He’d sat there for a time staring dumbly at Krueger, his fork stuck in a trout. But then, what could one say to such a thing? Benjamin Grossman, heartless merchant of death and closet homosexual, had amassed an absolute fortune. And now he had given it to Slaton, or more succinctly, given it to Slaton to be funneled for the benefit of Israel. In the identity of Natan Mendelsohn, Slaton had never been anything more than an intermediary, his objective to win Grossman’s trust and act as his link to the homeland. He remembered discussing Israel and her issues with the man on a number of occasions, because this too was part of his mission—Mossad had to be sure Grossman would make a trustworthy sayan. But this?

This Slaton had never expected.

He had faced a great many dilemmas in his years, often matters of life and death. Tonight’s revelation was trivial on its face, yet carried an underlying trauma. He would meet with Krueger in his office tomorrow to finalize the trust. Given the size of the bequest, Krueger estimated that full execution would take a matter of weeks as the Swiss authorities stamped documents, verified signatures, and, most importantly, double-checked that all revenue due the canton was collected. The only requirement on Slaton’s part was to certify himself to be Natan Mendelsohn, and proof of this was now in his pocket, returned in a sealed envelope after a year in the banker’s safe.

At the time it had seemed a good insurance policy, and now Slaton patted himself on the back for his foresight. He was once again Natan Mendelsohn, and had the Swiss identity card and passport to prove it. Both were Mossad products, although likely noncurrent and erased from official databases. They would be useless for entering another country, and no good to show a policeman. But Slaton didn’t need that. Natan Mendelsohn was in Switzerland and would remain there for the rest of his fabricated life. He could use the identity to sign Herr Krueger’s papers in front of a lawyer. He could register at respectable Swiss hotels and draw money from respectable cash accounts. On face value the documents were perfect, every stamp and hologram in place, and the photographs of Slaton displaying a textbook fusion of pain and indifference. A man irritated at having to replace expired items. A man who didn’t have to be told not to smile. For the immediate future, the identity of Natan Mendelsohn suited him perfectly.