Snyder took a deep breath and, smoothing the crease in his left trouser leg, began to speak. “As we expected, he has agreed to become a player in the deal, but he did have some reservations.”

“He didn’t have any objections other than those we forecasted, is that correct?”

“That is correct,” said Snyder.

This was the part of the game that Fawcett loved, the psychology. He had known exactly how Star Gazer would react. He would be indignant at first, considering the proposal out of the question. Then the stroke and sting, as Fawcett liked to call them, would begin. First his ego would be stroked and then his fears would be stung. It was an age-old tactic, but it worked every single time. The more self-absorbed the personality, the greater the success. Star Gazer was about as self-absorbed as they came, although he hid it very, very well. This camouflage ability was Star Gazer’s greatest strength. Seeing people for exactly who they were, knowing what motivated them and how to turn those motivations to his advantage, was Donald Fawcett’s.

“What are you two talking about?” demanded Rolander.

“What we’re talking about,” answered Snyder, “is that Mr. Fawcett read Star Gazer like an open book. He accurately forecasted what Star Gazer’s objections and areas of concern would be. He knew which cards should be played, and in which order, to successfully bring him on board. Star Gazer has left us with a brief list of ‘demands,’ our full agreement with which being the only way he will participate. The list is exactly as Mr. Fawcett predicted.”

Rolander looked at Fawcett, impressed. “He agreed to come aboard?”

“Indeed he did,” replied Snyder. “Now, as to his conditions.”

Fawcett leaned back in his chair and smiled.

“Condition number one: after the deal is closed, the president is to be returned to his office”-Snyder paused before finishing his sentence-“alive.”

The exterior ice chime sounded, warning of potential ice on the roadway, and Gerhard Miner gripped the leather steering wheel of his black Audi A6 a little tighter. His Gucci-clad foot pressed down harder on the accelerator. The sun was setting over Lake Lucerne, and a chill wind, blowing since lunch, began to pick up. Ah, what a lunch that was today, Miner thought to himself as the sleek black sedan hugged the shores of the choppy Swiss lake. It was absolutely exquisite.

Claudia Mueller, an investigator from the Federal Attorney’s Office, had been pressing Miner for a face-to-face meeting to discuss a cache of armaments missing from a military base outside of Basel. Crates of special night-vision goggles, flash bang grenades, Swiss SWAT assault rifles, antitank missiles, plastique, and a couple of next-generation nonlethal weapons known as glare guns had all mysteriously disappeared.

Though Claudia had insisted her questions were just routine, Miner had been putting her off for over two months. He claimed his caseload didn’t provide a single extra moment to meet with her. Surely the security of Switzerland, which Miner was charged with, overrode the necessity of asking him a few “routine” questions.

He half expected her to go away, but she didn’t. Claudia wanted badly to talk with Miner and for good reason.

Five years ago, he had commanded a special division of Swiss intelligence that tested the security of military bases and weapons installations throughout the tiny country. Miner had been so successful at breaching security at the bases that his unit was shut down for fear of further embarrassment to the military establishment, and he was transferred to a different department of Swiss intelligence.

Not only had Miner commanded the special division, he had also created it. The idea for the division-known as Der Nebel or, most appropriately, The Fog, in English-stemmed from training Miner had received while on U.S.-Swiss cross-training exercises in Little Creek, Virginia. Little Creek was where the U.S. Navy SEAL teams involved in Atlantic, Latin American, and European operations were assigned. It was also home to the Navy’s Special Warfare Development Group, not to be confused with “Dev Group,” the Navy’s elite counterterrorist unit formerly known as SEAL Team Six, which was based in Dam Neck, Virginia. The Special Warfare Development Group was a SEAL think tank where new weapons, equipment, communications systems, and tactics were developed.

The investigative affairs agent’s long list of boring questions had been the last thing Miner was interested in sitting through, but curiosity eventually got the better of him and he ordered a copy of Claudia Mueller’s personnel file. In his position as one of the Swiss government’s highest-ranking intelligence officers, he did not find the file hard to get, nor did his request seem at all out of the ordinary.

Miner flipped through Mueller’s file with only minimal interest. As he reached the back, he slowed. The backs of files were always the most interesting part. Included were her service photo, her most recent passport photo, and best of all, a magazine photo from a climbing competition in which she had taken first prize. In sharp contrast to the serious service and passport photos, this picture showed a proud and energetic woman. Here, her ruddy face was flushed with adrenaline and the excitement of competition. She was gorgeous. There was no need to put Claudia Mueller off any longer. At that moment, Miner not only knew he had to meet her, but he had to have her.

An hour and fifteen minutes away in Bern at the Federal Attorney’s Office, known as the Bundesanwaltschaft, Claudia Mueller was studying the file of Gerhard Miner for the thousandth time. Out of all the people she had spoken with during the course of her investigation, Miner had been the toughest to nail down. Sure, Miner had his reasons for being unavailable, and they all checked out when Claudia leaned on her boss to speak with his contacts at the Ministry of Defense, but something bothered her. Call it her Swiss fetish for organization. Something about Miner just didn’t jibe.

Miner was fifty-three years old and never married. He was a handsome man, tall, about six foot two, and extremely fit. His gray hair was perfect, as were his expensive custom-made Italian suits. In almost any woman’s opinion, Gerhard Miner would be quite a juicy catch. She was studying the photos of him yet again, glued to his deep brown eyes, when the phone rang.

“Hello?” Claudia answered, still staring at the file in front of her.

“Fräulein Mueller, this is Gerhard Miner of the SND.” Strategischer Nachrichtendienst, in Swiss German, translated to the deceptively benign sounding “Strategic Information Service.” The highly secretive Nachrichtendienst was a division of the Ministry of Defense and responsible for counterespionage for Switzerland. Not much beyond that was known about it, not even by the most enlightened and connected of Swiss citizens.

Instantly, Claudia’s attention shifted from the pictures in front of her to the voice on the other end of the phone. “Well, Herr Miner, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?” Claudia asked pleasantly, masking her eagerness. After leaving messages and being dodged by Miner for the last two months, she was excited to finally have the man himself on the phone.

Miner leaned back in his chair and wondered what Claudia might be wearing. He pictured her in a highly provocative outfit, completely unlike what a woman of her position actually wore to the office. His mind continued to wander as he answered smoothly, as if on automatic pilot, “I should say the pleasure is all mine. I can’t remember the last time a woman pursued me as aggressively as you have.”

“I hardly believe my repeated requests for information in a formal investigation to be in the same category as you are imagining, Herr Miner.”