As soon as the Iranians and their escorts disappeared into the elevator, Slaton walked briskly to the stairwell. He pushed through a heavy fire door and climbed the steps three at a time. The Beau Rivage was a five-story concern, and with the ground level obviously committed to common areas, Slaton took a chance and skipped the second-floor landing. He paused on reaching the third. Standing still against the hallway door, he listened but heard nothing. He cracked the door open slightly and saw the elevator door twenty paces up the hall, an elderly woman waiting with the Down button illuminated. Slaton turned and headed up, pausing again at the fourth floor. This time he heard them.

The manager’s voice prevailed in lilting French, yet Slaton also registered a barely audible background chatter in Farsi. He didn’t speak the language, but he knew enough to recognize it. Sensing that the voices were receding, Slaton edged the door open to see the group bunched in the hallway. He planted his foot to hold a sliver of light at the door, but kept to the stairwell’s darkness as he listened to the manager’s well-practiced pitch.

“Your primary rooms are adjacent to one another. A beautiful view of the lake from the main suite, and from the other you can see Mont Blanc. Security? Of course. Marcel here will be at your disposal tomorrow from the moment your delegation arrives. We at Beau Rivage keep a long and proud history of hosting dignitaries for important events. A common door between the rooms? Yes, of course, monsieur.”

He chanced a look and saw an open door midway down the corridor. When they all disappeared into the room, Slaton let the door slip shut. He went back to the stairs, but instead of descending he climbed up to the last landing. There he noted that the roof access above the fifth floor was barred and secured with a rusted padlock, a modification that would likely not be appreciated by the canton fire marshal. He turned into the vacant fifth-floor hallway, strode halfway down and stomped his foot hard on the carpet. Slaton was rewarded with a hollow thump that told him what he needed to know—under the gold and blue runner, with prints of rose petals and fleurs-de-lis, was a plywood understructure. Two minutes later he was back outside and negotiating his way across the busy street.