafés enjoying dessert and coffee.
    “And see this culture of coffee,” Kate mused. “Do you know where it originates from? Several hundred years ago, the Turks