The Detachment

only four days before Finch was expected to arrive in the city.
    Still, an experienced four-man team, operating within urban concealment, can typically nail down the details of a civilian’s routine within a matter of days, and so it was for us with Capps. The fourth-floor flat in the déclassé 15 th District, near Westbanhof, the main train station; morning yoga at Bikram Yoga College, a few blocks away; breakfast at Café Westend, also in her neighborhood; the university in the afternoon, where, given the paucity of students because of the summer break, we assumed she was painting rather than teaching. She was an attractive woman of about fifty with wavy brown hair, an erect posture, and a purposeful stride—easy to watch in both senses of the phrase. She seemed to live alone, and I wondered what had happened to her deceased husband, and how old she’d been when she’d lost him, and whether there had been any children beforehand. If there had been, presumably they were now grown and living on their own. Horton hadn’t included such details in her file, either because he didn’t have them, or, more likely, because he understood that no one other than a sociopath wants to become overly familiar with the humanity of someone targeted, even peripherally, in an op. And, indeed, as we watched Capps and learned her routines, I felt an inchoate hope that there were children somewhere, or a lover, or someone else in her life besides the brother we were about to take away.
    On the fourth day we were watching her, the day we expected Finch to arrive, she stayed at the university later than usual. The four of us had shadowed her from her neighborhood that morning and were now taking turns circling the university, and at first I was concerned when she failed to emerge around five as she had previously. I would have expected her to meet Finch at the airport, or at least at Westbanhof Station. Could he have been coming in on a late flight? Had he canceled, or had Horton been wrong about him coming in the first place? But then I realized there was another possibility—simply that Finch, who had been visiting his sister here for many years, would know his way around and require no escort. So maybe the deviation in routine was a good sign.
    Turned out it was. Capps left the university at close to six. There were plenty of pedestrians about, all enjoying the late summer daylight, and there were also lots of bicyclists and motor scooters and cars, so following Capps without being observed was easy. I stayed on her from a discreet distance, then watched her enter Café Prückel, a classic Viennese coffee shop in one of the glorious nineteenth-century buildings that characterized the area—where, with the kind of serendipity that occasionally smiles down upon an op, Dox was presently taking a load off while Treven, Larison and I worked the street. I called him on the mobile he was carrying.
    “Our girl is coming to see you,” I said when he picked up. “Did you—”
    “Saw her already, amigo. I’m at one of the sidewalk tables, enjoying a tasty espresso and apple strudel mit Schlag .”
    “‘ Mit Schlag ’?”
    “Means with whipped cream.”
    “I know what it means.”
    “Oh. Well, when in Rome and all that, you know, I just like to blend.”
    For a moment, I pictured enormous, goateed Dox amidst the effete students and artistes of the area. What I pictured couldn’t fairly be characterized as blending.
    “That’s…admirable,” I said.
    “ Danke , buddy, I appreciate it. Anyway, what’s the plan?”
    “Stay put for now. One of us will get a table on the other side of the building or inside so we have a view of both entrances. She might be meeting her friend there.”
    The oblique references were probably unnecessary—the phones Horton had supplied were encrypted, and at this distance we were connected by their radio function rather than through a cell tower. But no sense taking chances.
    “Roger that. Tell you what, get here soon so I can get up and drain the dragon. I’ve got three espressos inside me at this point and I think at least two are trying to get out.”
    “Hold it in for five more minutes. I’ll buzz you as soon as we have someone else inside.”
    “Can we make it four? I swear, I am currently engaged in mortal bladiatorial combat, and—”
    “Look, I’ll try,” I said, exasperated. I clicked off and called Larison and Treven. Larison headed into the café; Treven, who was on a rented