“Please understand, this is valuable information. We have put ourselves in considerable danger to acquire it, and perhaps it is worth more than our agreed upon—”

“Tell me this instant!” Behrouz hissed. “Otherwise it will be worth your life!”

A pause, then, “The Jews will attack tomorrow night. On a dock at the lake, in front of a large boat. A lone assassin will attempt to shoot from underneath a bridge—I don’t know the name of the bridge, but it is two hundred meters away.”

Behrouz stood stunned for a moment, then spun a half circle and saw it right in front of him—the bridge to his right, the first of the spans that overlaid the mouth of the Rhone. From there to the dock, two hundred meters? Yes, he thought, that must be it.

“What else?” Behrouz said impatiently. “Did she give a time?”

“No. Only that it will happen tomorrow night. If this is not precise enough I could ask her to make another contact. But that, of course, would involve further risk. I am sure she will demand more money.”

“No!” Behrouz insisted. “Your whore will make no further contact. Not unless I direct it. If she seems too eager it will raise suspicion. Her target may be decadent, but he is not a fool.”

Rafi began to say something else, again involving money, but Behrouz only ended the call. He suspected that none of the money he’d paid so far had gone to the spy. No woman gave herself as this one had for money. She was acting on passion—love, hate, revenge. He pocketed his phone and studied the dock and nearby bridge. Leaning on the balcony rail with a perfect perspective, Behrouz lit another cigarette, and after a long draw began to design his countermove.

Chapter 47

FORTY-SEVEN

Somewhere in the distance, in the rising hills that watched solemnly over Montreux, a church bell rang nine times to bring the third Sunday of October to its tranquil beginning.

Slaton allowed himself a late rise, and though he’d slept eight hours, it was with the deficit of refreshment that came from sleeping inches removed from a loaded gun. He went to the window and was happy to see improving weather—yesterday’s rain had cleansed the skies, and a sharp autumn breeze snapped at the twin rows of canton flags beneath his window and put a light chop on the lake’s cobalt surface. He ordered breakfast in his room, bid the server a courteous good morning, and assured the young man that there was nothing he could do to enrich monsieur’s stay.