He went to his room and locked the door before opening the book-sized parcel. Unzipping a packing strip, he opened the flap and pulled out what he’d been waiting for—his service SIG Sauer 9mm. He hadn’t carried it regularly in years, but once each quarter he cleaned and oiled the weapon, and exercised both the action and his marksmanship at the firing range. Sanderson had not taken the time to explore Swiss regulations regarding the importation of weapons, but he was surely violating some kind of law in having it sent here. He was equally confident that the shipment of a single handgun, particularly by overnight express, had a miniscule chance of being detected. Not surprisingly, the SIG had slipped through.

He found the loaded magazine separate, and Sanderson confirmed that the chamber was empty. He seated a magazine with the butt of his palm, racked a round into place, and set the gun on the nightstand feeling much better about things.

Ingrid had done well.

*   *   *

The call came at ten o’clock that night, Evita’s mobile rattling loudly as it vibrated on the nightstand. She silenced it quickly and waited, but her husband’s snoring didn’t even change cadence—he’d passed out nearly an hour ago after what was clearly a hard evening session with “the boys.” When she saw who was calling, Evita eased out of bed and took her phone into the kitchen.

“There you are,” she said in a hushed voice. “It seems like such a long time. I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Zacharias said. “I’ve been busy. Very busy. Things are progressing rapidly at work. But I think I can get away for a time. Are you free tonight?”

“Yes,” she said quickly, trying for breathless anticipation. Then for good measure, “I’ve been longing for you, darling.”

They were together less than an hour later in their usual suite.

Evita let the little man lead, as she always did. Indeed, this was how she’d hooked him that first night at the opera house—knowing he had season tickets, and knowing his wife was out of town caring for her ill mother, and standing coquettishly by the refreshment stand at intermission, doe-eyed and cleavaged and flashing glances until he moved to her. They had skipped Wagner’s second act that night to talk in a quiet corner of the mezzanine balcony. Zacharias had taken command of the exchange, dropping occasional hints of his loneliness, but speaking more directly about his high position with Mossad. On that first encounter his oblique stories of intrigue and daring had left Evita’s mouth set in a perfect letter O, a shape that, during the tedious third act of Verdi’s Rigoletto three weeks later, she mirrored under the crisp cotton sheets of the Isrotel Tower Hotel with a very different end in mind.