Von Daniken hesitated, waiting for Marti to ask him to be seated. When it became apparent that no such invitation was forthcoming, he launched into a summary of what he’d learned about Lammers, including his past history designing artillery pieces and his recent interest in MAVs. He ended with his suspicion that the Dutchman was part of a larger network and his request for a warrant to search the premises of Robotica AG.

“That’s all?” asked Marti. “I can’t fill in ‘suspicious miniature airplane’ on a warrant. This is a legal document. I need a legitimate reason.”

“It’s my opinion that Lammers posed a threat to national security.”

“How? The man’s dead. Just because you saw a model airplane…not even a model airplane…a pair of wings with God knows what.”

Von Daniken tried on a smile as a means to camouflage his simmering anger. “It’s not just the plane, sir. It’s the whole setup. Lammers had been in place a long time. He’s got a history of playing with the bad boys, and then one day, out of the blue, he’s executed on his own front stoop. I’m certain that something’s going on. Either it’s coming together or falling apart. The evidence may be inside his office.”

“Conjecture,” barked Marti.

“The man had an Uzi hidden in his workshop, along with a batch of passports that were stolen from individuals either living in or visiting the Middle East. That much is not conjecture.”

The New Zealand embassy in France had called back minutes before von Daniken reached Marti’s office, reporting that the passport found in Lammers’s car had been stolen from a hospital in Istanbul. The true passport holder was, in fact, a quadriplegic who’d been confined to a nursing facility for three years. He hadn’t even known that his passport was missing. Lammers had pulled the same trick as in Jordan, claiming to be a businessman who had lost his passport.

“There’s only one reason someone would want to steal a Belgian and New Zealand passport,” von Daniken went on. “Ease of passage in and out of the Middle East. Especially to countries with travel restrictions. Yemen. Iran. Iraq. This kind of operation requires not only funding but infrastructure and some damned fancy footwork. Lammers was scared. He saw this coming. The operation was active.”

“Conjecture,” repeated Marti. “‘Scared’ is not grounds for issuing a warrant to search a registered Swiss company. We’re talking about a corporation here, not a private citizen.”

Von Daniken forced himself to count to five. “By the way, sir, the official name for the device is ‘micro airborne vehicle.’ It’s also called a drone.”

“You can call it a mosquito on steroids for all I care,” retorted Marti. “I still won’t sign the warrant. If you want to search his premises so badly, open a dossier with an investigating judge in Zurich. If he thinks you’ve got enough evidence to warrant a search, you won’t need me.”

“That will take a week at the least.”

“And so?”

“What if there’s an imminent threat to Swiss soil?”

“Oh, Christ, let’s not get hysterical.”

Behind Marti’s desk was a photograph of him entering the Olympic Stadium at the end of his disastrous marathon. Even in a still frame, he looked wobbly. It was apparent that he had vomited on himself earlier in the race. Von Daniken wondered what kind of man displayed an image of himself at the lowest, most humiliating moment in his life.

“If you believe that there’s an imminent threat, then give me some substantiation,” said Marti. “You said Lammers used to design artillery pieces. Fine. Then show me a big gun. This warrant isn’t just going to disappear into a file. It’ll be my head if I act as your rubber stamp. I’ll be damned if I let you go off half-cocked, mobilizing every resource to check out a wild hunch.”

A wild hunch? Is that what thirty years of experience boiled down to? Von Daniken studied Marti. The hollow cheeks. The too-fashionable long hair dyed a too-fashionable henna. The man could make a Dutch pretzel out of the law if he desired. He was purposefully being obdurate as payback for the botched raid on the CIA jet.

“What about the Uzi?” von Daniken asked. “What about the passports? Don’t those count for anything?”

“You said it yourself. He was scared. He was on the run. Those facts alone do not allow us to invade his privacy.”

“The man is dead. He doesn’t have any privacy anymore.”

“Don’t play games with me! I will not quibble over semantics.”

“God forbid we piss someone off.” Von Daniken respected the constitution as much as the next man. Never in his career had he strayed from either its letter or its intent. But a policeman’s job had changed radically in the last ten years. As a counterterrorist, he needed to stop a crime before it happened. Gone was the luxury of collecting evidence after the act and presenting it to a magistrate. Often, the only evidence was his experience and intuition.

He walked to the window and looked out over the River Aare. Dusk had turned the sky into a palette of warring grays doing battle low over the city’s rooftops. The snow, which had tapered off earlier, was falling again in earnest. A gusting wind batted the flakes into an angry maelstrom. “Don’t bother with the warrant,” he said finally.

Marti stood and rounded the desk, shaking his hand. “I’m glad to see that you’re being more reasonable.”

Von Daniken turned and headed to the door. “I have to be going.”

“Wait a minute…”

“Yes?”

“What are you going to do about the little plane? The MAV?”

Von Daniken shrugged as if the matter no longer interested him. “I’m not going to do anything,” he said.

It was a lie.

Jonathan trained his eyes on the entrance to the Landquart station, and the parking lot directly across the street from it where a late-model Mercedes sedan sat in the center of the third row, precisely where the map in Eva Kruger’s bag said it would be. His vantage point was the doorway of a shuttered restaurant fifty meters up the road. For the past ninety minutes, he’d been circling the station. Trains arrived on the half hour from Chur and Zurich. For a few minutes before and after, the sidewalk filled with commuters. Cars entered and left the parking lot. And then activity died until the next train arrived. Not once in that time had he caught sight of a policeman. Still, it was impossible to determine if someone was watching the parking lot. Whatever the case, he’d decided that Simone was right. The cops who’d wanted to steal Emma’s bags were crooked.

At five minutes to six, evening traffic was at its height. Headlights passed in a blinding parade. He stamped his boots, working to keep his circulation active. He’d left Simone at the edge of town, against her strident wishes. There was a time for teamwork and a time to go it alone. This was a solo run, no question.

Huddling inside his jacket, he kept his eyes trained on the Mercedes.

Pick up letter.

Show receipts.

Retrieve bags.

Consult map for location of parked car.

Change clothing. Slick back hair. Don’t forget wedding ring.

Change lives.

Deliver sweater with envelope containing one hundred thousand francs.

But where? When? To whom? And, most maddening of all: Why?

He ran his fingers over the car key, thinking about Emma.

Question: When is your wife, your wife?

And when she isn’t your wife, who is she?

Dr. Jonathan Ransom, graduate of the University of Colorado at Boulder, Southwestern Medical School, chief surgical resident at New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center, and Dewes fellowship recipient at Oxford Radcliffe Hospital with a specialty in reconstructive surgery, stands on the tarmac of Monrovia-Roberts Airport in Liberia, as the last of the passengers deplane and stroll past him. At eight a.m., the sun sits low in an angry, orange sky. Already, the day is hot and humid, the air rank with the scents of jet fuel and sea salt, and cut by shouts coming from the horde of black faces bunched on the far side of the stadium-high fence bordering the runway. From all too near, the rat-a-tat-tat of machine-gun fire punches the air.