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“Good.”

Several minutes later, he realized that she was sleeping. Charlie felt her ribcage lifting with each breath, her heart beating on his arm. It was a very nice feeling, and he wanted to stay awake a while longer so he could savor it.

CHARLES MALLORY WAS THINKING
about Anna as he entered the hexagonal terminal building of Berlin’s Tegel Airport. His flight on Lufthansa Airlines left at two minutes past eight, arriving in Basel three hours later. But everything changed when he came to an airport newsstand and saw the cover of the
International Herald Tribune
. The familiar face. His source. His client. His friend.

He closed his eyes and then looked again, incredulously, at the headline, knowing it was wrong. Feeling guilty and angry, at himself and at who had done this. Knowing it was the same people who had beat him to Kampala, whom he had beat to Nice. The Hassan Network. Wondering if an autopsy would show traces of the thing that had killed his father: ouabain.

JON MALLORY DOZED
off occasionally as the diesel bus wound along the shore of Lake Geneva and then up into the mountains. He dreamed at one point that he was on the Washington Metro, holding a stainless-steel pole as the train barreled through the darkness, and suddenly noticed Kip Nagame sitting at the other end of the subway car. Jon woke with a start and was dazzled by the brightness of the afternoon sky.

Finally the bus came to a plateau in the Vaud Alps, where the shuttle driver dropped him at his destination, 6 Lake Street—a small, chalet-style house by itself on a hillside just past a charming Alpine ski village. There was a sprinkling of snow in the air.

Jon Mallory stepped out and took in the beauty of the jagged,
white-topped mountains, listening to the vast silence. He saw a squat, broad-shouldered man coming toward him, his footsteps stealing the mood. And then, as he came closer, Jon recognized Ben Wilson, the man who had “kidnapped” him in Nairobi. A man employed by his brother, it turned out.

“Welcome,” he said. The two shook hands. Then Ben turned and escorted Jon up the sidewalk to the house. In front was a one-room concrete guard house. A man sitting inside nodded to him but didn’t speak. Jon saw the gun holstered on his waist and three surveillance monitor screens. Wilson led him inside the house and through the rooms. Tall, alpine style ceilings. Sturdy walnut furniture, teak floors, log-style tables, a rocking chair.

“Nice place.”

“It is,” Ben Wilson said. “You’re safe here. The computer’s for you. There’s plenty to eat and drink. Okay? You have nothing to do for a couple of days but write. Your brother wants you to tell the story as you know it. We will transmit it for you.”

“Where
is
my brother? Is he here?”

“No. But he arranged for your safe passage here, and for round-the-clock security. Your brother wants you to begin writing the story now. He will be in touch with you in a couple of days with more information. He wants you to know you are safe here. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Jon sensed there was more behind his brother’s message, but he wasn’t sure what.

“Settle in for a few minutes. I’ve got to do something before I can leave.”

Jon unpacked. He was jotting notes on his laptop when Ben Wilson returned.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Your brother asked me to do this. It’s for your own safety. You’re going to have to trust us.”

With no further warning, Ben Wilson held his arm and stabbed a syringe needle into the palm of Jon Mallory’s right hand.

EUROAIRPORT BASEL
M
ULHOUSE
Freiburg is one of the few airports in the world operated jointly by two countries: France and Switzerland. It’s located over the border of France, four miles northwest of Basel. A city that, for many years, had been an international
hub of the pharmaceuticals industry, home to one of the world’s largest bio-technology clusters.

The Rhine divided the city into two parts: Grossbasel on the south and west, with the medieval Old Town and Kleinbasel, or Little Basel, on the north bank. Horst Laboratories was in the Grossbasel district, south of the river. Charlie had studied the maps on the airplane and formulated a plan. First, he went shopping. In a department store he bought a pair of field glasses and a new change of clothes. Then he caught a streetcar to the Marketplatz square, where he made two additional purchases: a GSM disposable mobile phone for thirty-three Swiss francs, cash, and a telephone “smart” card.

Horst Laboratories was an old two-story brick building on the edge of a residential neighborhood. It took up half a city block, set behind a chain-link fence monitored with security cameras. Charlie lingered several blocks away, working out in his head how he was going to meet Ivan Vogel.

He walked up the street to the east of the building, scouting for a sheltered vantage point. Finally he chose a stone ledge along a tree-lined walkway, giving him an obstructed view of the entrance. Not perfect, but probably the best he’d find. It was 12:09.

At a glass-sided phone kiosk down the hill, Charlie inserted his smart card and called the number listed for Horst Laboratories. He listened to the recorded greeting, then pushed 2 for the automated directory. Pushed 1 for Stefan Drosky. The phone rang, once, twice.

A woman’s voice.
“Hallo. Stefan Drosky’s büro.”

“Ja hier ist Ivan Vogel, das Herr Drosky fordert.”

There was silence on the other end. Most people in Basel spoke German and French, he knew. Charles Mallory spoke both passably.

“I’m sorry, he’s in a meeting. Can I ask what this is regarding?”

“Just give him my message, please.”

Charlie hung up. Twelve minutes later, he called back. “This is Ivan Vogel. For Mr. Drosky,” he said.

He waited four minutes before calling again. Received the same response. Then called five minutes later. On the fifth try, Drosky came on the line. “Hallo? Drosky.”

“Hello, Ivan. I’m glad you decided to take my call. That was smart.”

Charles Mallory listened to Ivan Vogel breathe.

“Who is this?” the voice at the other end said, in English.

“Someone who knows about you.”

“You have wrong number,” he said, speaking now with a slight Russian accent.

But he didn’t hang up. That was the interesting thing. He stayed on the line for a long time before Charlie finally heard the dial tone.

Seven minutes later, he called again; this time, the call went to voice mail.

Charles Mallory walked up the street, keeping his eyes on the entrance. Imagining what Vogel was thinking. At 12:53, a limousine with tinted windows stopped across the street from the building and parked. A thin, tall, stooped man in faded jeans, loafers and a gray overcoat came out of the building and walked toward the car, glancing nervously up and down the street. Vogel.

Mallory followed the car once it pulled away from the curb, trotting along the sidewalk half a block behind. Traffic was heavy, and it wasn’t difficult to stay with him for a while. But then Vogel got a block ahead and Charlie lost him. He tried a shortcut, jogging through an alley and across another block, and saw the car again, several blocks ahead, in the left lane. He hailed a taxi, asked to be taken downtown. Saw the car again a block ahead, preparing to turn left. “Left lane,” he told the cab driver.

A dozen blocks on, the traffic jammed again. Mallory paid the driver and got out. They were in the Gundeldinger District, near the central train station. He began to jog in the direction he had seen the limousine going.

The car was right on the next block, parked illegally at the curb. Charlie crossed the street. Saw Vogel emerge and walk into the Gundeldingerhof restaurant.

Mallory crossed the road as the car eased back into motion. He pretended to study the menu, watching Vogel through the glass as he settled at a table. It was a simple-looking, airy bistro with white tablecloths and flower arrangements at the larger tables. Vogel sat near the wall across from a busty young woman with deliberately unkempt blond hair and heavy make-up. Her fingers were playing with a flute of champagne, which she had nearly finished.

Charlie entered the restaurant and asked for a table behind theirs. He sat, lifted his menu.

He was in the woman’s line of vision, but she was absorbed with her
lunch date. She was in her mid-twenties, he guessed, with a toothy, inviting smile and wide cheekbones. She smiled easily, every time Vogel spoke.

Charlie ordered a bowl of cucumber soup and a bottle of mineral water. He opened his newspaper and continued to watch. They were speaking in German, but not loud enough for him to understand.

Ivan Vogel seemed pale and a little sickly, his gray hair patchy. His smile was uneven and kind of scary, the lower lip a strange shade of red, as if he were wearing lipstick. The woman several times adjusted the neckline of her dress as they talked, apparently to give Vogel a better look, glancing around the restaurant first each time to make sure no one was watching. Charles Mallory began to sense that this was what Vogel was paying her to do.

Vogel ordered salmon with bok choy and noodles. He drank a bottle of Kolsch beer, then a second. The woman had saffron seafood risotto and two more flutes of champagne. Charlie slowly sipped at his cucumber soup, watching them.

Throughout the meal, she continued to pull open her dress, allowing him to see increasingly generous amounts of cleavage as they seemed to engage in serious conversation. Vogel peered at her like a scientist studying a specimen. Occasionally, he set paper money on the table and the woman placed it in her purse. It was some sort of game that Vogel was paying her to play. Human aberrations didn’t surprise Charles Mallory much anymore, although he had never seen this particular variety before.

As they prepared to go, the woman allowed him to quickly grope her breasts by the doorway. Then Vogel pushed open the door and walked to his car, which was parked illegally again at the curb.

The woman checked her watch and pulled a cell phone from her purse. Charlie watched her step to the curb to flag down a cab.

He paid his bill, tipping the waiter generously. The waiter graciously bowed.

“Die Frau, die dort mit Herrn Drosky saß?” Charlie said.

The woman who was dining with Mr. Drosky?

“Ja?”

He frowned at Charles Mallory and shook his head, but his expression changed when Charlie pulled out a hundred-franc note.

“Adele. Sie ist ein arbeitsmädchen.”

A working girl
.

TWENTY-FIVE MINUTES AFTER THE
limousine returned Vogel to his office, Charlie called him on the disposable cell phone.

“Ivan Vogel calling for Stefan Drosky,” he said.

The fourth time, Vogel took it. “Look here. What’s this about? Who is this?”

“I just wanted you to know, Ivan: I was right behind you as you walked into the Gundeldingerhof. I watched you as you ordered the salmon. Adele is very attractive, by the way. Now, you don’t want her hurt, do you?” He listened to Vogel breathe. “Ivan?”

“Who is this?”

“Whatever I was going to do to you, I could have done then. To Adele, also,” he added. “I could have walked up behind you and shot you in the back of the head. Both of you. I don’t plan to hurt you, though, unless you make it necessary. It’s your choice.”

“What do you want?”

“I suggest you be careful about what you say right now. Okay?” Charles Mallory felt his anger shifting into higher gear and he took a breath. This was the man his father had been chasing. Who had been a key figure in the Lifeboat Inquiry. His father’s last project.

“I’m afraid you have me confused for someone,” Vogel said.

“No. You’re not paying attention, Ivan. If you say that again, it’s going to cost you. Your choice. The first thing you need to do is go to another phone. Go to the phone kiosk at the intersection with Liestal Street and I’ll talk to you there.”

“When?”

“Right now. And don’t tell anyone, or your friend Adele is killed.”

Vogel hung up. Mallory walked back to the space up on the hill and sat on the stone ledge among the trees. He didn’t know if threatening to kill Adele would make any difference with a man like Vogel, but it couldn’t hurt. Mallory watched the entrance to the building through the field glasses. Less than two minutes later, Vogel stepped
out the front doors again, taking long, determined strides, cutting across traffic. At the phone kiosk, he stood and turned in a semi-circle, looking up at the windows of buildings as smoke rose from the street grates in front of him.

Charlie dialed the pay phone number. Vogel answered.

“Did you tell anyone, Ivan?”

“No.”

“You’re sure.”

“Yes. Sure.”

“Okay. Now,” he said, “place your cell phone on the kiosk counter. Set it down and leave it there. If you have a weapon, leave it there, also.” Mallory watched him as he set his cell phone on the metal counter. “Okay. Now, hang up the phone and walk to the street car stop on Zwingli. Two blocks from there. Get on board the next car and take it across the river. Okay?”

Vogel looked around again.

“Okay?”

Charlie watched him walk up Zwingli Street toward the riverfront, then he began to walk toward it, too, taking a different route.

There were two ways of boarding the streetcar, by the front doors or the back. Vogel went in the front doors, along with five other passengers. Mallory boarded through the back, along with two teenage boys full of tattoos and nose and eyebrow jewelry. Most of the seats were taken. Vogel found one in the front. Charlie stood midway back and watched him as they began to move. The breeze was cooler along the river, the afternoon sun flickering above the horizon. Vogel looked in Mallory’s direction as the streetcar crossed the water.

When a seat opened beside Vogel, Charlie moved up in the car and took it. Vogel seemed to tense, turning his eyes slightly but without looking directly. Charlie studied him, saying nothing: sallow skin, lots of white nose hairs, a loose, fleshy neck. A slight bulge under his overcoat near his heart that was probably a handgun in a shoulder holster. At the next stop, Charles Mallory gripped Vogel’s right arm. “We’ll get out here,” he said.