“He was. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs is paralyzed over how to handle it. SÄPO is operating on the principle that Deadmarsh, his wife, and Bloch are on one side of this fight. Everyone else seems to be against them.”

“Including us, bunglers that we are.”

Almgren continued without remark, “I can also tell you that one of the men Deadmarsh dispatched at the Tea Room has been positively identified. He was an employee at the Israeli embassy in Stockholm.”

“Mossad?”

“Almost certainly.”

“Well that’s no surprise. So perhaps this is some kind of old guard versus new guard problem? Mossad turning on itself?”

“That’s the common wisdom here—although I hate to use that word.”

“So what’s being done?”

“Everyone is still looking for them, of course. But the head office is quietly backing off, hoping this has run its course.”

“And Deadmarsh will just fade away, never to be seen again?”

“Something like that. They’re convinced this was an internal Mossad dust-up. Any threat has ended.”

“Do you believe it?” he asked.

A pause. “Not really. You?”

“No.”

“I can tell you that the National Police are downplaying the investigation. Give this a week, maybe two, and people will forget. Maybe you should do the same, Arne. The man you’re after is probably back in Israel right now. Or maybe the United States.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

Almgren waited for his reasoning.

Sanderson only said, “What about his wife?”

“She’s the wild card. Caught in the middle of it, I’d say. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned up at the bottom of a very cold body of water. Maybe an old score of some kind has been settled. We’ve pressed the Israelis for an explanation, but as you’d expect they’re keeping a very diplomatic silence.”

There was a long pause as she let Sanderson dwell on the information. “Let’s assume,” he said, “that Deadmarsh actually is an Israeli assassin. Does SÄPO keep files on people like that?”

“An Israeli kidon? In our files? No way. Not many countries have people like that on their payrolls, and the ones that do guard identities very closely.”

Sanderson sighed. “Yes, I suppose they would, but could you look into it all the same? Anything would help—I’m really up against a wall.”

“For you? Not a chance. But you’ve piqued my interest. Meet me at the Flying Horse in an hour?”

“I can’t—I’m not in Stockholm.”

Another long silence.

“All right,” she said, “I’ll call you back.”

*   *   *