“There are two last matters. First, the ‘charity’ referred to in Grossman’s legacy. I can tell you that it is not your typical benevolent foundation. In truth, this organization is not a charity at all, and in my opinion not worthy of receiving any of this money under its current governance. As I have been entrusted to steer the inheritance, I will do so in the spirit I believe it was intended. This begins with the instructions you now have.”

Slaton paused, and he imagined Krueger mulling the charitable merits of sending fifty thousand Swiss francs to a Montreux casino. To his credit the man remained silent, only nodding like the good banker he was.

“Finally,” Slaton continued, his cadence slowing, “you are aware of the late Monsieur Grossman’s gray business dealings. I dare say you are not so familiar with mine. To put it simply, those things that Grossman sold, I buy. I operate alone, and in the parlance of our small corner of the world, I am what is known as an ‘end user.’”

Slaton let that settle before leaning slightly forward. “I expect you to hold to the most stringent standards of Swiss banking. Our arrangements must be kept absolutely privileged—discuss them with no one. And be very clear on one last point, Herr Krueger. If any, or perhaps all of this money should disappear, you will in fact never see me again. But even if you should find yourself in a very small and very quiet corner of the world, rest assured that I will see you once more. Precisely once.”

The banker managed a weak smile. “Sir, I … I can assure you that my performance will leave no need for either of us to ever deviate from our arrangement.”

The gray eyes smiled back. “Then as you say—we are in accord.”

Chapter 35

THIRTY-FIVE

Elin Almgren took slightly over an hour to call back. Sanderson, stirring cream into his second cup of coffee from a high stool, picked up immediately.

“Have you found anything?” he asked.

“A new Thai restaurant that makes a wonderful Panang curry.”

“Please.”

“Sex, Arne. Find some quickly.”

Sanderson, patient man that he was, thought, If she wasn’t so damned good …

“Here’s what I have,” Almgren said. “Our files are thin. Pure intelligence on the sort of man you’re after is a nonstarter, at least anything recent. We have volumes on the shooters from Lillehammer and a few less spectacular incidents on European soil. All ancient history. This suspect of yours would have to be in his fifties for any of it to apply.”

“No,” Sanderson said, “he’s nowhere near it. So there’s nothing?”

“On the man you’re after, no.”

“But?” Sanderson prompted.