She said something in German that Sanderson didn’t understand. He replied with, “Do either of you speak English?”

“Some,” said the woman.

“I’m a policeman from Sweden. I’m here looking for…” Sanderson drew a blank. His mind seemed to freeze, like a computer in need of a reboot. He looked all around. The lights overhead seemed particularly bright, glowing banks that cast the cargo yard in a watery amber hue. His gaze settled on a light pole that seemed to divide as he looked at it. His head felt like it might split.

“You are all right?” the man asked.

“No, I…” Sanderson struggled for words, any words. What came out was, “Could you … tell me … tell me if there’s a hotel nearby. I’m not feeling at all well.”

*   *   *

One point three billion dollars.

The pub was just off Bahnhofstrasse, an English-Irish theme struck in dark hardwood, brass rails, and electric ale signs. Slaton sat alone, parked on a high stool and leaning into a beer the color of Brent Sea crude. It was a necessary prop—without it he’d have been the only person in the place with two free hands.

He sat facing the pub’s front window, watching expensive cars stream past in a constant flow, streaks of chrome glinting in the bright streetlights and neon spill. It was eight-thirty on a Wednesday evening, and the pub was stocked with bankers and bookkeepers and civil servants, a general aggregate of upward-aspiring Swiss. They were a well-lubricated bunch, loosened ties over designer shirts, leather-booted legs under tight skirts. Everyone was slapping backs and carrying on in a way that said they had not just arrived. Slaton studied them one by one, perhaps out of habit. He saw nothing to raise a warning flag, yet for some reason kept at it. Watching and listening. He heard conversations that held not a whit of intelligence value. Girlfriends and promotions. Hot investment tips and vacations to Mallorca. He had heard it all before, a hundred different times in a hundred different bars. Yet tonight it sank differently as he filtered the trite and mundane through his newfound prism.

Slaton had worked for Mossad since the day he’d graduated from university. He had never held a proper job, never worried about financial markets or office parties or impressing a boss. The next mission—that had been his creed, his driving principle. An instructor from sniper school had once jested that to be an assassin was akin to being a priest. Morals aside, once you were ordained you could never be anything else. Was it really true?

U.S. dollars. One point three billion.