In the name of the Father [antikvár]

PrologueFirst he cleaned the gun; then himself. He did both meticulously. The gun was a Russian Makarov pistol. He cleaned it at the table in the tiny kitchen. He worked automatically. His fingers were practiced. He used very fine engine oil soaked into a soft cloth; then he wiped the oil off with a chamois leather. It was an hour after dawn but the kitchen light was still on. Occasionally he raised his head to look out through the small window. The sky over Cracow was overcast. It was yet another gray winter day. He emptied the magazine of its bullets and tested the spring. Satisfied, he reloaded it and snapped it back.His fingers curled around the butt. The weight felt balanced and comfortable. But when he screwed on the fat silencer it became front-heavy. No matter. The range would be close.Carefully he laid the gun on the scarred wooden surface and stood up, stretching leg and arm muscles.He washed himself in the cramped shower cubicle. The size of the bathroom did not stretch to a bath. Even so he remembered his pleasure on being assigned the apartment on his promotion to major. It was the first time in his life that he had been able to live alone. The solitude had been welcome.Using a French shampoo that he had bought in one of the restricted shops, he lathered his hair and his11