As of late, however, Yannick Ernsdorff had expanded his menu of services to include the role of banker for a very special auction, the details of which were what Fisher required before he could make his next move. With luck, Ernsdorff's secrets would be the shove Fisher needed to set the dominoes falling.

"Security contingent?" he now asked Hytonen.

"I should have satellite imagery by this afternoon."

"Blueprints?"

"The same. I did, however, come across an item in the news that I thought would interest you." Hytonen handed Fisher a newspaper clipping.

Fisher scanned it. Yannick Ernsdorff, it seemed, was either a philanthropist or he'd decided the appearance of philanthropy was a deductible business expense: The previous year he'd spent three million dollars building an Outward Bound-style children's challenge course on the grounds of his five-hundred-acre waterfront estate outside Vianden. Starting that summer, underprivileged children from across Europe could come to enjoy rock-climbing walls, zip lines, rope bridges, obstacle courses, spelunking treasure hunts, and hide-and-seek among dozens of multilevel tree-house complexes.

"Almost makes me wish I were a kid again," Fisher replied dryly. "Please tell me this place isn't named Yannickland."

"Challenge Discovery Park," replied Hytonen. "There's a website. Many pictures and maps."

How nice of Yannick, Fisher thought. "I need you to pass along a few questions."

"Go ahead."

"One, ask about ROE," Fisher said, referring to the rules of engagement. "Not mine. She'll know what it means."

"Very well."

"Two, our Japanese friend seems to have attracted some attention. I need to know everything she knows. And three, I'll need all their operational frequencies, both data and voice, and the makes and models of any cell phones they're carrying."

Hytonen nodded. He'd written nothing down, having filed the information away in his mental vault. Fisher had seen a number of keystone spook traits in Vesa, but near the top of the list was his astounding memory. Fisher had no doubt that if asked, Vesa could draw an exact map of Ernsdorff's property from his brief visit to the Challenge Discovery Park website. Likewise, the queries he'd just recited would be passed along, verbatim.

"I will strive to have answers by this afternoon."

"Thanks. What about the caches?"

"There are three of them within the borders of Luxembourg, and another four in northern France, eastern Belgium, and western Germany--"

"No more borders for a while." More often than not, border crossings went smoothly, but they were in Fisher's mind a lot like air travel: Most aircraft accidents happen during takeoffs and landings, and the odds of an incident occurring increased with repetition.

"Of course. The key codes are unchanged, and the equipment is of the penultimate generation."

"'Penultimate?'"

"It means--"

"I know what it means. Second to latest. I've just never heard anyone actually use the word in a sentence."

"Thank you. Standard antitampering measures are in place, so if you--"

"Everything goes boom."

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Hytonen said with another birdlike head bob. "You'll want to exercise caution."

Fisher smiled ruefully. "Story of my life, Vesa."

THEYmade plans to meet again later that afternoon; then Fisher walked a few blocks to a mom-and-pop car agency and rented a dark green 2001 Range Rover. He used a pair of Emmanuel's sanitized passports and credit cards; he still had the Doucet batch but would not use any of those unless absolutely necessary. He'd ridden that particular trick pony hard during his Esch-sur-Alzette border crossing, and while Hansen and his team would have no choice but to investigate should he use the IDs or cards again, Fisher doubted they would fall for such a ruse so completely again.

Before leaving the parking lot he got his iPhone, called up the maps application, and punched in an address in Bavigne, a quaint village of 125 souls, sitting along a channel of the Sauer River about sixty kilometers northwest of the city of Luxembourg. He took his time with the drive, exploring and enjoying the Luxembourgian countryside before finally pulling into Bavigne shortly before one. He found a restaurant, the Auberge, and ordered what turned out to be one of the best meals of his life: lobster soup with langoustine tails, Ardennes salad, game terrine on a bed of salad, confit of red plums, and a lemon tartelettefor dessert.

One for the list, Fisher decided. As of late he'd started a mental list of potential retirement spots. Bavigne had just jumped into his top ten. Quiet, secluded, and bucolic.

He lingered over coffee for another hour, then paid the bill and drove out of town, following the iPhone's on-screen directions: first heading northeast, then south again along the Sauer, between farmers' fields and the tree-lined banks of the river, until he crossed over a covered wooden bridge and found himself in a clearing dominated by a log cabin. He got out, mounted the porch, and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He knocked a second time and waited a full minute before circling the cabin and checking windows and satisfying himself that no one was home.

He walked back to the rear and down six steps to a wooden root cellar door. The padlock hanging from the hasp was relatively new, an all-weather Viro marine model; at the turn of Fisher's key it snapped open smoothly.

The root cellar was dark and cool, the temperature hovering in the mid-sixties. Fisher clicked on his flashlight and entered. Momentarily caught in his beam, a rat skittered across the dirt floor and disappeared. Fisher stopped in the center of the cellar, took a moment to orient himself, then walked to the southeast corner, shoved some empty fruit crates out of the way, and set his flashlight on one of them. He knelt down and began brushing at the dirt with both hands until a four-by-three-foot rectangular outline appeared. He felt along the edges until he found a thumb hole and lifted the hatch, revealing a shallow dug-out. At its center sat a black plastic case the size of a large suitcase. It was in fact a DARPA-modified model 1650 Pelican case complete with an encrypted-keypad lock and an antitampering system that consisted of a C-4-shaped charge designed to destroy the case's contents.

Fisher lifted the case out of its hole and laid it flat on the ground with the keypad facing him. He pulled out his iPhone, called up the calculator application, then punched in the cabin's latitude coordinates, subtracted the longitude, and divided the resulting number by the current algorithm, a random four-digit number spit out by the mainframes at Fort Meade every month. Fisher took a deep breath, tapped the code into the keypad, and pressed ENTER. A series of six red lights across the front of the pad began flashing, and then slowly, one by one, began turning green. There was a soft beep followed by a triple mechanical snick.

Fisher flipped open the latches along the perimeter of the Pelican's lid, then lifted it. He smiled. "Hello, old friends."

FISHERwas back in Luxembourg by five. He and Hytonen met at yet another park, this one was across town. As he sat down, Vesa dropped a tiny object to the ground between them; Fisher glanced at it. A key. He covered it with his foot.