The driver of the cab he hauled at the nearest main road took him to Hotel Krasnapolsky the scenic way. Matt didn’t mind. He moved away from the rearview mirror to a corner of the back seat and took off the beanie and itchy blond wig. He rubbed his hands over his crew cut to get rid of the feeling of thousands of ants crawling his skull. He stashed the beanie and wig in his backpack and pulled up the burgundy-colored passport. Jonathan Groen. He tasted the name of the man in his mouth. A Dutchman. The man who would give his life to free him. He fed the man’s last name into Google Translate. Groen. Green. If there would be a shred of prophesy in…