In a rare allowance, Slaton pulled back the curtains and sat with a reaching view of the lake, his long legs straight and heels crossed on the tiled windowsill. With level eyes he charted the lake as he dug into the heavy tray, mental sketches and checklists gone over one last time. No attempt was made to savor the meal, the only important thing being to fill the void in his stomach with enough dense protein to carry the day.

When he was done Slaton dressed warmly, and in the Prada bag he packed one extra set of clothing, the cash remaining after his sorry night at the tables, and the Glock and spare magazines. The Swiss identity card and passport of Natan Mendelsohn he pocketed. Everything else Slaton left where it was—clothes hanging in the closet and toiletries strewn about the sink. In three days’ time, when Krueger’s reservation ended, it would all be rounded up by the housekeeping staff to languish in the hotel’s lost-and-found for a matter of months before eventually being donated to a worthy charity.

At the front desk the luckless Monsieur Mendelsohn made inquiries at the concierge station, where an attractive Italian woman, improbably named Victoria Ferrari, was happy to help. He requested recommendations for a route by which to tour the Savoy wine region of eastern France, and a well-versed Victoria said she would gladly help him set an itinerary. He smiled as she highlighted her favorite vineyard tours, and she blushed when he suggested lightly that she might join him, and soon Monsieur Mendelsohn was turned toward the door with a map in hand, clear directions, and a not disinterested Victoria wishing him a pleasant day’s journey.

On clearing the parking garage, Slaton pointed the Rover toward the A9, but there turned away from the French border, instead pressing south toward Lake Geneva’s far shore. He kept an eye out as he drove, knowing that one last purchase remained, a chore he had intentionally deferred to this afternoon. It would be his largest expenditure yet, but with over fourteen thousand Swiss francs in hand he expected no difficulty in concluding a sale.

Nearing Valmont, Slaton turned left, away from the lake and into steeply rising terrain. He stopped once at the side of the road to drop the passport and identity card, which bore the only high-resolution pictures of him he knew to exist, down a secluded storm drain. He continued to Les Avants, swept briskly through the village, and on the far side steered the Rover away from the main road to ride a gravel offshoot that roamed into thickening forest. Soon he was navigating switchbacks, curving left and right though rolling hills, the compass on the dashboard spinning wildly but keeping in sum an eastward vector.