“What’s wrong?” said Nemo, who had just stepped into the room.

“I just said I don’t know,” said Patton. She said at the desk in the corner of the room, wearing a pair of headphones and poking away at a laptop. “It’s not working,” she said.

“What do you mean it’s not working?” said Nemo.

“What do you think I mean?” said Patton, yanking off the headphones and throwing them down on the desk. “The feed that I smashed my damn rib cage to get is not working.”

“Won’t that . . .” began Jean.

“It’ll fuck up the whole plan,” said Patton. “Without that feed there is no plan.”

“Can you fix it?” said Nemo. “I mean, without going back.”

“I don’t know,” said Patton. “It was working fine an hour ago, but now . . .”

“Have you tried turning it off and back on again?” said Alex. “That usually works for me.”

“I really don’t think . . .” said Patton.

“Just try it,” said Franklin.

So Patton tried it, powering down the laptop and booting it back up. Two minutes later, with the headphones back on, she smiled. “It’s working,” she said.

“Told you,” said Alex.

“OK, fine,” said Nemo. “You’ve made a small contribution to the effort. Your technical expertise is noted.”

“Hey, without me you wouldn’t even know where Weiss is hiding,” said Alex.

The room fell silent and Nemo pulled up a chair next to Patton and stared at the computer screen. When she took the headphones off a minute later he whispered, “So you didn’t even try rebooting. You’re some technical genius.” He smiled and squeezed Patton’s arm, then said, in a loud voice, “Anything worth listening to?”

“No calls yet,” said Patton. “We expected that. But I can also monitor the websites they look at, and they’re following the news on Süddeutsche Zeitung. It’s the website for the main Munich newspaper.”

“Good,” said Nemo. “It’ll be dark soon. Then we’ll make the call.”

They had booked the two additional rooms in order to take turns grabbing a bit of sleep, but now they all sat in the suite they had designated as “headquarters.” The remains of a tray of sandwiches sat on the coffee table, Ted and Franklin sprawled on the couch. Bob and Jean hunched over a desk, working on Jean’s script in German. Alex ate. Nemo paced.

“I’m just curious,” said Franklin. “I mean, as long as we have a little time to kill here, how can you just stroll into a truck dealership and give them an account number and the next thing you know you’re driving away in a Mercedes dump truck? No offense, but you don’t seem like the type to have a Swiss bank account.”

“The whole point of having a Swiss bank account,” said Nemo, “is not seeming like the type who would have one.”