Magnussen took a rag and began erasing a line on her map. “We’re both in a fix, aren’t we, Inspector?”

“Perhaps we could adopt a broader view,” said a circumspect Sanderson. “You were abducted by this man. He threatened you at gunpoint, so you felt intimidated for a time. But eventually you called the police. I don’t see that you’ve done much wrong.”

“Even if he were going to send me money? That’s what you suggested.”

“Did I? I’d already forgotten about that. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”

“Would you vouch for all this?” she asked.

“I might. Under the right circumstances.”

“Which are?”

Sanderson told her.

Janna Magnussen gave him a wide grin “You know, Inspector—I think I’m beginning to like you as well.”

*   *   *

For two hundred years Zurich’s Bahnhofstrasse has been the recognized financial center of Switzerland. It is where banking icons Credit Suisse and UBS have long made their homes, housed in buildings that are as solid and enduring as the Alps, yet muted with just enough architectural vagueness to give clients—they are never called customers—the impression that while their money is unerringly present, it is not necessarily accounted for. The balance of the street’s tenants are a more candid bunch. Gucci, Coach, and Cartier are all here, and their sales staffs clearly well fed. Bahnhofstrasse is clean, safe, and polished. There is not a crack in the sidewalk to catch a Christian Louboutin heel, and the shells dropped by squirrels onto the heads of tolerant passersby are soon swept clear. It is a place with a great many attributes. What it does not have is public phones.

For a two euro tip, Slaton made his call from the bar of a waking basement nightclub. He dialed a number he had memorized years ago, and it was answered efficiently, almost certainly by the same woman he’d spoken with the last time he’d called.

“Krueger Wealth Management.”

“Yes,” Slaton said, “I’d like to make an appointment with Herr Krueger.”

“Are you an existing client, sir?”

“I am. The name is Natan Mendelsohn. Please inform Herr Krueger that I will join him for dinner this evening at Il Dolce. Seven o’clock.”

A hesitation. “Sir, Herr Krueger is already committed this evening to meet a long-standing client who—”

“Just give him the name, the time, and the place. He will see me. And tell him to please bring the package he’s been holding.”

Slaton did not wait for a reply.

*   *   *

Arne Sanderson did not like airplanes. He particularly did not like small airplanes. Small airplanes that took off and landed on the sea, in his mind, were a clear defilement of physical laws.

All the same, here he was.