As the train continued westward, the great slabs that were the Alps dominated the horizon, their crests already aswirl in winter clouds and new snow. Slaton shut his eyes, needing to rest, but also in case any promotion-minded customs officer suddenly appeared in the aisle. Yet if his body was still, his thoughts were less so. He was heading for Geneva and an assassination, searching for a course that would solve all his problems. Yet like any gamble, the coin could equally land against him. If that happened, if he lost control, he might lose Christine forever. At the moment there was only one option—Slaton had to keep moving forward. Keep searching for a way out.

With a change of trains, he could be in Geneva by early afternoon. He would not, however, go that far today. The man he was to kill might soon be in Geneva—but the money was in Zurich.

*   *   *

At 3:15 that same afternoon, as the kidon was spanning Switzerland, Arne Sanderson pulled up to the building labeled Magnussen Air Charters in Oxelösund. He parked his car, and through a drizzle-obscured windshield saw an airplane at the dock with the registration number Rolf had given him: S325P.

A slightly built woman was tending to something in the cockpit. Sanderson got out of his car, shrugged his collar higher, and walked over to announce himself. “Excuse me—may I have a word?”

The woman, who was standing precariously on one of the floats, leaned outside.

“I’m Detective Inspector Sanderson, Stockholm police.” He flashed his old Interpol credentials and she glanced at them.

“It’s about damned time!” she said.

“Sorry?”

“I called the local boys this morning. Told them I’d had some trouble.”

The woman stepped onto the dock and offered a hand. “Janna Magnussen.”

“Yes, good to meet you,” Sanderson replied. “What kind of trouble did you report?”

“A hijacking, of course.”

Sanderson blinked, caught off-guard. “You mean an air hijacking? As in when someone forcibly takes control of your airplane?”

“Yes.”

“Maybe we should start at the beginning.”

Janna Magnussen’s eyes twinkled. “Yes, that might be for the best.” She looked up at the inclement sky, and said, “Why don’t you come inside, Inspector.”

Chapter 31

THIRTY-ONE

In the office they stood split by a navigation table where a map of Sweden was pressed under a scarred sheet of Plexiglas. Sanderson saw that various points around the country, mostly remote lakes and coves, had been circled with markers and then connected by lines to Magnussen Air Charter’s Oxelösund hub.

“He hired me out for a charter,” she said. “I took him out Monday morning and dropped him on an island. Picked him up at the same place yesterday morning.”

“What did he look like?”

Her description left no doubt in Sanderson’s mind—they were talking about Deadmarsh.

“Where exactly did you drop him?”