Slaton didn’t get far. At the third-floor landing he came across a guard, an unsmiling stump of a man who would not allow him to continue upward—at least not without making a comment on his radio. The Iranians weren’t the best, but they were capable enough. And while such an alert might not be fatal to Slaton’s mission, it would pose unnecessary complications. So he nodded cordially to the man, exited the stairwell into the third-floor hall, and followed it to the end. There he found a service elevator he’d noticed earlier, and an empty car soon arrived. A minute later Slaton was at the fifth-floor Bertrand suite removing his shim from the door.

Once inside, he engaged the chain latch and took a closer look at the room. One main sitting area was joined by a single bedroom, all of it dressed to advance the idea that the place had kept queens and diplomats of past ages. There were fine chairs and delicate lamps, and a tasteful assembly of oil-on-canvas landscapes graced the walls. White floor-length curtains caught the breeze from a partially open window, but otherwise the suite was as still as a photograph. Slaton made a quick tour of the place and found one suitcase, unpacked, and a short line of expensive clothing hanging in the main closet. Madame Dupre’s passport was on the dresser, the picture showing a woman in her early fifties, but the date of birth arguing otherwise. The bed was unmade and the bathroom floor littered with spent towels. The maid had not yet arrived today.

Slaton went to the main closet hoping the suite was an exact mirror of the unit below. Were he dealing with a security force from a Western government, Slaton knew the opening he was about to exploit would not exist. Top-tier services blocked out entire floors above and below a principal’s room. The fact that Iran had not, he granted, wasn’t because they lacked good sense or due diligence. The simple answer was that the Swiss franc put the Iranian dinar at a massive disadvantage.

From under the lapel of his jacket he took a heavy utility knife, a small handsaw, and a flashlight, the generous pockets of Armani having been ample for his burglar’s ensemble. The sheer length of the closet posed his first challenge. It was at least twelve feet long, and not knowing where to aim, Slaton decided to make his cut in the center. With Madame Dupre’s full-length silver fox hanging over his head, he used the knife to make three clean slices in the carpet, resulting in a square two-foot-wide opening, three edges cut and folded back over the fourth. Underneath he found thick foam padding and gave it the same treatment, which left him facing a section of wooden floorboard. The plywood was not overly thick, and had certainly softened over the years, but it still presented a problem.