Rescue operations on Lake Geneva continued into the early-morning hours, and by sunrise every soul on Entrepreneur’s passenger manifest—crew, guests, and the gendarme detail—had been accounted for. The casualty count reported in the morning papers was nine dead—eight from Hamedi’s security force and the assassin under the Pont du Mont Blanc. Ten passengers and crew members were reported injured, a number that insiders knew was optimistic, and forever left in question, due to the rapid departure of the Iranians. The flotilla of rescue vessels began to dissipate late that morning, and the investigative emphasis shifted to the only remaining loose end—a missing person, the man Officer Kammerer and two civilian witnesses had seen tumble fifteen feet down into the frigid Rhone River.

Under a menacing gray sky, boats with grappling hooks began dragging the tireless Rhone downstream, and pairs of policemen walked both shores, parting stands of tall aquatic weeds and poking in eddies as they searched for the body of an unidentified terrorist who had, by all accounts, taken at least three nine-millimeter rounds from Inspector Sanderson’s SIG Sauer. In the opinion of one interviewed police captain, “a not unfitting end for a man who has terrorized Europe from Stockholm to the shores of Lac Léman.”

In spite of everyone’s best efforts, nothing was found.

*   *   *

After a sleepless night, Raymond Nurin was ruminating in Mossad’s bunker when two very unexpected phone calls came. The first, from the operations center three floors above, sent him running to the elevator. He hit the call button, and when the silver door didn’t open immediately he bolted to the stairs.

One minute later he was listening to a message that had been taken from a satellite download. “This has got to be a hoax!” Nurin insisted. “The Iranians are trying to spoof us, bring us in.”

“No, sir,” the tech replied. “The authentication code is valid. He’s out there.”

“But it’s been—what? Three weeks?”

The man shrugged.

“I want Veron in here.”

“He’s already on the way, sir.”

Nurin went to the large map on the wall and looked at Iran. “Where exactly?” he demanded.

Another technician, this a woman holding a printout of the lat-long coordinate set, plotted things on the map and made an X with a Sharpie. “Right here. Seven kilometers east of Cheshmehshour.”

In what seemed a disturbing new habit, Nurin realized that he had not considered every contingency. He was still staring at the map in the operations room, still reeling, when the second call came.

“Sir! It’s the priority number you flagged!” Nurin tripped over a cable as he dashed to the console and picked up the correct handset.

“Where are you?”