At 9:52 Slaton boarded a crowded second-class car. It was a commuter special with few empty seats, and he shouldered to a window beside a young girl, nineteen or perhaps twenty years of age. She had the look of a schoolgirl, long hair and pretty, and sat straight-backed with her knees together and hands in her lap. Slaton could not imagine a more ideal seatmate. Attractive young girls traveling alone knew better than to strike up conversations with strange older men. His seat selection was further validated when a well-dressed businessman sat in the opposing row and was immediately accosted by the man to his left, a middle-aged fellow in a creased coat and crooked tie who was trying to sell investments. Those were eyes Slaton would avoid, as he had no desire to listen to a sales pitch all the way to the Swiss border. And anyway, from a strictly actuarial standpoint, fixed annuities were not a practical investment vehicle for assassins.

At 09:59 the train pulled away.

When he drifted to sleep minutes later, the kidon was four hundred miles removed from his entry point in Germany. He had virtually no chance of being traced. His belly was full. And he had thirteen more euros in his pocket than when he’d started.

Chapter 29

TWENTY-NINE

The boarding of the 10:15 ferry was nearly complete. Standing in an alcove at the back of the terminal, Christine Palmer—doctor of internal medicine, mother-to-be, and fugitive pirate—stood wondering if the gangway would be pulled punctually.

The clock near the ticket booth read 10:07. The crowd of passengers was larger than she’d expected, and on a Wednesday morning she guessed most were commuting to work, a few perhaps heading into town to shop or meet dental appointments. The voyage from Styrsvik, Runmarö Island, to Stavsnäs would last no more than ten minutes. Indeed, Christine could see the receiving dock barely a mile away, a dark shadow floating on the mist-shrouded bay.

10:08.

Not wanting to cut it too close, Christine decided to make her move. She went to the automated ticketing kiosk and pulled out a credit card imprinted with the name Edmund Deadmarsh. She purchased a one-way ticket, and as soon as it spit from the machine Christine hurried to the boat. An attendant took her ticket with barely a glance, and she scampered across the metal boarding steps as the last passenger. She veered into the covered lower deck, where virtually everyone had sought relief from the cool marine air, and took a seat in the middle of the largest group—three women her own age amid ten preschool children. A playgroup headed to the mainland, she supposed, likely for an outing to a museum or an amusement park. She smiled at the children and nodded to the mothers.