“May I inquire who?”

“I’m afraid that’s confidential, but I can promise you that they have nothing to do with the military. Quite the opposite, in fact. You would recognize their name in an instant. We consider it an honor of the highest order.”

“It would be a tremendous help if you let me know who that client is.”

Menz shook her head. “I don’t see how that could be of any help in finding Theo’s killer.”

Von Daniken retreated gracefully. He thanked her for her time and asked her to call should she have anything else she wished to add. As he returned to his car, he was not thinking about robots. He was thinking about the MAV.

Michaela Menz was right. It was no toy.

It was a weapon in drag.

Jonathan marched down the hill, carving his way past slower walkers. He kept his hands in his pockets, his fingers kneading the baggage receipts. Were they for luggage? Skis and boots? Extra winter clothing? Upon finding them, he’d phoned Emma’s office, but no one there could recall sending her anything.

If not them, then who? he wondered. And why hadn’t there been a note, let alone a return address? The questions needled him mercilessly. Mostly, though, he asked himself why Emma had wanted to hide them from him.

The Poststrasse snaked pleasantly as it descended the mountain. Shops, cafés, and hotels lined either side of the street. Across Switzerland, the first week of February was “ski week,” a traditional school vacation. Families from St. Gallen to Geneva fled en masse to the mountains. Today, however, the continued snowfall and gusty winds had shut down all lifts, including the Luftseilbahn. The sidewalks were crowded to bustling. There would be no going up the mountain. Not for Jonathan or anyone else.

Passing Lanz’s Uhren und Schmuck Boutique, he stopped abruptly. In the center window, flanked by glimmering wristwatches, stood an out-of-date meteorological station: a thermometer, hygrometer, and barometer all built into one. It had been in the same place eight years ago when he’d come here with Emma on their first trip to the mountains. The setup was the size of an old ham radio and was comprised of three pen-graphs that recorded the atmospheric conditions. In its center, a bulb burned red, indicating that the barometric pressure was falling. Poor weather would prevail. The snow would continue for some time yet.

Jonathan bent toward the glass to study the readings. Over the past thirty-six hours, the temperature had dropped from a high of three degrees Celsius to a low of minus eleven. Relative humidity had skyrocketed, while barometric pressure had plummeted from one thousand millibars to seven hundred, where it now stood.

“Why didn’t you check the weather?” the policeman had asked him the night before.

In his mind, Jonathan was back on the mountain with the snow and the wind and the menacing cold. He felt his arm around Emma’s waist as she crested that final ridge and collapsed against him. He remembered the look of accomplishment in her eyes; the swell of pride and the quicksilver certainty that they could do anything together.

“Jonathan!”

Far off, someone was calling his name. A gravelly voice with a French accent. He paid it no heed. He continued to stare at the red light, until it burned a corona into his vision. Emma had checked the weather. But she’d been too determined to make the climb to tell him that the forecast wasn’t good.

Just then, a hand gripped his shoulder. “What’s this?” asked the French-accented voice. “I have to track down my own welcoming committee?”

Jonathan spun and looked into the face of a tall, attractive woman with wavy dark hair. “Simone…you made it.”

Simone Noiret dropped her overnight bag and hugged him tightly. “I’m sorry.”

Jonathan hugged her back, closing his eyes and clamping his jaw. Fight as he might, he was powerless against the emotion that came with seeing a familiar face. After a moment, she eased her grip and held him at arm’s length. “And so,” she asked. “How are you holding up?”

“Okay,” he said. “Not okay. I don’t know. More numb than anything else.”

“You look like shit. Stopped shaving, showering, and eating? This is not good.”

He forced a smile, wiping at his cheek. “Not hungry, I guess.”

“We’re going to have to do something about that.”

“I guess so,” he said.

Simone forced him to meet her eye. “You guess so?”

Jonathan pulled himself together. “Yes, Simone, we’re going to do something about that.”

“That’s better.” She folded her arms and shook her head as if she were castigating one of her fourth-grade pupils.

Simone Noiret was Egyptian by birth, French by marriage, and a teacher by profession. Recently turned forty, she looked ten years younger, a fact which she attributed to her Arab heritage. Her Levantine blood was evident in her hair, which was black and thick as Nile straw and cascaded elegantly to her shoulders, and her eyes, which were dark and untrusting and made the more imposing by liberal use of mascara. She carried an expensive leather handbag over one shoulder. She dug in it for a cigarette-a Gauloise-one of the sixty or so she smoked each day. So far, the cigarettes had confined their damage to her voice, which was as scratched as one of the old Brel records she carted around with her from one city to the next.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I needed to have someone around…someone who knew Emma.”

Simone began to speak, then caught herself, turning away from him and throwing her cigarette to the ground. “All during the train ride, I promised myself I wouldn’t cry,” she said. “I told myself that you needed someone strong. Someone to cheer you up. To look after you. But, of course, you’re the strong one. Our Jonathan. Look at me. Like a baby.”

Tears ran from the corners of her eyes, smearing her cheek with mascara. Jonathan pulled a tissue from his pocket and wiped away the smudges.

“Paul sends his condolences,” she managed between sniffles. “He’s in Davos for the week. Mr. Bigshot is to deliver a speech on the corruption in Africa. Now there’s an original topic. He wanted you to know that he is devastated that he couldn’t come.”

Simone’s husband, Paul, was a French economist, a highly-placed paper pusher at the World Bank.

“It’s alright. I know he’d come if he could.”

“It’s not, and I told him so. These days we are all slaves to our ambition.” Simone caught a glimpse of herself in the shop window and winced. “Mais merde. Now I look like shit, too. What a pair we are.”

The Ransoms and the Noirets had met in Beirut two years before, neighbors in the same apartment building during Jonathan’s tour with DWB. At the time, Simone was teaching at the American School in Beirut. Learning that Emma was in the aid game, she’d used her contacts to secure cheap digs for the “mission,” which was what aid workers called their operational units. The act of kindness had cemented Emma’s loyalty forever.

Jonathan’s assignment to DWB headquarters in Geneva was greeted with joy, at least by the women. (Jonathan had dreaded the move…and with good reason, it turned out.) Paul Noiret was due to rotate back to Geneva two weeks earlier. The Noirets had once again come to the rescue, helping Jonathan and Emma find an affordable apartment at their upscale complex in Cologny. The couples dined together whenever their schedules permitted. Burgers at the Ransoms’ one month. Coq au vin at the Noirets’ the next. It was not, as Emma had liked to point out, exactly a fair trade.

Jonathan picked up Simone’s overnight bag. “Come with me,” he said, starting off down the hill.

“But I thought the hotel was in the other direction.”

“It is. We’re going to the train station.”