At the bottom of Masarykova they paused to take their barings. Passing pedestrians noted three men of average height, shabbily dressed and without heavy coats despite the fact that spring was only just beginning. Winter had been especially brutal and cold that year, with one major storm after another, but on Ash Wednesday, just six days earlier, winter had finally given up and, like a man who has tried too hard for too long, had collapsed and allowed the strengthening sun to warm the air and freshen the breezes with a tantalizing hint of the coming spring. Most of the pedestrians still wore their warm clothing, but they now stood up straight as they walked and greeted one another with increasing anticipation and enthusiasm. All of which the three men noted with interest.
Unhurriedly they walked along and up the main street leading to the central square of the town, Namesti Svobody, soaking up the last rays of the sun as it sank behind the Petrov hill to their left. Their leader walked confidently, picking his way politely between the shoppers and other citizens of Brno. He smiled generously whenever one of them caught his eye, and nodded his dark curly haired head in their direction. Any matron who smiled back was rewarded with a flash of deep, dark brown eyes set in an open, swarthy, face; a gesture that sent a reddening flush to the face of the recipient and illicit thoughts rushing through their minds.
Behind him, and somewhat to one side, his two companions created a very different impression. Each of them tried as best they could to be invisible. Their clothing was old, worn and threadbare. They never faced anyone directly, but their darting eyes missed nothing that went on around them. The older one crouched slightly and held his right hand deep in his pocket, firmly grasping a curved five centimeter knife whose blade was sharpened to such an incredible degree it would have sliced its way through the cloth of his pocket had it not been restrained. Which was exactly what it was intended to do, for this arrival was a professional pickpocket.
Reaching the corner of Janska street, at the point where the road entered the main square, they paused and separated from one another by a few meters. It was time for work. They had arrived in Brno somewhat embarrassed for funds, having left Prague in less than auspicious circumstances and only minutes before a potentially damaging interview with the local constabulary. In a one room boarding house, somewhere in Prague, was a bundle of clothes and all their worldly possessions, including their sumadji, a tiny hoard of gold coins, which they would never see again. Now it was time to begin anew and replenish their stocks.
Their leader looked at the people moving along the sidewalk, picking out a suitable mark. The knife holding member of the trio stood to one side and facing him, while the third member stood behind him and ready to move in an instant. Without seeming to, the leader eyed critically the pedestrians looking for just the right combination of circumstances; modest wealth, older rather than younger, distracted and not paying attention to their surroundings, someone off guard. He did not have to wait long. Coming along Janska street, totally absorbed in his thoughts, was a portly, late middle aged male wearing a good quality great coat, short trousers tucked into decent leather boots, a soft hat on his head and gold rimmed glasses on the end of a snub nose. Perfect!
Nodding imperceptibly to his companions, the leader moved towards his mark. At just the right moment he would bump into the stranger, distracting him for a couple of vital seconds. During those seconds of disorientation the incredibly sharp knife would slice along the bottom of a bulging pocket of the great coat and its contents would instantly empty into waiting hands. In case the victim noted the loss, the wallet would be passed off to the third companion, who would walk slowly away from any developing trouble. It was a technique they had performed many times, and they were professionals.
Unaware of his role, the mark walked directly into his waiting fate, head down and clearly lost in deep thought. Another second and the transaction would have been initiated, but, almost as if warned of his danger, the Brno citizen looked up at the last moment, and stared directly into the face of the leader. His eyes opened wide behind the thin, gold glasses, and a warm smile spread across his face as recognition dawned
"Well, if it isn't the Salamander!" he exclaimed, bringing the leader of the group to a sudden and unpleasant halt. Being recognized was definitely not part of his plans. Recovering quickly, he peered closely at the stranger, who was still smiling openly, with no hostile intent.
"Johann?" he said after a moment, "Johann Mendel of Heinzendorf?"
Nodding vigorously, the mark held out his hand and grasped the startled leader. "Not Johann any more, I've taken the cloth. They now call me Gregor, Brother Gregory."