He couldn't risk being followed now. If they were on the train, then they had stuck to him from Bologna, through Modena and Milano, through various disguises. They were professionals, and he was no match for them. Sipping his beer, Marco felt like a miserable amateur.

Madame was staring at the butchered hems of his slacks. Then he caught her glancing down at the modified bowling shoes, and for that he didn't blame her at all. Then the bright red watchband caught her attention. Her face conveyed the obvious-she did not approve of his low sense of fashion. Typical American, or Canadian, or whatever he was.

He caught a glimpse of lights shimmering off Lake Lugano. They were snaking through the lake region, gaining altitude. Switzerland was not far away.

An occasional drifter moved down the darkened aisle outside their cabin. They would look in, through the glass door, then move along toward the rear, where there was a restroom. Madame had plopped her large feet in the seat opposite her, not too far from Marco. An hour into the trip, and she had managed to spread her boxes and magazines and clothing throughout the entire cabin. Marco was afraid to leave his seat.

Fatigue finally set in, and Marco fell asleep. He was awakened by the racket at the Bellinzona station, the first stop in Switzerland. A passenger entered the first-class car and couldn't find the right seat. He opened the door to Madame's cabin, looked around, didn't like what he saw, then went off to yell at the conductor. They found him a spot elsewhere. Madame hardly looked up from her fashion magazines.

The next stretch was an hour and forty minutes, and when Madame went back to her flask Marco said, "I'll try some of that." She smiled for the first time in hours. Though she certainly didn't mind drinking alone, it was always more pleasant with a friend. A couple of shots, though, and Marco was nodding off again.

The train jerked as it slowed for the stop at ArthGoldau. Marco's head jerked too, and his hat fell off. Madame was watching him closely. When he opened his eyes for good, she said, "A strange man has been looking at you."

"Where?'' "Where? Here, of course, on this train. He's been by at least three times. He stops at the door, looks closely at you, then sneaks away."

Maybe it's my shoes, thought Marco. Or my slacks. Watchband? He rubbed his eyes and tried to act as though it happened all the time.

"What does he look like?"

"Blond hair, about thirty-five, cute, brown jacket. Do you know him?"

"No, I have no idea." The man on the bus at Modena had neither blond hair nor a brown jacket, but those minor points were irrelevant now. Marco was frightened enough to switch plans.

Zug was twenty-five minutes away, the last stop before Zurich. He could not run the risk of leading them to Zurich. Ten minutes out, he announced he needed to use the restroom. Between his seat and the door was Madame's obstacle course. As he began stepping through it, he placed his briefcase and cane in his seat.

He walked past four cabins, each with at least three passengers, none of whom looked suspicious. He went to the restroom, locked the door, and waited until the train began to slow. Then it stopped. Zug was a two-minute layover, and the train so far had been ridiculously on time. He waited one minute, then walked quickly back to his cabin, opened the door, said nothing to Madame, grabbed his briefcase and his cane, which he was perfectly prepared to use as a weapon, and raced to the rear of the train where he jumped onto the platform.

It was a small station, elevated with a street below. Marco flew down the steps to the sidewalk where a lone taxi sat with a driver unconscious behind the wheel. "Hotel, please," he said, startling the driver, who instinctively grabbed the ignition key. He asked something in German and Marco tried Italian. "I need a small hotel. I don't have a reservation."

"No problem," the driver said. As they pulled away, Marco looked up and saw the train moving. He looked behind him, and saw no one giving chase.

The ride took all of four blocks, and when they stopped in front of an A-frame building on a quiet side street the driver said in Italian, "This hotel is very good."

"Looks fine. Thanks. How far away is Zurich by car?"

"Two hours, more or less. Depends on the traffic."

"Tomorrow morning, I need to be in downtown Zurich at nine o'clock. Can you drive me there?"

The driver hesitated for a second, his mind thinking of cold cash. "Perhaps," he said.

"How much will it cost?"

The driver rubbed his chin, then shrugged and said, "Two hundred euros."

"Good. Let's leave here at six."

"Six, yes, I'll be here."

Marco thanked him again and watched as he drove away. A bell rang when he entered the front door of the hotel. The small counter was deserted, but a television was chattering away somewhere close by. A sleepy-eyed teenager finally appeared and offered a smile. "Guten abend," he said.

"Park inglese?" Marco asked.

He shook his head, no.

"Italiano?"

"A little."

"I speak a little too," Marco said in Italian. "I'd like a room for one night."

The clerk pushed over a registration form, and from memory Marco filled in the name on his passport, and its number. He scribbled in a fictional address in Bologna, and a bogus phone number as well. The passport was in his coat pocket, close to his heart, and he was prepared to reluctantly pull it out.

But it was late and the clerk was missing his television show. With atypical Swiss inefficiency, he said, also in Italian, "Forty-two euros," and didn't mention the passport.

Giovanni laid the cash on the counter, and the clerk gave him a key to room number 26. In surprisingly good Italian, he arranged a wake-up call for 5:00 a.m. Almost as an afterthought, he said, "I lost my toothbrush. Would you have an extra?"

The clerk reached into a drawer and pulled out a box full of assorted necessities-toothbrushes, toothpaste, disposable razors, shaving cream, aspirin, tampons, hand cream, combs, even condoms. Giovanni selected a few items and handed over ten euros.

A luxury suite at the Ritz could not have been more welcome than room 26. Small, clean, warm, with a firm mattress, and a door that bolted twice to keep away the faces that had been haunting him since early morning. He took a long, hot shower, then shaved and brushed his teeth forever.

Much to his relief, he found a minibar in a cabinet under the television. He ate a packet of cookies, washed them down with two small bottles of whiskey, and when he crawled under the covers he was mentally drained and physically exhausted. The cane was on the bed, nearby. Silly, but he couldn't help it.

In the depths of prison he'd dreamed of Zurich, with its blue rivers and clean shaded streets and modern shops and handsome people, all proud to be Swiss, all going about their business with a pleasant seriousness. In another life he'd ridden the quiet electric streetcars with them as they headed into the financial district. Back then he'd been too busy to travel much, too important to leave the fragile workings of Washington, but Zurich was one of the few places he'd seen. It was his kind of city: unburdened by tourists and traffic, unwilling to spend its time gawking at cathedrals and museums and worshiping the last two thousand years. Not at all. Zurich was about money, the refined management of it as opposed to the naked cash grab Backman had once perfected.

He was on a streetcar again, one hed caught near the train station, and was now moving steadily along Bahnhofstrasse, the main avenue of downtown Zurich, if in fact it had one. It was almost 9:00 a.m. He was among the last wave of the sharply dressed young bankers headed for UBS and Credit Suisse and a thousand lesser-known but equally rich institutions. Dark suits, shirts of various colors but not many white ones, expensive ties with thicker knots and fewer designs, dark brown shoes with laces, never tassels. The styles had changed slightly in the past six years. Always conservative, but with some dash. Not quite as stylish as the young professionals in his native Bologna, but quite attractive.