Slaton reckoned what he needed would be in the center of town, and a five-minute walk put him in Oxelösund’s market district, a modest arrangement of shops and restaurants. Turning left onto the main boulevard, Slaton saw a shoe repair shop, its faded sign overlaid by a banner for mobile phone service. Farther on, a sandwich board in the middle of the sidewalk advertised a restaurant’s new menu, traditional fare having given way to pizza and cappuccino. Slaton recognized the commerce of survival, and it was an inclination that suited him well. Unlike Stockholm, strangers here would not be regarded with suspicion. Quite the opposite, they would be welcomed openly for the kronor that might be in their pockets. And the chances of anyone on Oxelösund’s Esplanaden linking Slaton with a rash of terrorism on Stockholm’s Strandvägen? That was a chasm he was more than comfortable with. Better yet, there was probably not a Mossad operative within fifty miles.

On a waning Sunday afternoon the less robust establishments had already closed for the day, but Slaton was lucky to catch the owner of the local outfitter as he was reaching for the sign in his window. Even better, the man steered him to a rack where summer gear had been marked down for quick clearance. Assassins appreciate a bargain like anyone else, although Slaton’s direct reasoning—that he would not soon be forced to steal more money—was less than conventional.

Explaining to the proprietor that he was gearing up for some late-season hiking, Slaton selected a good set of trail boots, two pairs of heavy socks, a small backpack, and a GPS navigation device. From a half-price rack he selected a pair of trousers with multiple pockets down the side of each leg, and paired it with a thick cotton shirt and a rain-resistant jacket of medium thickness. That done, he turned to the main counter and committed to full price for a compact set of Zeiss field glasses and a handful of energy bars. His bill was driven higher by taxes—always the case in Scandinavia—but the owner allowed a reasonable exchange rate. Slaton walked out of the shop four hundred dollars lighter than when he’d gone in.

His final chore in Oxelösund was fixed in his mind as more of a question. How to hide a lie? The answer came in the voice of another long-forgotten Mossad instructor—With a smaller, more obvious one. Walking along the esplanade, this fluid pretense came solid in the form of a brassy lingerie boutique. Slaton dealt with a woman in her thirties who could well have modeled her wares, and he left the shop with a tiny pink bag in hand that contained one miniscule red negligee, matching panties, and two absurdly expensive chocolate bars. Back on the street, he initiated the GPS device and saw that Magnussen Air Charters was roughly a ten-minute walk from his present position.