On Slaton’s first visit here, Grossman explained that he’d purchased the building with a contrarian mind-set, reasoning that there was no better place to hide an arms gallery than in a quiet corporate plantation of fastener wholesalers and snow-shovel distributors. Being near the tri-border area, three miles from France and two from Germany, the location was the essence of convenience. Yet this was not a waypoint for shipments. The European authorities were reasonably competent, and so Grossman maintained his bulk storage facilities in less scrupulous and ever-changing points across the globe. Kinshasa, Cali, Jakarta—warehouses that Slaton had already confirmed were in Holmberg’s meticulously prepared inventory. The Basel office of the LMN Corporation functioned, for lack of a better term, as Grossman’s wholesale showroom.

Closing the door behind him Slaton went to work, and after five minutes with a crowbar he found most of what he needed. There was a wide selection of gunsights and night vision gear. Some required power, and he inserted batteries into two of the units and connected them to an electrical outlet to charge. His preferred sniper rifle was here, the Barrett 98B, but Slaton was happier to find an MP7A1, Heckler and Koch’s capable assault weapon, along with five forty-round magazines, ammunition, and a suppressor. There was also a Glock 9mm, and he checked that it was clear and the action smooth before loading a magazine and slipping the gun into the waistband of his pants. Two extra magazines went into his left pocket, upside down and backward, ready for a quick exchange given his right-handed grip. Slaton then helped himself to ten 2,000-gram bricks of a certain Czech-manufactured product, along with the associated electronics. After a thoughtful pause, he took ten more. Finally, in a dark corner, he found the ensemble of gear that would get him in and out.

Slaton collected his equipment—and on paper it was his—and began transferring everything to the Rover, the weapons concealed in canvas as he made the short traverse. Once done loading, he retrieved the three jackets from the backseat along with a half-empty bottle of water. Back in the storage room he spread the jackets over unopened crates at the far end. Slaton took the two sets of night vision goggles, now minimally charged, and killed the room’s lights. Alternating between the optics, he carefully inspected the jackets, and after a thoughtful two minutes he declared the German unit superior. He crossed the room with the water bottle in hand, twisted the cap, and shook it over the jackets like a priest sprinkling holy water. He again referenced the German sight, and thirty seconds later had his answer.

Scotchgard.