“Very reassuring—but I can see that. I did a turn in the emergency room at a big hospital in Boston.” She left it at that, not asking what had caused it. “I’m afraid the boat isn’t very well stocked with first-aid supplies.”

Slaton reached into his backpack and handed over the remainder of what he’d purchased in Stockholm.

“You always have an answer, don’t you?”

He presented his arm. “Obviously not.”

She set to work, removing the old dressing and cleaning the wound as best she could. Christine was normally chatty and chipper, but she carried on now in a discomforting silence. Slaton found it unbearable—one more good thing trampled by his intractable problems.

The quiet lasted until she tied off the outer bandage.

“Anything else?” she asked, pulling away.

“Is there a toothbrush on board?”

She shook her head, and said dismally, “It’s a hell of a way to live, Deadmarsh.”

“And I am a little hungry.”

“I docked for provisions in a village yesterday. Spent all the cash I had on cheap calories—pasta, rice, eggs, some canned vegetables.”

“I’ve seen you work with a box of rice. You’re good.”

Christine didn’t smile, and again his marital radar sensed something amiss. Slaton wondered if there was some complication he’d not yet seen. She pulled a pot from a cabinet and started fiddling with the tiny gas stove. He watched her work, knowing that simple chores could bring a sense of normalcy. It was a thing Slaton had learned during nerve-racking stays in safe houses and treacherous surveillance stakeouts: washing a load of laundry or doing the dishes was a simple way to cut the tension. Christine probably hadn’t recognized it yet. But she would. She was learning.

“How long will the provisions last?” he asked.

“For both of us? A few days, a week if we want to lose some weight. Is that the plan? To wait Nurin out until this assassination scheme is past its shelf life?”

“That was my original idea.”

She went still. “But not anymore?”

“Things have changed. Staying here, or sailing someplace else … it wouldn’t work. Mossad is looking for us. And of course the police—I’ve killed two men and shot an officer, and I’d rather not have to explain my reasons in a court of law. As for Mossad, it’s true that Nurin’s plan will be dead in a week, but who’s to say the director won’t come up with something better next week or next month. Hamedi might go abroad again, or perhaps Mossad will find an opening in Iran that has a better chance of succeeding than the last two. No,” he said with certainty, “laying low for a few days doesn’t fix anything. It only postpones the inevitable.”

“The inevitable? And what is that?”

Slaton didn’t answer.