Marcus von Daniken paced inside the passenger terminal at Bern-Belp airport. A Sikorsky helicopter sat on the tarmac as a crew completed deicing the rotors. Word had come from the tower that the weather was clearing over the Alps and that they had a window of sixty minutes to get over the mountains to the Tessin before the next front arrived and effectively partitioned the country once again between north and south. Flying was not von Daniken’s cup of tea, but this morning there was no other choice. An eighteen-wheeler had overturned at the northern entrance to the Gotthard Tunnel and traffic was backed up twenty-five kilometers.

An announcement was made to board the helicopter. Reluctantly, he left the warm confines of the terminal, followed by Myer and Krajcek. “How long?” he asked the pilot as he climbed aboard.

“Ninety minutes…if the weather holds.” The response was accompanied by the offer of an air-sickness bag.

Von Daniken strapped himself in tightly. He looked at the white paper bag on his lap and muttered a short prayer.

The helicopter landed at an airfield on the outskirts of Ascona at 9:06. Throughout the flight, violent headwinds had buffeted the chopper like a ping-pong ball in a lottery machine. Twice the pilot had asked if von Daniken wished to turn back. Each time, von Daniken merely shook his head. Worse than his nausea was the suspicion that Blitz was at that very moment packing his bags and hightailing it across the Italian border.

The phone number listed on Lammers’s agenda had come back as belonging to one Gottfried Blitz, resident of the Villa Principessa in Ascona. A call had alerted the local police to von Daniken’s imminent arrival. Instructions were given that under no circumstances should anyone attempt to contact or arrest the suspect.

The engine moaned, then died altogether. The rotor blades slowed and bent under their weight. As von Daniken placed his foot onto solid ground, it was all he could do to keep from falling to his knees and kissing the tarmac. Come hell or high water, he was driving home in an automobile.

Lieutenant Mario Conti, chief of the Tessin police, stood at the edge of the helipad. “You will ride with me to Blitz’s house,” he said. “I believe your assistant is already there.”

Von Daniken made a beeline for the waiting automobile. The engine noise was still rife in his ears, and he wasn’t sure if he’d heard the lieutenant correctly. “My assistant? These are my men: Mr. Myer and Mr. Krajcek. No one else from my office is working this case.”

“But I received a call from Signor Orsini, the manager of the railway station, earlier this morning saying that he had been visited by an officer who had come to inquire about the bags. I assumed he was working on the same case as you.”

“Exactly what bags are you talking about?” asked von Daniken, pulling up sharply.

“The bags that were sent to Landquart,” Conti explained. “The officer informed Signor Orsini that they belonged to the suspect in the killing of the policeman yesterday.”

“I’m not investigating the killing of the policeman in Landquart. I didn’t send anyone to speak with the station manager.”

Conti shook his head, his cheeks losing their pallor. “But this policeman…he showed his identification. You’re certain you are not working together?”

Von Daniken ignored the question, driving to the heart of the matter. “What exactly did this man want?”

“The name and address of the man who had originally sent the bags.”

Von Daniken started walking toward the car. His pace quickened as it came to him. “And that man’s name was-”

“Blitz,” said the police chief, almost jogging to keep up. “The man you are looking for, of course. He lives in Ascona. Is something wrong?”

Von Daniken opened the passenger door. “How far is it to his home?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Get us there in ten.”

Mist tumbled from the hillside, curling around the centuries-old buildings and winding its way through narrow cobblestone alleys. The man known within his profession as the Ghost drove through the quiet resort town of Ascona. Several times he was forced to slow the car to a crawl as the mist thickened to fog and drowned the road.

Fog…it followed him everywhere…

It had been foggy when the squads had come, he reminisced, as he continued into the surrounding hills, passing down country lanes lined with rustic villas and tended gardens. Not a fog like this. But a night fog from the high mountain valley where his family grew coffee, the mist sly and meandering as a deadly snake. He had been made to watch as the soldiers pulled his parents from their bed, dragged them outside, stripped them, and forced them to lie naked in the mud. They took his sisters next, even Teresa who was not yet five. He closed his eyes, but he could not block out their screams, the lament of their spirits fighting until there was no fight left. When the soldiers had finished, they shot the girls in the stomach. Some went inside and found his father’s prized Scotch whisky. They stood on the terrace, drinking and making jokes as his sisters passed into the next world.

He was a boy, just seven and terrified. The commandante thrust a pistol into his hand and marched him to his parents, who were made to rise to their knees. The commandante took his hand in his own, raised it, and guided his finger to the trigger. Then he whispered in his ear that if the boy wished to live he must shoot his parents. Two shots rang out in quick succession. His father and mother fell sidelong into the mud. It was the boy who had pulled the trigger.

Then, showing neither fear nor hesitation, he turned the gun on himself.

Miraculously, he did not die.

Impressed by this show of unflinching courage, the commandante made a decision. Instead of leaving him with his father and mother, his four sisters, and his dog, as examples to the peasantry about the wisdom of exercising their right to vote, the commandante spirited the boy out of the mountains. Surgeons removed the bullet that had obliterated his jaw. Dentists repaired his broken teeth. After the operations, he was taken to a private school where he proved a devoted student. All this the government paid for. It was an investment in a very special “project.”

As a student, the boy excelled in all subjects. He learned to speak French, English, and German, as well as his own native tongue. In athletic endeavors, he proved to be fleet of foot and graceful. He shied away from team sports and concentrated on solitary competitions: swimming, tennis, and track.

Every week, the commandante looked in on him. The two enjoyed tea and pastries at a local café. At first, the boy would complain about his nightmares. Each night in his sleep he would meet his mother and father, who would plead with him for their lives. The images were so haunting, so real, that they followed him into the waking world. The commandante told him not to worry. All soldiers had these nightmares. Over time, a bond developed between them. The boy took to referring to the older man as his father. He grew to have affection for the man. But the nightmares did not go away.

He began to have problems at school.

The first involved his social disposition. Either unable or unwilling, he refused to interact in a normal manner with his fellow students. He was courteous. He was cooperative…to a point. But never did he let down his veneer of arctic aloofness. He had no friends, nor any desire to make any. He took meals alone. After practice on the athletic fields, he returned to his room where he dutifully completed his homework. On weekends, he would either play tennis with one of several acquaintances (refusing any invitations to join them afterward) or stay in his room and study his languages.