Nurin’s nondescript aircraft had landed in Grenoble some two hours earlier. There he was told to rent a car, and subsequently guided by a series of texted directions and misdirections. Now, certainly nearing the end of his odyssey, he found himself wandering a family-owned Savoy vineyard with a ticket for the ten-thirty tour in his coat pocket.

This too had been in the instructions.

Nurin had never visited this part of France, and he knew little about wine. He liked red with beef, and knew that some seemed better than others, maddeningly subtle distinctions he could register but never quite quantify. He also knew that the prices listed on restaurant menus varied wildly, a detail that regularly escaped his wife’s grasp. Walking over the steep, terraced terrain, he wondered if there was some logic to growing grapes on a south-facing hillside. Better drainage? More sun? Or perhaps cheaper land. If he made it to the ten-thirty tour, he would likely find an answer.

Nurin never got the chance.

“I wasn’t sure if you would come.”

The level voice came out of nowhere and Nurin froze.

He had never met the man behind him, and wasn’t sure why he’d been lured to this meeting. The secure Mossad building from which he normally orchestrated things seemed suddenly very distant. Nurin had spent time in the field early in his career, but he did not delude himself—his mind-set had long ago shifted from tactician to strategist. So he was standing on foreign soil, completely unarmed, and quite alone. And behind him? Behind him was the most lethal assassin Israel had ever built, and by all accounts a man who would like nothing better than to kill him on the spot. Indeed, the fact that he did not already have a bullet in his brain was the greatest positive Nurin could summon from his situation.

And with that lovely thought, he took a shallow breath and turned.

Slaton was there, no more than two steps away, and the director made a quick study. Tall and athletic, fair hair and opaque gray eyes that seemed to look right through him. Or perhaps into him?

The kidon said nothing, only responding with his own appraising stare.

“I am alone,” Nurin said, trying to keep an even tone, “just as you instructed.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t surprised to hear from you. When they couldn’t find your body I assumed you had egressed Geneva successfully. The Swede, the detective, I saw his statement. It was very convincing. Six rounds fired, three hits at point-blank range. His colorful narrative of how you vaulted end-over-end into the river. Quite compelling. I can only assume that you somehow conspired with this man?”

“No comment.”

Nurin nodded. “Very well. And regarding the rest—you are aware of the greater plan?”

“I had a long talk with Dr. Hamedi. He explained everything.”