The machines probably thought it was improper that both a Russian agent and a now-supposed American asset had eaten Hungarian food at the same place. It could have been as simple as the machines just didn’t like palatschinke.
Peter had known this Sergey for many years. They met first in Berlin, became reacquainted in Managua, ran into each other in Zurich and then under orders from Putin, Sergey had him escorted from his apartment under guard to the Moscow airport.
The professor entered the Fuel Coffee Shop and joined a short, somewhat rotund, Caucasian man wearing a blue Polo jogging outfit who was sitting at a rear table. They spoke rapidly and softly in a language no one in the coffee shop recognized.