THE HOTEL FLYAWAY AT 19 Marktgasse is a house of convenience rather than luxury. Its façade is flat and drab, its lobby plain and antiseptic. Indeed its only notable attribute is its proximity to Kloten Airport, which is only five minutes away. On that snowy February evening the hotel was the site of a secret gathering, of which management and the local police still know nothing. Two men came from Brussels, another from Rome, and a fourth from London. All four were specialists in physical surveillance. All four checked in under assumed names and with false passports. A fifth man arrived from Paris. He checked in under his own name, which was Moshe. He was not a surveillance specialist but a low-level field courier known as a bodel. His car, an Audi A8, was parked outside in the street. In the trunk was a suitcase filled with guns, radios, night-vision goggles, and balaclava helmets.

The last man to arrive was known to the girls at the check-in counter, for he was a frequent traveler through Kloten Airport and had spent more nights at the Hotel Flyaway than he cared to remember. “Good evening, Mr. Bridges,” one of the girls said to him as he strode into the lobby. Five minutes later he was upstairs in his room. Within two minutes the rest had joined him. “A plane is about to land at Kloten,” he told them. “There’s going to be a girl on board. And we’re going to make sure she doesn’t die tonight.”

SARAH WOKE a second time. She opened her eyes just long enough to take a mental snapshot of her surroundings, then closed them before Jean-Michel could stab her in the leg again with another loaded syringe. They were descending now and being buffeted by heavy turbulence. Her head had fallen sideways, and with each lurch of the aircraft her throbbing temple banged against the cabin wall. Her fingers were numb from the pressure of the handcuffs, and the soles of her feet felt as though they were being jabbed by a thousand needles. Jean-Michel was still reclining in the seat across from her. His eyes were closed, and his fingers interlaced over his genitals.

She opened her eyes a second time. Her vision was hazy and unclear, as if she were enveloped in a black fog. She lifted her hands to her face and felt fabric. A hood, she thought. Then she looked down at her own body and saw it was enveloped in a black veil. Jean-Michel had shrouded her in an abaya. She wept softly. Jean-Michel opened one eye and gazed at her malevolently.

“What’s the problem, Sarah?”

“You’re taking me to Saudi Arabia, aren’t you?”

“We’re going to Switzerland, just like Zizi told you.”

“Why the abaya?”