Imagining Deadmarsh bullet-ridden and lying in a heap, Sanderson was struck by a bolt of recrimination. Could he have prevented it? Had any policemen been killed or injured? He realized now that it had been a mistake to not call Sjoberg and tell him what he knew. Sanderson had made a lot of good decisions over the years, but his last one had been wrong. And people were dead because of it.

He watched the man who had to be Hamedi get hustled up the pier by a security detail. They all clambered up the gangway and disappeared into Entrepreneur, and minutes later he watched the crew lift mooring lines and heard a low rumble from the engines. The big boat pushed away from the dock with a stately demeanor, and on her aft mast the United Nations flag flew in a bright spotlight, flapping smartly in the evening breeze.

So that’s it then, he thought. It’s all over.

The slight detective fell back to his rock, this time not so much a physical slump as a deflation of spirit. Sanderson was overcome by the idea that he’d screwed up. Desperate to prove his continued relevance, he had let his ego get in the way of the job. His chin wrinkled and tightness racked his chest, and he held his throbbing head in his hands. Sanderson forced his gaze away from the evidence, the grandeur of Entrepreneur getting under way and the tragedy being cleaned up under the bridge, and his eyes settled on the tiny lighthouse to his left. It was surrounded by a breakwater, a U-shaped pile of white boulders meant to protect the outer jetty. In the half-mote between the two, bobbing in the early-evening shadows, Sanderson saw something that seemed curiously out of place.

He saw an untended jet ski.

*   *   *

Oded Veron put down the phone in Mossad’s operations center. He was clearly livid, his face red and veins bulging on the sides of his thick neck. Two strides later he was inches from Nurin’s face. The director held his ground, knowing that calm was his best defense against an old soldier who made his living by intimidation. All the same, he would not be surprised if a blow came.

“You sacrificed my man!” the Direct Action commander screamed. “You sent him in with his hands tied. You told him exactly how to do his job, and when things went to hell you ordered his support team to back away! What the hell is going on?”

Nurin glanced at the room’s third party, Ezra Zacharias, who nodded knowingly.

“Yes, I’ll explain everything, Oded. I owe you that much. But right now we have to know exactly what is happening. Please give me a few more minutes.”

Veron backed off, still seething, and strode to the far side of the room. He sank heavily into a plush chair, soft leather crinkling under his bulk.