Blix stared at the grainy black-and-white image, but didn’t answer immediately. He finally said, “It does looks like him, but it’s hard to say. I can’t be certain.” Under two disbelieving looks, he tried again.

“It’s a good likeness,” he said, “but something about it…” Blix’s face contorted as he racked his brain. “He’s keying the numbers with his left hand.”

“Was Deadmarsh left-handed?” Forsten asked.

Blix shook his head. “I’m sorry, but I can’t remember.”

“I know who could give us a definite answer,” Sjoberg said.

They all stared at one another in turn.

“All right,” Forsten ordered, “call him in.”

“Ah…” Blix hesitated, “I’m not sure Inspector Sanderson is available right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe he’s taken a holiday,” Blix replied.

“Holiday?” Sjoberg burst.

“Well, sir—you did just let him go.”

*   *   *

Slaton exercised his newfound wealth in customary Zurich fashion—with a shopping spree on Bahnhofstrasse.

In perhaps the world’s epicenter of casual self-indulgence, he caused barely a ripple with his shotgun approach: a pair of Peter Millar twill trousers were partnered with a button-down cotton shirt and Chanel tie, followed by a charcoal Armani sportcoat, and finally a set of black Nike warm-ups with trail shoes. Just off Bahnhofstrasse, he paid a reasonable price for a down sleeping bag and a Prada travel case—somehow relegated to the clearance rack—and an unreasonable one for a Movado wristwatch, a high-end sport version with luminescent dials. With full arms and half-empty pockets, Slaton decided he’d done enough damage for one evening.

He found the Rover in Krueger’s reserved parking spot, an upgraded model with four-wheel drive and a massive engine. Before leaving the garage he circled the Rover’s exterior once, checking that all the exterior lights were operational, and that the license plate and vignette, or autobahn sticker, were current and not obscured. He would be driving a perfectly valid vehicle, and wanted no excuse for a random traffic stop. Slaton brought the machine to life and was rewarded with a heavy purr under the thick leather and walnut trim. He wheeled out of the parking garage into a thin mist, turned north and gathered speed.

He swept past the up-lit spire of St. Peter’s Church, rounded the Swiss National Museum, and ten minutes later was merging comfortably onto the N1. The lights of Zurich began to fade, and using the cruise control to govern his speed, Slaton struck westward into darkened countryside toward the Limmat Valley. Estimating a three-hour drive ahead, he should have used the time to refine his next steps, or at the very least reflect on a long and productive day. Slaton was making progress, nearing his target, and he now had unlimited funds at his disposal. Yet try as he might, he couldn’t concentrate on the mission.

The reason was clear enough.