She took a seat at the nearly vacant bar, and in no more time than it took for a double vodka to be pushed in front of her, Evita found herself sandwiched between a pair of afternoon regulars, a thrice-divorced lawyer and an old man named Yehud whose breath smelled like a camel’s crotch. The lawyer tried to chat about his ex-wives, while old Yehud, unshaven and unwashed and with beer foam on his lips, simply propositioned her in the most vulgar of terms. She was equally unreceptive, though found the old beggar’s honesty refreshing in a way. Yet as she sat in silence, Evita felt a tremor of unease—even if she was miles from home, there was a chance one of them might know her husband, a man on terms with a good share of the city’s connoisseurs. As it turned out, the far-off look in her eyes was enough to deflect their advances.

The vodka worked wonders. As always, Evita was repulsed by what she was about to do, yet there was never a question of following through. This morning, like every morning, she had spent her ritual moment with the picture of Saud and the tender poem he’d written for her. These were her only remembrances, and she kept both hidden deep in a dresser drawer. For a few minutes each day he was hers again—a man whose beauty would never fade, an artist whose talent would never diminish, and a lover whose soul would always be faithful. That daily tribute gave her the steel to go forward, gave her the will to take vengeance for a crime that would never be pursued in any court.

Evita would undertake her justice. But to do it with the requisite smile? That required a little something extra. She lifted her glass, snapped her head back one last time, and bid her courters good-bye.

*   *   *

The Baltic, five thousand feet below, was in a pitched battle, wind versus water. Slaton watched the whitecaps come and go, creases of white bursting to life, then fading quickly into the matte-black sea. The skies above were equally ominous, hard gray clouds that blotted the sun into submission and fragmented the horizon. He could see rain to the west and north, sweeping gray curtains reaching down to the sea. Dramatic as the scene was, it held little relevance. The visibility ahead and below—that was the critical thing, and right now it was suitable for what Slaton had in mind.