Slaton began with blackjack. He played poorly, yet somehow emerged nearly two thousand francs to the good. He switched to roulette, bet heavily to accelerate things, and in twenty minutes had forfeited his gain along with another five thousand. Slaton frowned accordingly, and slapped his palm on the green felt each time the maddening little ball went astray. The croupier kept to his task, as did the unsmiling pit boss, and the cameras overhead recorded everything as the casino’s new guest from Zurich took a modest pounding on the first night of the seven for which he was booked. After a tedious hour’s work, Slaton returned to the cashier’s cage, and there exchanged his remaining chips for cash, after losses and tips taking to his room the sum of fourteen and a half thousand Swiss francs.

In his room he showered, shaved for the first time in two weeks, and finally, standing at the bathroom door in fresh clothes, made his last assessment of the day—the layout of his suite. Long convinced that simple precautions were the best, he pushed a Queen Anne bureau across the floor until it was positioned eighteen inches from the door. It was the only way in, other than a flush window with no balcony and a five-story drop. The door might give to a stiff kick, but the dresser would serve as a secondary impediment, perhaps giving a few extra seconds in a worst-case situation. The configuration also lessened the chances that he would shoot any ill-mannered members of the housekeeping staff who forgot to knock. Defensive aspects aside, the gap was also wide enough for him to leave in a hurry should the need arise. Moving to the bathroom, Slaton rotated the door fully open, flush against the interior wall, to create the thickest available cover position. His jacket went on a hook by the door, but otherwise he remained fully clothed, including his shoes. The keys to the Rover, all his cash, identity documents, and two spare 9mm magazines were stowed in the usual pockets.

At the end of a productive day, Slaton drew in a long, soothing breath as he approached the bed. There, and on the adjacent nightstand, he found printed cards advertising Internet service, bedsheets, bottled water, room-service breakfast, and the last suggesting how best to handle his bath towels in an environmentally friendly manner. It occurred to Slaton that there was a person somewhere whose principal duty in life was to compose, print, and distribute such material. He tried to imagine the serenity of leading such a routine and unfaceted existence.

Then again, he thought, maybe being an assassin isn’t so bad.