Yesterday he had gotten a desperate message from his wife, and in the intervening hours he had vacillated. Sensed tremors of conflict, even indecision. Yet right then, standing at an immigration counter, everything crystallized. There was now but one objective in his life—to find Christine and take her to safety. And if that required a complete reversion to what he had once been?

So be it.

The transition came with alarming ease. David Slaton had no interest in a casual flirtation with a nice-looking woman. Edmund Deadmarsh, on the other hand, seen at that moment as a rumpled but rather attractive traveler, could have only one response. He gave the woman his most engaging smile.

“Thank you. I’m sure I will.”

And with that, the kidon turned toward the exit and disappeared.

*   *   *

Slaton slipped into a taxi five minutes later.

“Strand Hotel, please.”

“Strand Hotel,” the driver repeated.

The cabbie was a burly sort, a man in need of both a smile and a sharper razor. He made a stab at conversation in troubled English, the usual weather observations and have-you-been-here-before banter. By his accent, Slaton pegged him as Eastern European, Bulgarian perhaps. Slaton was minimally receptive, and the chatter soon ended.

For most, a backseat ride in a cab is an idle affair. For an assassin it is something else. Of primary importance is position. Slaton sat where he could see the driver’s hands, wanting to know if they were on the wheel or elsewhere. The rearview mirror held greater nuance—he had to be able to see the driver’s eyes when it suited him, but fall out of the reciprocal view with a shift of his shoulders. He checked his line of sight to each sideview mirror, not to watch the following traffic—a discreet turn of the head was always better—but rather to monitor the blind spots along either rear quarter-panel, particularly when stopped. The cab’s physical security measures were standard issue. The doors were not the type to lock automatically—some did—and Slaton noted the positions of the mechanical latches. All the windows were presently raised, except for the driver’s. The man apparently did his best work with an elbow hanging over the rail. There was a Plexiglas bulkhead between the front and back seats with an opening too small for a man to pass through. Yet it did allow access. A strong arm. A hand to the wheel. That was all the control Slaton could assume in an emergency. On most days, details that amounted to nothing. But one day details that might matter very much.