The boarding door was flung down and, before the engines had even stopped spinning, a car bearing the emblem of the Swiss Customs Administration pulled up. The Hawker’s captain had made advance arrangements. Two inspectors, a man and a woman, got out of the car. The man went straight up the boarding stairs and disappeared. Moments later, the copilot stepped down to the ramp and opened the cargo bay door, cuing the female inspector to lean inside and nudge a few bags. Altogether it was the sort of gentle reception reserved for those men and women who came to Switzerland with important business in mind. The dance went on for no more than five minutes, after which the customs officers walked back to their car, and—in a closed circuit image that would be reviewed most unfavorably in three days’ time—the lead officer waved good-bye and gave his best wishes to the flight crew for a pleasant weekend’s stay.

As soon as the car was out of sight, eight men disembarked from the Hawker. Each was dressed in a sober suit and tie, and each carried either a briefcase or a leather satchel. Behind dark sunglasses their faces were uniformly blank—eight ordinary men preparing to undertake correspondingly ordinary business. Anyone observing from a distance might have noticed that a few of the men seemed uncomfortable, tugging at their shirt collars and looking stiff in suits that were cut too tight at the shoulder. All were between the age of twenty-five and thirty-five, and all—noticeable even beneath their ill-fitting business attire—were in prime physical condition. There was little interaction among the eight as they walked to the tiny corporate arrivals terminal in what almost appeared a loose marching formation.

Nineteen minutes after landing—two ahead of schedule—Switzerland’s newest visitors were concealed in a pair of waiting SUVs and accelerating out of the parking lot to the squeal of rubber over asphalt. The Hawker and its crew did not, in fact, stay the weekend. Without so much as taking on fuel, the jet was back at the runway minutes later, with its flight plan filed and engines spooled, awaiting clearance for takeoff.

*   *   *

Sanderson was awakened by the sound of a jet flying overhead. His eyes cracked open and he saw a scene very much like yesterday’s—a strange and chilly hotel room, and an alarm clock that suggested he’d slept through the greater part of the morning. He had arrived in Geneva late last night after an exhausting day of travel, his misery compounded by a late train and a missed connection. But arrive he had.