Slaton retrieved the Range Rover in Rolle and headed north on the A1. He estimated a two-and-a-half-hour drive to Basel, the city that divided the Rhine and was forever fixed as the junction of France, Germany, and Switzerland. With the sun falling low, what had been a glorious day looked ready to descend into something else, dark clouds riding the northern horizon. Slaton scanned through radio channels until he found a weather report. It promised a foul early weekend, with improvement late Sunday. For what he had in mind, a useful forecast.

Keeping with the flow of traffic Slaton passed through Bern, home to the Iranian embassy of Switzerland, and on the far side of the city made a series of stops. At a hardware store he purchased a small tarp, two heavy canvas duffel bags, bolt cutters, and a keyed padlock. A retail mega-box store provided three inexpensive suit coats and an assortment of spray-on fabric protectants. He worked quickly, paid cash, and kept minimal contact with the sales associates.

Back in the Rover, Slaton maneuvered to a quiet corner of the parking lot and spread the three jackets across the backseat. All were dark in color, but each knit using a slightly different blend of fabric, one mostly wool, the others leaning toward synthetics. He took the aerosol fabric protectants and applied a heavy band to the left and right shoulders of each jacket. To get the first coating to dry more quickly, he opened the windows for better ventilation. He then waited, leaning on a fender and sipping water from a plastic bottle as traffic on the autobahn built to its daily crest. After fifteen minutes he applied a second layer, but only to the right shoulder of each jacket. Three jackets, three brands of clear solvent, with a heavier application on the right side. Satisfied, he left the jackets in place to dry.

Slaton’s next stop was a travel station where he filled the Rover’s gas tank for the last time, and finally a pub where he enjoyed a bowl of thick barley soup and warm bread. He was back on the A1 just in time to blend into the leading edge of Friday’s rush-hour traffic, set perfectly to arrive in Basel shortly after nightfall.

Chapter 41

FORTY-ONE

Sanderson decided he’d been staring through windows long enough. He asked the waitress if she knew where the nearest canton library was located. She did, offering directions along with a warning that the branch would soon close for the day. He settled his bill and set out on aching feet.