There was a click before Sjoberg could even reply with his own embarrassing revelations. He rushed to the door and ripped his coat off the hook.

Chapter 43

FORTY-THREE

Entrepreneur was a stately presence as she slid to the dock, her sleek white lines a pretty picture on a lake that was made for them. Even darkened skies and steady rain could not dampen her showing, and as her port side nudged the pier along Quai du Mont Blanc, Farzad Behrouz looked on intently while five deckhands in crisp white uniforms secured mooring lines. He already knew a great deal about the ship. He knew that she measured one hundred and thirty feet along the waterline, a custom hull cast by Benetti, the well-known Italian shipbuilder. He knew she’d been carted here, all eight hundred tons, in an undertaking that had involved four trucks, two road closures, and six months’ worth of permitting. On an alpine lake in landlocked Switzerland, the vessel was a monument to excess, but then, Behrouz supposed that was the point. To her owner—and he was the only one who mattered—the ship had to be an ideal accouterment for the business of light music and martinis on Lake Geneva.

Standing on the dock under a wide umbrella, Behrouz was surrounded by a contingent of eight men, and as soon as the gangway was lowered they set to their mission. The captain was at the rail to greet them, but the Iranians ignored him as they shoved their way aboard, although one man—Behrouz knew him to be the group’s comedian—snapped a ridiculous open-handed salute as he passed the skipper. Behrouz was watching his team begin their inspection when his phone trilled.

He saw who it was and thought, It’s about damned time!

“You had better have good news,” he said.

“I am trying,” came the delayed voice of Rafi. “But no, nothing yet.”

Behrouz bristled. His body went rigid and his face warped in anger, but he could think of nothing to say. He had already threatened the Lebanese in every conceivable way. He had promised to cut off the man’s Hezbollah ties, his money, and finally parts of his intimate anatomy, all without result. So Behrouz said nothing. He simply ended the call and stood fuming, glaring up at a dreary sky as a swirling drizzle spackled his coarse black hair.

So lost in fury was the security chief that he did not notice, a hundred yards behind him, a tall and clean-shaven man who slipped quickly between the stone flowerpots of the Hotel Beau Rivage and disappeared inside.

*   *   *