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.
He knocked four times, and a stoop-shouldered man in a tweed suit opened the door. Adam didn’t wait for an invitation or any acknowledgment from Mr. Red’s henchman, and strolled inside. Unlike the flat green facade, inside he found a bright room full of curved furniture, which featured a large screen at one end above the bar. On the ceiling, glass globes filled with tropical fish glowed. Shadows of the fish played on the room’s white walls.
