Later that night, he spent a long time thinking about her final remark and the million and one things it might have meant. But right then, as she spoke the words, he could think of only one thing that she could do that would make him happy. Maybe, just maybe, she would call him by his first name.

The United States Drug Enforcement Administration chose the first floor of a nondescript three-story building in the Seefeld district as its temporary headquarters in Zurich. Number 58 Wildbachstrasse was a grim affair of plaster stucco and sober disposition, its only extravagance the pair of double-paned French windows that peered from each floor onto the street. Neither terrace, balcony, nor window box prettied its spinster's facade.

Seeing the building for the first time, Sterling Thorne had declared that it resembled a cinder block wearing a bedpan. But the monthly rent of Sfr. 3,250 had been well within budgetary constraints, and the outdated floor plan, which divided the ground floor into six rooms of equal size, three on either side of a central corridor, was ideal for a staff of four or five United States government employees.

Thorne held a telephone close to his ear and stared anxiously out the front window, as if waiting for a tardy agent to cross over from the east. The morning fog, which during winter loitered on the Swiss plateau like an unwelcome houseguest, had at 11:45 A.M. Friday not yet lifted.

"I heard you the first time, Argus," said Thorne, "but I didn't like the answer. Now come again. Did you find the transfer I told you to look for?"

"We got zip," said Argus Skouras, a junior field agent, from his post in the payments traffic department of the United Swiss Bank. "I was here until they kicked me out last night at 6:30. Came in this morning at 7:15. I have searched through a stack of papers taller than an elephant's ass. Zip."

"That is impossible," said Thorne. "We have it on good sources that yesterday our man received and transferred a huge chunk of money. Forty-seven million dollars cannot just disappear."

"What can I tell you, Chief? If you don't believe me, come over here and we can do this together."

"I believe you, Argus. Don't get yourself all worked up. Settle down and keep doing your job. Give me that officious prick Schweitzer."

A few moments later a gruff voice came through the receiver. "Good morning to you, Mr. Thorne," said Armin Schweitzer. "How may we be of service?"

"Skouras tells me you have no activity to report from the account numbers we supplied you with on Wednesday evening."

"That is correct. I sat with Mr. Skouras this morning. We reviewed a computer printout listing every electronic funds transfer the bank has received and transmitted since the surveillance list was last updated twenty-four hours ago. Mr. Skouras was not satisfied with the summary sheet. He demanded to check each individual instruction form. As we process over three thousand transfers a day, he's been very busy."

"That's what his government pays him for," Thorne said dryly.

"If you care to wait a moment, I will key in the accounts on your list. Our Cerberus system does not lie. Anything specific you are looking for? It might be easier if I had an exact sum, say the amount transferred, to use as a cross-reference."

"Just check all the accounts on your list one more time," said Thorne. "I'll let you know if we find what we need."

"State secrets?" joked Schweitzer. "Fine, I'll enter all six accounts. This will take a moment. I'll pass you Mr. Skouras."

Thorne tapped his foot impatiently and scowled at the miserable weather. Near noon and no sign of sun, no sign of rain, and no sign of snow. Just a quilt of gray cloud sitting on top of the city like a dirty carpet.

Thorne's gaze wandered to the building across the street. From an upstairs window, an elderly woman viewed his men's activity with a bitter eye. Two cars belonging to the DEA were pulled onto the sidewalk. Empty filing boxes were being loaded into the trunk. Like a hungry rat emerging from its hole, the wizened lady leaned far out over the window ledge and surveyed all below.

"Chief, Skouras here. Mr. Schweitzer is checking the accounts now. I can verify that he put in the right numbers. We're waiting on a hard-copy printout."

Without so much as a knock, the door to Thorne's office swung open and rebounded noisily off the wall. The heavy cadence of a single individual's footsteps approached. Thorne turned and stared into the sweating face and knotted brow of a stocky black man.

"Thorne," the visitor spat out, "I'll wait till you get off the phone and then I want an explanation of what in the name of good Christ is going on here."

Thorne shook his head. A knowing smile brightened his features. "The Reverend Terry Strait. Surprise, surprise. Sinners, fall to your knees and repent! Hello, Terry. Here to fuck up another operation, or just to make sure our hallowed rules are properly obeyed?"

Strait pulled on the pockets of his vest and rolled on the balls of his feet while Thorne placed a hand to his lips and motioned to be quiet.

"Mr. Thorne," said Schweitzer. "I am sorry to disappoint you, but we report no activity in any of the accounts on our list."

"Nothing, in or out?" Thorne scratched the back of his neck and glared at Strait, who remained less than a foot away.

"Absolutely nothing," said Schweitzer.

"You're sure?" Thorne squinted his eyes. Impossible, he thought. Jester's never wrong.

"Are you suggesting we at the United Swiss Bank are not telling the truth?"

"It wouldn't be the first time. But seeing as how we have Skouras right next to you, I can't exactly accuse you of holding back on us."

"Do not push your luck, Mr. Thorne," said Schweitzer. "The bank is doing its best to extend a courteous welcome to you. You should be content that you've managed to place one of your watchdogs inside our premises. I shall ask my secretary to see that Mr. Skouras continues to receive a copy of every wire instruction given to our payments-trafficking department. If you have any further questions, do not hesitate to call me. In the meantime, good day." Schweitzer rang off.

Thorne slammed the phone onto its cradle. He faced his unannounced visitor. "What in the hell are the desk jockeys doing in Switzerland?"

Terry Strait glared at Thorne. "I'm here to make sure you follow the game plan we established a long time ago."

Thorne crossed his arms and leaned against his desk. "What makes you think I wouldn't?"

"You," boomed Strait. "You never have in the past. And I can see you aren't now." He withdrew a sheet of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it, and held it in front of Thorne. Internal Account Surveillance List was printed in bold letters across USB stationery. "What the hell is going on? How did this account number get on this paper?"

Thorne took the paper, examined it briefly, and showing no emotion, handed it back to Strait.

"I imagine this is what you were yapping to Schweitzer about," Strait said. "Account 549.617 RR. Am I correct?"

"Righto, Terry. On the ball as usual."

Strait held the surveillance list as if it gave off a foul odor. "I am actually afraid to ask how this account ended up on that bank's watch list. I don't think I want to know."

Thorne stared blankly ahead, one corner of his mouth peaked in a silent smirk. He hadn't told Strait a thing, and already he was tired of explaining. "I hate to break it to you, Terry, but it's legit."

"Legit? Franz Studer allowed you to place this account on USB's surveillance list? You've got to be kidding!" Strait shook his head as if it couldn't be true. "Why, Sterling? Why are you jeopardizing the operation? Why do you want to scare our man out of the net?"