Slaton considered the time well spent. He had located two separate curbs where cabs congregated, their drivers leaning on fenders and drawing down cigarettes. He’d purchased an unrestricted day pass for both the water taxi and subway, and was aware of seven access points for trolley and bus service. At a nearby parking garage he’d noted a valet stand where the keys to no fewer than fifty late-model vehicles resided on a pegboard. Irregular flows of traffic—points of congestion and one-way streets—were fixed in his mind, as were the two security guards with Steyr TMP machine pistols stationed obviously outside a bank on Stallgatan. Slaton knew that a mobile police station had been situated near the Kungsträdgården, and was staffed by two officers, both carrying SIG Sauer semiautomatics and spare magazines, who could reach the hotel in no less than four minutes on a dead run. He also knew that the hotel had one service entrance, six fire escapes, and an entire north-facing wing with unbarred windows at street level.

Then, and only then, did Slaton walk into the Strand Hotel.

*   *   *

He stepped though the entrance, paused, and began a carefully governed survey.

Belying the hotel’s stately, ivy-covered exterior, the lobby was a contrast in Scandinavian contemporary: maple hardwood floors under Finnish Rya rugs; mid-century modern chairs and fixtures, all glass and angles and polished chrome. Aside from their physical arrangement, however, Slaton had no interest in the furnishings. He instead plotted the room’s landscape: counters, staircases, elevators, lounge areas. He took in the sounds and registered the general mood. His practiced eyes brushed over each guest and employee, hoping to capture any gaze that seemed equally practiced. Nothing drew his attention.

Slaton saw two clerks at the reception desk, both women, and an older man staffing the adjacent concierge station. The concierge was deeply engaged with a guest, so his choices were narrow. He walked to the desk, veering toward the younger of the two women. Early twenties, blond, dazzling smile. Eager to please.

She looked up as he approached, and said, “Kan jag hjälpa dig?”

Slaton was not unprepared. His blue-gray eyes and sandy hair—lighter than usual after a summer outdoors—certainly made him appear more Swedish than American. Or, for that matter, Israeli. Yet another reason Mossad had found him so useful.

“Sorry,” he said, “I’m American.”

She shifted effortlessly to English, “Of course. How can I help you?”

“I’m trying to locate one of your guests, but I don’t know the room number. Could you look it up for me?”

“I am not permitted to give out such information,” she said, telling Slaton what he already knew. “But if you like I can dial the room and let you speak with the guest.”

“That would be fine.”

“What is the name?”

“Christine Palmer. Dr. Christine Palmer.”

Watching closely, Slaton sensed a hesitation. Her thin fingers typed the name into her computer.