They’d been circling the area for thirty minutes, a peninsula at the top of a rabbit-shaped island named Bulleron. Starting with the bearing and range from Stockholm that Christine had given, Slaton instructed Magnussen to fly outward in an ever-expanding pattern. The weather was not cooperating, a broken marine layer having risen to obscure things below. With a bit of bad luck, Slaton knew they could fly right over Christine and never realize it. He’d asked Magnussen to search for a cabin along Bulleron’s eastern shoreline, while he looked for the true objective—a small boat, probably anchored in the natural harbor along the western shore. It might be a sailboat or a power cruiser, even an open runabout. Slaton would be thrilled with a rowboat if Christine was in it.

The peninsula was a mile wide and perhaps three miles long, an evergreen carpet broken by patches of dirt and rock. Slaton saw no roads or power lines, indeed no sign of civilization at all. They were five hundred feet above the eastern shore, skimming the cloud layer, when he caught a flash of white. Slaton watched the spot intently and saw it again—no more than a hundred yards offshore, a sleek profile flickering through the clouds. As casually as he could, he trained the field glasses on the sea, willing the clouds to break one more time. They did, long enough for him to make out a small sailboat. He quickly focused the glasses and read the name on the stern: Bricklayer.

In his years with Mossad, Slaton had endured countless stressful situations, and so he was an expert at compartmentalizing emotion. It didn’t matter. When he saw the name of the boat he felt a surge from the depths of his soul. He shifted the glasses to the far end of the peninsula and began searching for landmarks by which he could crosscheck the position.

“I see it!” he said, pointing to the area. “Just inside that stand of trees.”

Magnussen followed his finger to the forest five hundred feet below. “I don’t see anything,” she said.

“This is the place. Can you put it down near the eastern shore?”

Magnussen gauged the waters. Then she gauged him. “The western side is in the lee—the water is calmer there.”

He gave her an unwavering look.

“Yes, I can manage either way,” she affirmed. “But you’re sure this is the place?”

“I’m sure.”

“All right—it’s your kronor.” Magnussen maneuvered the aircraft, and minutes later made a smooth touchdown, the twin floats settling like a pair of high-speed canoes. From that point, the aircraft became a boat.

“I can’t maneuver very well once she’s in the water,” she said. “If you want to get close to the shoreline I see only one stretch of beach that looks approachable. Even there I’m going to need your help.”