He placed the gun in the right-hand pocket of his jacket, tucking the flap inside for better access—even without bullets it was good for intimidation. The GPS device went into the opposing pocket, along with the compact field glasses. He took out his wallet and removed everything except the cash. A Virginia driver’s license, voter’s registration, and Prince William County library card, all in the name of Edmund Deadmarsh, went into the otherwise empty backpack. An identity that had lasted nearly a year was now at its end.

He suspected Anton Bloch had performed the most difficult part—once Slaton arrived in Sweden, the legend of Edmund Deadmarsh had been scrubbed from cyberspace, probably erased on cue after one last use. The resulting anonymity was help enough, yet he also recognized a signal from his old boss. Disappear, David. Find another way. Slaton had never been told, but he suspected the identity originated with the CIA, Bloch calling in an old favor before he retired. Or possibly MI-6. Whatever the case, Bloch had finished what he’d started. The director who’d given the world Edmund Deadmarsh had taken him away, reciprocal keystrokes to remove every trace.

Slaton found a stone the size of a softball, put it in the backpack, and zipped everything shut. Taking the straps in hand, he gave a half spin like a hammer thrower and heaved the backpack fifty feet out to sea. With one thumping splash it was done. The man born as David Slaton was again a ghost. He had killed many a legend in his time, but never before had it been such a bittersweet parting. If the name Edmund Deadmarsh had been no more than fiction, for Slaton it represented a very tangible life. Grilled burgers on the deck in Virginia, a week on the beach in Curaçao. The closest thing to normalcy he’d experienced in a very long time.

Now the vestiges of that life were sinking to a deep and dark place. The vestiges of his earlier life had long ago been eliminated. Police and intelligence organizations, for all their efficiencies, were modeled on the idea of matching a known to a known. In Slaton’s case it would become no more than an exercise in frustration. Aside from the hazy recollections of a few policemen and acquaintances, perhaps a few distant captured images, there was nothing to compare. There were no pension accounts to watch. No driver’s license on which to put a bulletin. No family mobile signals to monitor. The man standing on a German beach this early fall evening, alone and unshaven and empty-handed, was as pure an apparition as could be.