He was stranded, rather symbolically, near the Feu des Pâquis, a hundred-year-old lighthouse situated at the tip of a jetty that clawed into the lake just east of the main docks. The lighthouse was fashioned in a quaint octagonal design, and had once been used for commercial shipping, a point Sanderson had gleaned from a discarded tourist brochure. Today, however, in the world of GPS and computer-coupled navigation, the old relic served as little more than a photographer’s backdrop, backlit and plastered with enough coats of white paint to make the original structural members redundant. Sanderson, of course, had not gravitated here to take pictures. After some deliberation, he had deemed the jetty the best vantage point available—a place with negligible foot traffic, and a commanding view of the docks and surrounding harbor.

He’d spent the entire afternoon roaming the area, walking more miles than he had in years. In an age of instant messaging and data sharing, the art of patient observation was a fading discipline, but Sanderson knew it well. Much of what he’d seen so far was predictable. Uniformed Swiss police were making an obvious showing, and pairs of swarthy men, Iranians no doubt, tried unsuccessfully to be discreet. He’d made a good survey of the nearby rooftops and balconies, although he reckoned that if Deadmarsh was truly competent—and Sanderson suspected he was—the man would not make things so simple.

He remained convinced that the U.N. building would be too difficult to breach, and his afternoon-long study of the waterfront only added to this conviction. From a defensive standpoint the lakefront was too busy to manage properly, too open and public. At any given moment there were hundreds of people, hundreds of vehicles, all moving in a flow that would be impossible to monitor, let alone neutralize. A simple drive-by shooting at the foot of the dock was a distinct possibility, he reckoned, but the most intriguing weakness involved the boats in the harbor. As Sanderson looked out now, in the half-light of the calm evening, he saw a dozen craft of varied sizes and utilities, their red and green navigation lights a snarl of unpredictable movement.

Yes, he thought, that’s how I would do it.

For the sixth time he tried to stand. His legs protested, but began to comply. Then, just as he leaned forward to gain momentum, a bolt of lightning shot through his skull. Arne Sanderson sat back on his rock and cursed.

He would have to wait a little longer.

*   *   *

From behind a grand podium Ibrahim Hamedi raised a blunt finger to make his final point: