Slaton licked his lower lip and tasted the coppery tang of blood. He grabbed the Frisbee, which had landed on the bench next to him, and handed it over.

“Merci,” said the kid before winding up and backhanding the disc to his partner in the distance.

Slaton tracked its flight across the lawn and wondered, in what was becoming a recurring theme, if he would ever be as competent at life as he was at death. For today, he reckoned, it was best left an idle thought.

He got up and began walking, and from the docks roamed west along the lake’s curved edge. He passed vendors selling food and soft drinks from carts, and regarded a field of small daysailers moored along the breakwater. After a hundred yards Slaton paused, as tourists did, and pondered the scene before him with his hands clasped behind his back. He was looking at the second point of Nurin’s plot, the Pont du Mont Blanc. It was a modest item, as bridges went, a three-hundred-yard span to connect the left and right banks of Geneva where the lake funneled to become the throat of the Rhone River. The design was simplistic, neither high nor arching, but six flat lanes of asphalt intended for cars to pass over, not ships to pass under.

When Slaton had originally drawn Nurin’s scheme in his mind, he’d thought it amateurish. Now, with the physical geometry presented, he reconsidered. The bridge was set low, crouched on ten concrete and steel buttresses. From where Slaton stood he saw countless gaps in the understructure, a repeating warren of shelters and shadows where a patient man could easily conceal himself on a black evening. He imagined a prone shot, laying across a beam, or even splayed directly on one of the concrete buttresses. Distance was not an issue—from the bridge to the target area he estimated no more than two hundred yards. A simple shot.

He also granted that escape was realistic. The bridge was teeming with traffic—vehicles, bicycles, people on foot. This would change come Sunday night, still a busy thoroughfare but with a different character, more private vehicles and everyone moving casually on the leeside of the weekend. There would certainly be defenses, the Iranians undoubtedly and a modest contingent of the canton’s finest. But there would be no all-out lockdown. If Slaton saw that, a swarming defensive perimeter, it meant that the director had failed to contain his leak. Altogether, he decided Nurin’s plan was not a great one. But it was viable, and this made Slaton suspect that Nurin had already lied to him. He’d claimed that no one else in Mossad had knowledge of the plot, yet there was enough tactical awareness here to suggest otherwise. Had the director called in help? Had he taken advice from someone versed in such mechanics?

Someone like me?