They had taken off three hours earlier, Sanderson watching the Swedish coastline slip in and out of view amid the clouds until it disappeared completely. Since then Magnussen had been flying on instruments in heavy weather. In a way Sanderson was happy, because the gray shroud around them gave no perception of height or speed or movement—they were simply floating in a bubble of moisture with no sense of up or down.

“How is the weather where we’re going?” he asked.

Magnussen pulled her headset away from the nearest ear. “It’s still good,” she said. “We should have no trouble landing. I’ll have you at the seaplane dock at Sassnitz in roughly twenty minutes. Do you have your passport? There are immigration controls.”

Sanderson was happy that it had been in his car. “Yes, I’ve got it. But I have to ask you again—are you sure this man didn’t give you any idea where he was heading?”

She shook her head. “Sorry. But from his point of view, why would he?”

Magnussen pushed the plane into a descent and soon they were skimming under the clouds, the northern coastline of Germany rising in front of them. Sanderson gripped his armrests as the sea came closer, and his eyes were shut tight when the airplane settled to the water with surprising smoothness. Minutes later he was standing on a floating dock, much like the one from which he’d boarded back in Oxelösund. Magnussen had a brief conversation with a man about fuel before walking over and offering her hand.

“Our bargain is complete, is it not?”

Sanderson shook her tiny hand. “Such as it is. Have a safe flight back.”

“What will you do from here?” she asked.

Sweeping his eyes across the place, Sanderson said, “I’ll be damned if I know.”

Chapter 32

THIRTY-TWO

It was a mystery to many how Walter Krueger, a man of reputable upbringing and high acquaintances, had gone adrift at the crest of life. He’d been born into a solid Zurich family, and as a young boy attended the most prestigious private academies. On graduating from university he married a woman of impeccable pedigree, not the least of whose attributes involved being the lone daughter of a prominent banker. So it was, when Krueger began his corporate climb it was with a solid midlevel job at one of the largest banks in Switzerland, rapid advancement a given. His home life showed equal promise when it became apparent that his wife’s bland figure disguised a thriving fertility. Within eight years of landing at Bank Suisse, Walter Krueger was the assistant director of investor relations, and he had to his credit six children, a ski chalet in Klosters, and a raging peptic ulcer. For a Swiss banker, life was as it should have been.