Slaton used the crowbar to rip a half dozen strips of wood from different crates, doing his best to leave the planks with jagged edges and bent nails. The three jackets and the unwanted brands of stain protectant went into a plastic trash bag. He transferred all of it to the Rover, locked up the storage room with the padlock he’d purchased, then reset the alarm on the outer door. Slaton steered Krueger’s luxury SUV back toward the A2 on a secondary road. One mile short of the autobahn, he pulled to the shoulder near a quiet country bridge, waited patiently for two cars to pass, then opened the passenger-side window and sent the trash bag spiraling into a churning tributary of the Rhine River.

Chapter 42

FORTY-TWO

Slaton arrived at the Montreux Casino at ten o’clock Friday evening and parked the laden Rover in a quiet corner of the ground-floor parking garage. The broken planks he’d ripped from the crates in Basel went on top in the Rover’s cargo area, and he added a few sheets of crumpled newspaper and two spent plastic bottles retrieved from a nearby trash can. After setting the alarm, he circled the vehicle once to make sure the only thing visible inside was a pile of trash.

In the hotel lobby, wearing his new Armani sportcoat and with the Prada travel bag in hand, he went straight to the reception area for preferred customers—a runway of red carpet that was clearly delineated by silver stanchions and thick-braided gold rope.

“Can I help you, monsieur?” queried the man at the desk.

“Yes, the name is Mendelsohn and I’d like to register. I’m here as a guest of Walter Krueger.”

“Ah, yes. We’ve been expecting you. Monsieur Krueger called to make all your arrangements.” He went to work on his keyboard, and soon Natan Mendelsohn’s identity card was accepted with a careless glance. Two minutes later Slaton had a room key in his pocket, and the desk man was handing over a second plastic card, this one cast with a mirror-like platinum finish.

“This card, Monsieur Mendelsohn, will access your gaming account. Bon chance!”

The man raised a finger, and Slaton was escorted to a fifth-floor room by an engaging young woman. After a brief tour of the suite, Slaton declared an urge to hit the tables, a request met enthusiastically by his personal concierge. She led him to the casino floor and introduced him to the cashier, who soon pushed a stack of chips across a well-worn counter that summed twenty thousand Swiss francs.

The gaming floor was like any other. Red, green, and gold were the dominant colors, and waitresses in short skirts and push-up bras did a brisk business serving unlimited alcohol to brooding figures hunched behind felt tables and brass machines. The sounds were equally predictable, the squeals of winners easily overriding the quiet groans of their less fortunate supporters.