They took their respective seats. Krueger was as Slaton remembered: big and plump with a horseshoe of close-cropped hair around his balding crown, a great marshmallow of a man in a thousand-dollar Italian suit. Yet if his exterior was soft, his gaze was as keen as his investment results implied. Slaton’s most compelling question was one he could not ask. He wondered if Mossad had come back in his absence to install a surrogate for Natan Mendelsohn. If so, it would be written on Krueger’s face right now. It was not. The man looked unbothered, even happy to see him.

“I’ve been abroad for some time,” Slaton said.

“Pleasure or business?” Krueger asked.

“Only business. Men like us have little time for the other, no?”

“D’accord. My chalet in the Alps has been gathering dust since last winter.”

“Business is good then?”

“Reasonably so,” replied Krueger. “The Americans have been pushing our government for more transparency in banking, yet only when it comes to those who owe taxes to their IRS.”

The two exchanged a knowing smile and were soon chatting about families, Slaton hoping he remembered correctly the number of children birthed by the fictional Natalya Mendelsohn. The waiter came and took their order, and everyone switched languages. In Zurich business was conducted in English, contracts written in Swiss German, and dinner ordered in French. It all created a degree of confusion, but this was not unintended. If clients did not get what they expected, salesmen, attorneys, and chefs all had a reasonable case for missed communications. Krueger selected duck a l’orange, Slaton grilled trout Ruden. A pair of martinis found their way to the table and, after a toast to nothing in particular, Slaton took the helm.

“Did you bring my package?” he asked.

“Of course.” Krueger reached into his jacket and pulled out a sealed envelope, slightly larger than a standard letter. “It has been in my safe for fifteen months now.”

Slaton took the envelope, pocketed it, and said, “I haven’t seen an account statement in some time—did you bring one?”

Krueger went ashen. “Statement?” A long hesitation, then, “The account you speak of … are you not aware that it was brought to zero some months ago?”

“Was it?”

“By your own attorney.”

“My attorney.”

“The woman who came to see me. The papers were completely in order,” Krueger said uneasily, “your limited power of attorney. All perfectly valid and certified. I don’t see how—”

Slaton held up a hand to put the Swiss at ease. “Yes, I understand all that. I made the authorization, of course. But nothing at all remains in the account?”

“The account itself is intact, as your attorney directed. Quite clear. But the balance is zero. All funds were transferred to the bank in Tel Aviv.”