Magnussen laughed. “This airplane doesn’t have many instruments to interfere with. Go ahead and call. You should get good reception as low as we are.”

The phone was already activated, and indeed he saw good signal strength. Slaton pulled a business card from his pocket and dialed Detective Inspector Arne Sanderson.

*   *   *

Sanderson was closing the trunk of his car when it dawned on him that he should check his email one last time—Sjoberg had likely forgotten to pull up that anchor. He had just entered the headquarters building when his phone vibrated. He looked at the number but didn’t recognize it. Thinking it might involve one of his mandatory medical probings, he answered reluctantly.

“Sanderson.”

He heard a great deal of background noise, and then, “Hello, Inspector.”

The voice registered instantly—one he had first heard three days prior in the lobby of the Strand Hotel. “Where are you?”

“I’m very near, actually.”

Sanderson began trotting up the hallway that led to the operations center.

The man whose name was certainly not Edmund Deadmarsh said, “I thought we should talk.”

“You realize you’re in a great deal of trouble.”

“How is the policeman?”

“His leg was damaged, but he’s expected to make a full recovery. Unlike the other two.” Sanderson shoved his way into the room and skidded to a stop in front of the duty officer’s desk. He switched the phone to his left hand and began scribbling on a notepad.

“I’m glad to hear he’s recovering,” said the familiar voice. “Please give him my apologies. At the time I didn’t see any other way. He was about to get far worse.”

Sanderson finished his note and shoved it toward the duty officer. Talking to suspect Deadmarsh on my duty number! Triangulate this call immediately! He then readdressed the phone with, “Are you trying to tell me you shot our man in the leg to rescue him from another assailant? Do you expect me to believe that?”

“Believe whatever you like, Inspector. I was having a leisurely breakfast when I was forced to defend myself. Have you identified the other two, the ones who initiated things?”

“I think you know we haven’t.”

“How is Anton?”

“Who?”

“The man you showed me in Saint Göran, the one in a coma. Has his condition improved?”

“There’s been no change.” Sanderson looked expectantly at the desk man who was multitasking between a phone and a computer. He scribbled a reply to Sanderson. Pinging now. Need thirty more seconds.

Sanderson said, “Who is he?”

“You really have no idea? Tell me you’re better than that, Inspector.”

“Please. Let’s not play games.”

“All right. His name is Anton Bloch. One year ago he was the director of Mossad.”

Sanderson wanted to respond, but his thoughts fell into a tailspin. As incredible as this sounded, it made perfect sense. An Israeli, and certainly a man with enemies.