Afterward, the police figured that Tovah had been standing next to the bomber when he had detonated his belt charge of C-4 plastique layered with thousands of nails, nuts, and bolts. Her head, strangely unscathed, was the only part of her body ever found.

The death toll for the attack counted sixteen young men and women. Two others were blinded. A third lost both his arms. A fourth was paralyzed from the neck down. In fact, the final toll was higher. No one had counted the new life growing in Tovah’s womb.

“Miss Brandt.”

Milli spun at the sound of the deep, accented voice. A slim, academic-looking man stood a few feet behind her, smiling. She had not heard him approach. “Mr. Katz?”

“I see you have the paper. I appreciate your following our directions.”

The man linked arms with her, and in the manner of husband and wife, they strolled through the deserted gardens. As they walked, Milli informed him about the emergency meeting held in the Viennese woods the night before and the findings delivered by Mohamed ElBaradei.

“Enriched to ninety-six percent. You’re certain about that?”

Milli said that she was.

“And what chance is there of an error in measurement?”

“It would be the first time. I’m sorry to bring such news. I thought it was my duty.”

“‘Every subject’s duty is the king’s; but every subject’s soul is his own.’ I’m alone on this, but I’m convinced Shakespeare was a Jew.” A timid smile as he stopped and turned to her. “No one likes to betray a trust.”

Milli watched the tall, thin figure disappear among the snowcapped topiaries. A sharp wind stirred, filling her ears with the rush of desolation. She’d expected him to say that she’d done the right thing. She wanted a speech about how he would take immediate action and that she had saved thousands of lives, but he’d said none of those things.

In parting, he simply requested that she call the number she’d been given should she learn anything of further importance. Not even a thank-you.

“Is it him?”

Von Daniken compared the snapshot of Gottfried Blitz standing next to the drone with the ruined face lying at his feet. “You tell me,” he said, handing the photo to Kurt Myer and turning away before the bile rose any farther in his throat.

“Same sweater. Same eyes. It’s him.” Squatting on his haunches, Myer studied the corpse with an expert’s keen eye. “He was killed while seated in the chair, then moved to the floor. The shot had to be taken at waist level with the muzzle aimed downward to have expelled Blitz’s brains all over the desk and wall.”

Using a fountain pen, he pointed to the rash of gunpowder tattooed into the skin. “Look at the abrasion collar and the stippling. The shooter was a foot away when he pulled the trigger. Blitz didn’t even know he was there. He was working on his laptop until the moment he was shot.”

But von Daniken was interested in something else Myer had said. “Back up a second, Kurt. What do you mean ‘moved to the floor’? Are you saying the killer shot him, then laid him on the carpet? Did he bring him the towels, too?”

“Someone did. It certainly wasn’t Mr. Blitz.” Myer tested the pile of towels heaped near the body. “Still warm.”

The men shared an uncomfortable glance.

From the street came the sound of another siren approaching. Doors slammed. There was a commotion in the hall. Two paramedics entered the study.

“That was quick,” said von Daniken, referring to the near instantaneous arrival of the medical technicians.

“Did you call?” one of the paramedics asked. “Dispatch said it was an American.”

“An American?” Von Daniken traded looks with Myer. “How long ago did the American call?” he asked the paramedic.

“Twelve minutes ago. Nine-oh-six.”

“It’s him,” said Myer. “Ransom.”

Von Daniken nodded, then glanced at his watch. During the drive from the airfield, he’d called Signor Orsini, the station manager, for a description of the man who’d shown up at his door early that morning impersonating a police officer and asking about who had sent a certain pair of bags to Landquart. Afterward, he’d phoned the Graubünden police for details about the murder of one of its officers the day before, also in Landquart. Orsini’s description perfectly matched that given by a witness to the crime. The police in Landquart even had a name: Dr. Jonathan Ransom. An American. There was more. Ransom’s wife had perished two days earlier in a climbing mishap in the mountains near Davos.

“If it was Ransom who called,” he said to Myer, “that explains the towels. He’s a doctor.”

Lieutenant Conti, who had been listening in on the exchange, tucked his chin into his neck and lifted his hands in a quintessentially Italian gesture. “But why would Ransom shoot Blitz and then call the ambulance to save his life?”

Von Daniken exchanged looks with Myer. Neither man wanted to answer the question for the time being.

Von Daniken walked over to the desk and tapped a few keys on the laptop. The screen displayed a hodgepodge of fractured colors. Here was something else that bothered him. Was Blitz working on a broken computer when he’d been shot? Or had he purposefully ruined it to prevent anyone from finding out what was on its hard drive?

One by one, he opened the desk drawers. The top two were empty, except for a few scraps of paper, rubber bands, and pens. The bottom drawer was locked, but appeared to have been tampered with. He glanced up and noticed a few moving boxes placed against the wall. He rushed to see what was inside and was disappointed to find them empty as well.

Just then, the crime scene technicians arrived. All unnecessary personnel were ordered out of the room. Myer slipped past von Daniken in the corridor, whispering that he was going to get the daisy sniffer, which was what he called the explosives and radiation detector.

As the technicians filed into the house, von Daniken went upstairs and made his way to Gottfried Blitz’s bedroom. He wasn’t thinking about the victim so much as the man who might have killed him. He was looking for a clue as to why a cop killer whose wife had died in a mountaineering accident was in such a hurry to visit Blitz.

The search of Blitz’s bedroom turned up nothing. The night table was stacked with German celebrity glossies; the dresser filled with neatly folded clothing; the bathroom stuffed to bursting with cologne, hair products, and a variety of prescription drugs. But nowhere did he find anything that would tie Blitz to the drone, or indicate how he planned to use it.

Von Daniken sat down on the bed and stared out the window. It came to him that there were two groups and that they were somehow battling one another. There was Lammers and Blitz on the one side, and those who wanted them dead on the other. The quality of the killings combined with the discovery of the drone and the RDX marked it as an intelligence operation.

The prospect angered him. If an intelligence agency knew enough about a plot involving RDX and a drone to take decisive measures to stop it, why hadn’t they contacted him with the information?

He turned his mind to Dr. Jonathan Ransom, who apparently had phoned the paramedics. According to the station manager, Ransom had been hellbent on discovering who had sent the bags to Landquart earlier in the week. The logical assumption was that he didn’t know Blitz. How, then, had Ransom come to be in possession of the baggage claims?

If, however, von Daniken were to assume that Ransom and Blitz were working together-that they did know each other-the pieces fell into place. Stopped by the police after picking up the bags, Ransom had panicked, killed the arresting officer, then run down his partner in his hurry to flee the scene. Cover compromised, Ransom fled to Ascona to seek instructions from his controller. His ignorance of Blitz’s address could be put off to a cardinal rule of espionage: Compartmentalize information, or in the vernacular, keep it need-to-know. Hence, his need to speak to Orsini.