Sanderson spent a slow cup considering Almgren’s hypothesis. Could the troubles in Stockholm be related to Israel’s pursuit of Iran’s chief nuclear scientist? It was a long shot to say the least. If Deadmarsh was truly a Mossad assassin, the chances were better that he was hunting down some deserving Hezbollah terrorist. More likely yet was that the erstwhile stonemason had not been tasked to kill anyone. Sanderson would lay odds that there was no cataclysmic plot at any level, but rather an alcoholic agent who’d gone rogue, or perhaps a man chasing his wife because she’d had an affair with her dermatologist. As any policeman could tell you, the real world was far less a manifestation of James Bond than Jerry Springer. All the same, Sanderson had to be sure, which meant disproving Almgren’s theory.

Only days ago he’d had Sweden’s largest police force at his disposal. Now, aside from the spare time of two distant friends, he was operating alone from a tiny German village. He left a nice tip for the waitress, and asked her if a computer was available for general use. She was happy to point him to a small side room where, for a fee, computer stations with Internet access were available.

The room was a disaster with dirty floors and overflowing wastebaskets, and from the sales flyers on the wall—instant energy shots and roadside assistance insurance—one didn’t have to be a detective to realize that the place was here for transiting truck drivers. Sanderson sat on a chair with ripped fabric and foam oozing out the seams, and addressed a brown-stained keyboard on which the lettering of the more frequently used characters had been worn clear. But the machine worked, and he was soon online. Sanderson began by researching articles relating to the assassination attempts on Hamedi. He noted the dates and locations of the botched missions—both occurring inside Iran—and he read the official releases from IRNA, the Islamic Republic News Agency. Not surprisingly, these pieces were scarce on detail and high on rhetoric, taking particular relish in pointing an accusatory finger at Israel.

He moved on to Israeli and neutral news outlets, and then a few blogs where conspiracy theorists congregated. Nothing inspired him. He entered Anton Bloch’s name and got hits relating to his retirement, along with a few critiques on the effectiveness of his administration—Mossad chiefs were meant to be anonymous during their active tenure, but apparently fair game once they reverted to the lowly status of private citizen. After an hour the waitress stepped in and brought him another cup of coffee. Sanderson could have kissed her.