Nerves, he thought, as he reached the corner of the Torgasse and stepped off the curb to cross the narrow dark alley. His nerves had been so finely sanded down by the past week that his thin veneer of sanity had almost been completely worn away. Straining his eyes to plumb the darkness of the Torgasse, he thought he saw movement in the deep shadows. He stepped quickly across the street and back up on the sidewalk as he continued his way north along the Limmat Quai.

His heart was still racing when he reached the Rami Strasse. Looking cautiously around him, he pulled his tourist map of Zurich from his coat pocket and looked at it under the glow of the corner streetlight Yost had marked a small “x” on the left side of the Rami Strasse about a block up. Seth looked up from the map and saw a small park-like area just up the hill, right where Yost’s “x” should be. A bit closer to him, on the same side, was a tobacconist’s shop, just where Yost said it was.

Still smiling, Seth stuffed the map back in his pocket and pushed on, up the steep grade of the Rami Strasse.

Jacob Yost, the son, was an odd man, Seth thought, as he made his way toward the tobacconist’s shop. A colonel in the Swiss army, bodyguard to his father, a taciturn, physically hard man, angular, muscular, singular of purpose. The adjectives that described the younger Jacob Yost came to mind easily. A small frown passed momentarily across Seth’s face. The adjectives described Yost but did not explain him.

He seemed dedicated to his father’s safety and well-being, as if he had made a lifetime occupation of it. But why had that been necessary?

And what about Yost’s brothers? The two soft, round men who ran the exclusive gallery off the Augustinerstrasse? Yost’s contempt for them was palpable when he spoke of them. How had he turned out to be so different from them?

Questions piled on top of questions.

Seth shook his head slowly as he checked his watch. It was precisely 7:30. Just as Yost had said it must be, Seth pushed open the door to the tobacconist’s and stepped inside. The air hung warm and redolent of books and tobacco. To his left was a large stand of magazines and books of all descriptions, paperback and hardcover, new and used. To the left were racks of fragrant tobaccos and pipes. Straight ahead the proprietor sat behind his counter reading a paperback book. He looked up as Seth entered.

“Good evening,” Seth greeted the man in German.

“Evening,” the proprietor replied as he carefully marked his place in the book with an empty pipe tobacco pouch, and stood up. “What can I do for you?” He studied Seth’s face carefully.

Seth felt his throat go dry. Had the men with his picture been here with their offers of money? Was there a telephone number for people like this tobacconist to call? Seth swallowed hard against the hard prickly ball of fear in his throat.