The Detachment

a half mile of the university. Finch must have chosen the hotel for its proximity, and probably Capps had proposed the restaurant for the same reason.
    I thought for a moment, then called Larison again. “Does our friend have a bag with him?” I asked.
    “No.”
    That meant he’d already checked in at the hotel. It also made it more likely that he and Capps would be on foot the rest of the evening. With no bag to carry, it would be a shame to waste the glorious weather by taking a cab.
    “Okay,” I said, “here’s how I want us to play it. I’ll let the other guys know we’re going to stay nice and loose for the duration. No sense following too closely if we know where things are going to wind up. You stay put when they leave. I don’t want our friend seeing you get up at the same time he does, or to spot you later tonight.”
    I expected some pushback, because no professional likes someone suggesting he’s been made. But Larison surprised me, saying only, “Agreed. Where do you want me?”
    “Give them ten minutes, then head to the hotel. It’s the Hollman Beletage, on Köllnerhofgasse less than a half mile northwest of here. Find it on a map, but don’t look it up directly.”
    “You don’t want a record of multiple Google searches of the restaurant and hotel.”
    “I didn’t use Google, but yes. No sense leaving an electronic paper trail. Not that anyone’s going to be looking.”
    Again he said, “Agreed.”
    “Spend an hour getting to know the area, then let’s talk again. I’ll be doing the same.”
    I clicked off, then called Dox and Treven to pass on the information Larison had given me. I told them to keep a loose eye on the restaurant, and to let me know when Finch and Capps showed up and when they were leaving. For the moment, the restaurant was of secondary interest: a possibility, but probably less promising than the hotel, where he was more likely to be alone. I might change that assessment after reconnoitering both, along with the route in between. The Xpedit restroom might be a possibility. Or, assuming Capps and Finch said their goodnights at the restaurant and she didn’t walk him to the hotel, some dark stretch of sidewalk, or an alley, on the way from one to the other. Whatever I decided, I wanted to avoid, if possible, using the cyanide, which Horton had deposited and we had retrieved at a dead drop at the base of the Mozart statue in the Burggarten, like something straight out of a John le Carré spy novel. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was reluctant. Maybe it was the inherent danger of such a powerful compound. Maybe it was some vestigial security discomfort in doing things the way Horton wanted, the way he expected. Maybe it was a perverse pride in doing the work up close, without tools, in a way almost no one else ever could.
    I checked the restaurant first, and could immediately see it was unlikely to work. It was a large, open, L-shaped room, with enormous windows fronting the sidewalks outside. There was a hostess standing by the door, which meant I couldn’t slip in undetected for an on-site examination now without being remembered later. A hostess also suggested the need for reservations, and while presumably they would take walk-ins on an as-available basis, the place was pretty full. If a table were open, I could put Dox or Treven inside, hopefully somewhere that offered a view of Finch and Capps. Or I could lurk outside, keeping an eye on Capps and Finch through the large windows, then moving quickly inside if Finch got up to use the restroom. But that would almost certainly involve a “Would you mind if I used your restroom?” exchange with the hostess, at exactly the time one of the diners would subsequently turn up dead in said restroom. And if I couldn’t get to Finch, say because another patron was in the restroom at the same time he was, he’d see me, making it harder for me to get close later on.
    I moved on to the hotel, noting with disappointment that there were no good venues on the way, even assuming I could be sure of Finch’s exact route and anticipate him accordingly. But as soon as I reached the hotel, I felt reassured. Call it assassination feng shui: the vibe was just more favorable. The entrance was in the center of an antique, balustraded building that occupied an entire short block. There was no doorman, no bellboy, and no driveway, just a dark, wooden door under an orange awning, flanked on the left by a clothes shop and on the