The events he had set in motion were not progressing as planned. Or if they were, he had no way of knowing it. To be director of Mossad implied a measure of influence, a command of events. As it was, Nurin felt like he was free-falling through a blackened void. He’d heard nothing from Slaton, but that was to be expected. Veron’s Direct Action team was established in Geneva, yet until given a mission they were a rudderless bunch. And yesterday Hamedi had arrived in Switzerland with an unusually large security force. Everything was in place, so far as could be planned, yet there was one menacing variable—the thing that had cost him no end of sleep this past week. Would Slaton turn up under the bridge on Lake Geneva? And if so, just how competent was this kidon?

God I’ve screwed this one up.

Nurin stabbed out his cigarette in a full ashtray. He decided it was time to play his contingency card. Hamedi would never be this vulnerable again, not until it was too late, and there was no way to predict Slaton’s intentions. Knowing he had to do something, Nurin pulled out his phone and arranged a meeting in his office.

Ten minutes later Nurin was back in his bunker. Veron had already arrived, and Zacharias soon joined them. Nurin was about to speak when Zacharias took the initiative.

“The girl, Dr. Palmer, has turned up in Stockholm. She was admitted last night to Saint Göran, the same hospital where Bloch is recuperating from his operation.”

“Admitted you say?”

“It’s nothing serious. The police have certainly questioned her by now, but I doubt she can tell them much.”

Nurin wasn’t so sure, but it was another complication he had no time to think about. He addressed Veron, “Is your team in place?”

“Yes, they’ve established a safe house in Geneva and are standing by for instructions.”

“All right then, let’s give them some. Here is what they will do…”

*   *   *

For Israel’s most accomplished assassin to find himself in an elevator with the head of Iranian state security was not without prospects.

Henri was prattling a well-rehearsed monologue about the hotel’s superior amenities, in particular the thread-count of its Egyptian cotton sheets. None of the Iranians seemed to regard Slaton critically as they shouldered into the car, the bodyguards perhaps anesthetized by Henri’s all-too-predictable pitch, a version of which they had already endured.

Slaton studied Behrouz up close, and saw a small man with narrow-set eyes and a rutted complexion. He was reasonably well dressed in a suit and tie, and his two sidecars were similarly fashioned, although each of them involving twice as much fabric. Possibilities stirred as Slaton weighed the situation. Might he modify his original plan?