Slaton took the iPhone from his pocket and turned it in his hand. On appearances it seemed a generic device, but he was sure it had been loaded with any number of applications that Apple had never imagined. Mossad was certainly tracking it, his position likely pinging on a display somewhere in Tel Aviv at this very moment, like a beacon out of a dark night. He also allowed that the phone had been modified in such a way that turning it off, or even removing the battery, was not a solution. For the moment, however, Slaton knew he was safe—a train was a moving target, and this offered a certain latitude. To get rid of the thing was the only answer, but first he had to see what was in Nurin’s files. He woke the phone and saw the usual icons for web browsers, music, and games. Only one was unfamiliar, a bright red square with a capital N. A spymaster’s sense of humor? he wondered.

Slaton tapped the icon and a list of files came into view. He opened the first and saw a map of Geneva marked with reference numbers for associated notes. He navigated through and saw that the assassination was to take place the following Sunday, seven days from today. Another file contained an op plan, complete with diagrams and schedules. Slaton read quickly and took mental pictures. He considered forwarding the files to another computer, but quickly discarded the idea—trying to outmaneuver Mossad’s clever computer technicians was a fool’s game. The files were certainly tagged, tied like so many fishing lures to mainframes in Tel Aviv. Waiting to be reeled in. So Slaton reverted to basics, cataloging in his mind the vital details: times, dates, and locations, all stamped into gray matter behind closed eyes.

The train slowed nearing Rissne Station. Slaton decided he’d kept the phone long enough, but he was not quite finished. He called up the picture he’d taken at the café. It was a wobbly composition, suffering from poor lighting and the urgency of the moment, but the subject was clear enough: Nurin’s agent strewn on the floor, his eyes rolled back and a jagged wound on his throat, all against a backdrop of blood-covered concrete. Going in, it had not been Slaton’s intent to kill anyone. Now both members of Nurin’s contact team were dead. As was so often the case, a well-orchestrated sketch had gone down in flames. The reasons were equally classic—complications resulting from the human element. Mistrust, fear, anger. All had played a part, and now the tragic outcome was summed in one high-resolution image.