Slaton considered this. It made a certain sense. There had been perhaps twenty thousand U.S. in the account when he’d last seen it, along with a smaller secondary standing in zero-coupon Swiss bonds. Were Mossad’s bean counters only being meticulous? Recovering funds gone astray? Or was there something more? That the account had been left alive struck Slaton as unusual. Procedurally, it would have been more typical for Mossad to close it, effectively cutting all ties to Grossman. But then it occurred to Slaton that leaving the account open was like setting an alarm. If inquiries were made, perhaps by the police or bank examiners, Mossad would be forewarned. Yes, he thought, that made sense. A tripwire—and one that he had just activated. Slaton twirled his martini by the stem of its glass, hoping idly that Krueger would offer to pay for dinner. He needed cash, needed it now, and while there were any number of ways to acquire funds, all entailed a certain amount of time. A certain amount of risk. His entire approach to Geneva would have to be rethought.

“I hope I have acted to your satisfaction,” Krueger prattled.

“Yes,” Slaton said distractedly, “the timeline of those transactions escaped me for a moment, but it doesn’t matter.”

Krueger beamed. “Bon.” The banker then turned tentative, lowering his voice amid the burble of conversation around them—a man about to voice serious concerns. “I am happy to have not disappointed you, monsieur. There is, in fact, a separate matter we should discuss.”

“A separate matter?”

“I have been trying unsuccessfully to reach you for many months. The address I have on file, the postal box in Oxford, seems to have reverted. And your previous phone number has been disconnected. I even tried to contact you through your attorney, but she and her staff seem to have taken an extended holiday. They do not return my calls.”

Krueger paused, clearly hoping for some explanation. Slaton said nothing.

“I was quite happy to find the message from Astrid today saying that you had returned. Are you aware of our friend Grossman’s passing?”

Slaton’s head tilted ever so slightly. “No. I’d heard nothing about it.”

“It was rather sudden, I’m afraid. Some type of cancer last summer. Such a thing…” Krueger turned wistful, creases straining his banker’s veneer. “For a man to have so much, only to see life slip away.”

“When did he die?”

“August, I think it was, in Basel. He had the best doctors, of course, but there was nothing to be done.”

Slaton now understood why Mossad had not installed a surrogate for their dealings with Grossman. With the man terminally ill, and Slaton listed as killed in action, the House of Krueger had to be cleansed—no lingering stray funds, no taxes accruing, no embarrassing contractual obligations. The only loose end was a single open-ended account dangling like a baitless hook.