Sharply at ten that morning Slaton reached Bahnhofstrasse 81 with his customary reconnaissance complete. He was not worried about the police—not yet anyway—but Mossad was a definite concern. He had no idea where he stood with Director Nurin, but having tripped the inactive account there was a chance that Tel Aviv might be watching Herr Krueger. But only if they were very astute—and very quick.

At street level the building was staid and colorless, with a granite foundation that seemed to rise from the bedrock. Yet in the roofline Slaton saw distinct Baroque leanings, theatrical wings and ledges that made him think the place might have once been a church. Perhaps some long-forgotten denomination that had slipped into holy receivership during one of Europe’s Bohemian upswings.

He passed through an imposing set of doors and saw the usual directory of tenants, interchangeable white lettering on black felt. There were five listings—a number that had not changed since Slaton’s first visit—and KAM, Krueger Asset Management, still resided in suite 4.

In the office he was greeted by Astrid, the woman he’d spoken with on the phone, and ushered in directly to find a chipper Krueger. Seated across the desk from the banker was a second man Slaton had never met. The stranger’s dress, not to mention the briefcase in his lap, suggested he was a lawyer. Slaton, however, was never inclined to simple assumption. He paused at the heavy door, still ajar, which put him one step removed from the thick-walled outer office.

“Good morning, Monsieur Mendelsohn!” said a beaming Krueger. An obligatory hand-pump was followed by, “How did you find your room at Le Chateau?”

“Very nice, thank you. In all honesty, a bit above the standards I’m used to.”

“But no more, eh?” Krueger patted him on the shoulder as if he were an old college chum. “Allow me to introduce Herr Holmberg. He is the lead attorney in the matter of this estate.”

Slaton shook hands and saw nothing worrisome in Holmberg. The man moved efficiently—not in the way of a killer, but in the way of a bookkeeper, his eyes focused inwardly on documents, his delicate fingers sure and purposeful. His feet were set narrowly, such that he could not rise quickly and keep good balance. His open briefcase was a black leather article with gold-plated locks, and inside Slaton saw a single file that looked unusually thick and heavy. A lawyer, perhaps, who billed by the pound and not the hour. Three pens were holstered in a dividing flap, and next to these three pencils. Slaton could see only the eraser ends of the pencils, but he was sure that each was perfectly sharpened. He stepped away from the door and took a seat.