Sanderson began Sunday morning studying the layout of the United Nations Office at Geneva. Unlike yesterday, he saw tight security at every corner of the fortress-like building, and he was sure things were equally tight within. A routinely inviting target, the U.N. building would undoubtedly have fixed screening stations in place to inspect everyone who entered, a well-monitored surveillance system, and a security force that was well versed in the perils of hosting presidents and prime ministers. After an hour, Sanderson reprimanded himself for wasting as much time as he had. For a lone assassin to make an attempt here would be absurd. If Deadmarsh was going to strike, he decided, it would be at the waterfront.

Sanderson contemplated walking but he was feeling awful, and so he hailed a cab and collapsed into the backseat with yet another terrible headache. Reaching into his pocket he found a bottle of over-the-counter painkillers, but a quick shake told him it was empty. He dropped it onto the seat wondering, When did I use the last of it? The driver negotiated light weekend traffic, and Sanderson found himself scanning the sidewalks. He saw no familiar faces. All the same, the heavy SIG was a comfort in his pocket.

He was light-headed when he got out of the cab on Rue de la Cloche, his feet feeling as if they were made of lead, and a short flight of steps nearly got the better of him outside Chapel Eglise Emmanuel. Deciding he ought to eat something, Sanderson bought a pastry and container of juice at a confectionary on the esplanade, and gratefully took a seat on a retaining wall in the shade of a chestnut tree on Quai Wilson.

He turned on his phone and saw that Ingrid had called. His finger hesitated for a moment, but then he tapped to return her call.

She picked up immediately.

“Hello, Ingrid.”

“Arne, thank God! Where have you been?”

Sanderson thought she sounded rattled—something he had rarely witnessed in their years together. “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Is it Annika?”

“No, no, she’s fine. It’s you.”

“Me? What do you mean?”

“Arne … Paul Sjoberg came to see me this morning. He was contacted by Dr. Samuels. You’re not well.”

“Tell me something I don’t bloody know. As soon as I’m done with what I’m working on I’ll—”

“Arne, you fool, will you just listen for once! You’ve got a tumor in your brain!”

Chapter 48

FORTY-EIGHT