Mikhail’s position was a mirror image of Zoe’s—hands and feet bound, torso secured to a straight-backed chair, duct tape over his mouth. He was fully conscious now and, judging from the blood flowing from his mouth, he had recently been struck. His tuxedo jacket had been removed; his shirt was torn in several places and soaked with blood. The contents of his wallet lay scattered on the cement floor at his feet, along with the USB flash drive and the ultraviolet light. Zoe tried not to look at the items. Instead, she kept her eyes focused on the tall, middle-aged man standing halfway between her and Mikhail. He was wearing a dark blue banker’s suit and a woolen overcoat. The hair was Germanic blond going to gray, the expression on his face one of mild distaste. In one hand was a gun, in the other Mikhail’s miniature radio. The gun had blood on it. Mikhail’s blood, she thought. But that made sense. The man in the dark blue suit didn’t look like the sort who liked to use his fists. He also looked vaguely familiar. Zoe was certain she had seen him somewhere before in close proximity to Martin. But in her current state she couldn’t recall where it had been.

She glanced quickly around. They were in a commercial storage facility of some sort. It was cheaply made of corrugated metal and stank of dirty motor oil and rust. The overhead lights buzzed. For a moment, Zoe allowed herself to wonder whether Rafael Bloch had spent time in this same place before his body was taken across the border and dumped in the French Alps. Then she forced the thought from her mind. Rafael Bloch? Sorry, doesn’t ring a bell. She looked at Mikhail. He was staring directly at her as if trying to communicate something. Zoe held his gaze for as long as she could bear it, then looked down at her hands. This movement seemed to prompt the well-dressed man into action. He came over and ripped the duct tape from her mouth. Zoe gave an involuntary scream of pain and immediately regretted it.

“Who are you?” she snapped. “And why in God’s name am I here?”

“You know why you’re here, Zoe. In fact, thanks to your associate, Mr. Danilov, we all know why you’re here.”

He spoke English with only the faintest accent and with the precision of a timepiece.

“Are you crazy? I’m here because Martin—”

“No, Zoe. You’re here because you’re a spy. And you came to Geneva to steal private documents and correspondence from Mr. Landesmann’s computer, a very serious crime here in Switzerland.”

“I presume kidnapping and assault are as well.”

The man in the suit smiled. “Ah, the famous Zoe Reed wit. It’s good to know that at least something about you isn’t a lie.”