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“Want to review the tapes?” Yannick asked as they entered the co-ed room.
“Sure. But not now—I have a meeting.” She stripped off her zebra shirt—wore an athletic shirt under it—and reached for her oversized pullover. Thankfully, they had private showers, but the ELF was about as ready for a female official as the NFL. Still, she’d learned some tricks. Like an oversized pullover that she used to dress under.
“A date?” The question came from Zach Warton, another American who had come over years ago, in the early days when the idea of American football in Europe was the stuff of wishes and John Grisham books. A German by descent, he spoke Swiss and German and looked more like a professor than a ref, with the exception of his massive arms, evidence of his off-field bodybuilding activities.
“Not a date. Coffee.” She headed to the shower.
“Sounds like a date to me!”
She glanced at Abe Bartmann from Georgia, who’d played for Georgia Tech before throwing in his cleats and turning to officiating. He became one of the best umpires in the NFL, but his daughter wanted to go to school in Paris, so he’d moved to Europe after his divorce and started over.
She sort of felt safe with Abe on the field—something about him spoke authority, even more than Yannick. Abe didn’t let anyone run him over, was keeper of the offensive holds, and stood between teams at the coin toss.
“Not a date!” In fact, if it were in that category, it would be a breakup. She wasn’t sure how she’d gotten herself embroiled with the CIA, but she wanted O-U-T.
She stepped into the shower and pulled the door shut. In her kit she carried a shower cap, so she tucked her hair in it, then washed off and emerged ten minutes later smelling less like a football field and wearing a pair of jeans, Converse, a padded jacket, and a scarf.
Prague could get cold in the fall.
The guys were showering in their areas, so she packed up and headed out into the night.
Prague glittered under the fall of twilight. She loved the Old City, with the Gothic churches and cobblestone squares. She’d already pulled up her GPS, and it wasn’t a terribly long walk, but she hopped on a train and two stops later got off at St. Thomas’ Church.
The walk to the Augustine Hotel took just five minutes, but in that time, the sky had opened up, and she took off running, glad she’d worn her Converse.
Still, she was almost soaked by the time she entered the lobby of the four-story hotel through the arched courtyard off the street.
He’d said to meet him in the restaurant, so she headed there, past red sofas and a giant teardrop chandelier dripping from a center skylight.
She stopped by the maître d’ and offered his name.
“Alfonzo Martinique?”
The female attendant showed her to the back, where she found the man sitting on a bench, drinking a cup of coffee.
Alfonzo was in his early forties, maybe, with dark hair, cut in an almost seventies style, sideburns, and a dark five-o’clock shadow. Reminded her a little, strangely, of Jon Hamm, the actor, but then again, he was a spy and of course he’d be handsome.
Except for that scar on his forehead.
And he had a sort of dark, evil aura, so no, thanks.
“Iris,” he said and pushed to his feet. “Please sit. I ordered you a café au lait. I hope that is acceptable?”
“Fine.” She sat on the chair opposite him. Took a breath. “I won’t—”
“Are you hungry?”
Not the way her stomach was churning. “No. And really, maybe no on the coffee too. I know that I helped out once—and I’m still a patriot, but once was enough. I don’t want—”
“We need you, Iris.”
“Listen, I know I’m an ex-pat, and I do love my country.” She took a breath. “But I’m not interested in being a spy, or even whatever this is. I have a job. A life—”
“Don’t you want to be a hero, like your brothers?”
She cocked her head. “I don’t have to be a SEAL to be a hero.”
“No, but you helped us out once before.”
