November 5, 1974 – Copenhagen
Adam stood at the old building’s door for a moment, hand raised to
knock. It didn’t look like the kind of place Mr. Red would use as a
safe house, so he rummaged in his car coat for the communique he had
received. In the waning autumn sunlight he squinted and held the paper
near the sliver of light emanating from the door’s eye-level slit.
The address checked out. He shrugged, patted his hip for the reassuring
bulge of his stun-gun. One could never be too careful around this crowd.