On the way to the elevator Sanderson’s phone rang. He excused himself and asked Sergeant Blix to escort Slaton to the sixth floor. When they arrived, the hulking Norseman told Slaton it would be a few minutes, and then he struck up a conversation with a pretty young attendant at the nurse’s station.

Slaton found a row of chairs and took a seat. The body downstairs had told him little. He’d seen only the face, and truly had not recognized it. Dark hair and complexion, perhaps thirty years old, and judging by the lay of the covering sheet a man in reasonably good shape. He might have been Israeli. Then again, he might have been Turkish, Greek, or Egyptian. Slaton had been unable to think of a justifiable reason to view the rest of the body, which might have been more useful: Had the fatal wounds struck in the chest, the center of mass? How many rounds and how were they grouped? Such details, in the correct presentation, might signify a professional strike, giving Slaton some direction as to who he was dealing with. Yet as much as he wanted to ask questions of his own, Slaton knew that was a delicate game. If he seemed too curious, Sanderson would become suspicious. Consequently, he resigned himself to the role of passive intelligence gathering for the time being.

Sanderson reappeared and beckoned Slaton to follow.

They walked down a bright corridor, everything white and antiseptic. Turning into a room, Slaton saw a nurse tending an IV, and in the adjacent bed he saw the second victim. This one told him a great deal more. He was looking at his former boss, Anton Bloch.

*   *   *

Bloch lay motionless, trussed in tubes and wires. His swarthy face was pale, distorted by a ventilator pipe that had been taped into his mouth. But there was no doubt—it was him. Slaton did his best to not react, knowing Sanderson was watching. He certainly failed. There were shocks in life that could not be tempered by any amount of training or self-discipline, and seeing an old friend on the edge of an untimely death was one of them.

“What’s his condition?” Slaton asked.

“He’s been placed in a drug-induced coma. He was shot three times. The surgeons were able to remove two of the bullets, but the last is lodged close to his spine. They’ve stabilized him until they decide how to proceed. The doctors want very much to talk to his family.” Sanderson paused before prompting, “So? Any idea who he is?”

“No,” Slaton said. He felt the policeman’s eyes drill in from the periphery. “You said my wife was seen talking to one of these men. Was this the one?”

“Yes, a very good guess.”

Slaton took one last look at Bloch, a mental snapshot, then turned to the hallway.

Sanderson followed him out, and said, “Too bad you weren’t able to help us.”