The three men were at the conference table in Nurin’s bunker, seated on three opposing corners. The Star of David flag hung limply on a staff behind Veron, as still as the air in their subterranean vault. Daylight had left the city above hours ago, but there were no windows here to prove it. That was what Nurin had never liked about this place—you never had a true sense of what time it was.

“The man who’s been giving us trouble in Stockholm,” Nurin explained, “he was once involved with this account. After what happened Sunday, I suspected he might attempt to access it. The account has long been inactive, but our man would have no way of knowing this.”

“So he’s one of us,” said Veron.

“Was,” Nurin corrected. “A long time ago.”

“A kidon?”

Walking a thin line with his two lieutenants, Nurin decided the best reply was none at all.

Zacharias said, “This attempt to access the account—what does it mean?”

“It means he is in Switzerland. It means he needs money, but hasn’t found any.”

“Money?” questioned Veron. “For what purpose?”

Nurin chose his words carefully. “He has harmed us once. He may try to do so again.”

“But why?” implored Veron. “You still haven’t said what the former director was doing in Stockholm. Why did he contact this American woman?”

Nurin sat back in his chair and looked pointedly at the ceiling. Both his subordinates remained silent as he churned to a decision. When the director’s eyes came down, they settled on Veron.

“What kind of force can you have in Switzerland in twenty-four hours?”

“Twenty-four hours? We always have one team on alert.” Veron spoke with a commander’s confidence. “Eight men.”

“Do it. I want them standing by in Geneva tomorrow night.”

“Geneva?”

“Yes. That’s where he’s going.”

Veron hesitated visibly, everyone knowing his question. How could you know this? What he asked was, “And our mission?”

“If I give the word, I want you to find him.”

“How? We barely have a description.”

Nurin explained in detail where to look, and when, and added at the end, “Look for the man with a rifle.”

After another long silence, a clearly frustrated Veron said, “And if we find him as you say?”

“Wait for my instructions. If he is not there—I may have another mission for you. Tell your best marksman to be ready.”

*   *   *

Four hours after stepping onto German soil, Arne Sanderson was still walking. As night gathered, Sassnitz fell to a film noir landscape. All around him were utilitarian buildings set on industrial grade concrete, the sort of corrugated aluminum boxes no reputable architect would ever admit to creating. Smoke from the exhaust of countless vehicles mixed with chimney risings from pocket neighborhoods, altogether giving the air a rough-hewn edge of diesel and soot.