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Jeno studied my face. "Not bad," was all he said before falling silent again. "Not bad," he said finally, "but we don't use blue cars. It will be white. And since you have plenty of money, get a brioche for me, too."

3

Saturday morning I wasn't hungry, but I didn't think Jeno would take that as an excuse to scrub his operation, so I did everything as directed. The taxi driver scowled, the nice lady in the patisserie popped the croissants into the bag. The note told the driver to take me to Le Pre Byron, the bench closest to the Villa Diodati. A red car, a Peugeot, stopped on the road below. I had just sat back to enjoy the view when a man appeared beside me. At first I didn't recognize him.

"Hand puppets," he said.

"Three-legged dogs." I nodded. "You look different in the light."

"You're supposed to have an extra brioche."

"You want some money back?"

"I hope you remember operational details better than you do pastry orders."

"I owe you. Do we sit here until lunch?"

"You get on a train, a local. Just past Flamatt there is a truck yard, on the left. There will be a blue truck at the far end."

"Jeno said you didn't use blue."

"Cars. We don't use blue cars. Trucks fall under different rules. Is that alright?"

"Fine."

"If the blue truck has a red flag on its antenna, stay on the train until Bern. Not a bright red, sort of dirty. Like dried blood. That means it's a go. The conductress will punch your ticket and give you the last-stage instructions. But remember, she has the final go-ahead, or not."

"And how does she let me know? A cross-eyed look?"

"She'll take your ticket, punch it, and hand it back. Might not be the same one. Look at it. Anything other than today's date, it's a bust. If she doesn't like the way things smell, if she sees someone she doesn't think belongs, she calls it off."

"Then what?"

"You get off at whatever station tickles your fancy and look around. Get some dinner. Then just come back. Nothing lost, and whoever it was that stumbled into our midst will have wasted a day."

"This is the most elaborate, complicated, irritating operation I've ever heard of. I can see twenty points where it could fall apart."

"Oh, yeah? We've been through it twenty times. It works." He stopped. "It works as long as everyone plays his part."

"Why? Why is it so complicated?"

"You want me to simplify? Someone important is coming to meet you. He's coming a long way and going to a lot of trouble. We don't want anyone else to see the meeting. No one. If we could take you to Israel it would be better. Want some sun?"

"Not on your life."

"I told Jeno you wouldn't take that option. It's not such a long flight. All the engines on the plane up to snuff."

"No."

"We could put a sack over your head, give you an injection, put you in a crate, and ship you by air freight."

"Try it, I dare you."

He shrugged.

"What makes you think I want to see a visitor? Who is he, anyway? I don't run after people I haven't been properly introduced to. Someone high up in your organization, I imagine." I didn't wait long for a response, because I didn't suppose there would be one. "Very flattering, that a mystery man would come all this way to meet me. If it's not too late, you should tell him not to bother. We could say I have a prior appointment. That would save him a trip." A blank look. "Or maybe he's already here. A shame, busy man like him, having to come all this way for nothing. The Number Two in your organization? Not the Number One; surely no organization, not even yours, would set up a meeting for your Number One without first checking that the other party was available."

"Are you going to eat both croissants?"

4

If Sohn had still been alive, maybe he would have told me to go ahead and take the trip to Flamatt to meet whoever had traveled from Tel Aviv, probably to talk about the deal to stop missile sales. But Sohn wasn't alive; he was dead. I was in Switzerland because Sohn had put me here. And even though he was dead, the orders he'd given me were not. They hadn't changed. At least, no one told me they had been changed. No one had told me anything.

So I bought a round-trip ticket and boarded the train. The scenery was fine; groomed beyond all possibility. Geneva at least had grime on some windows. The countryside looked like it was trimmed and inspected every morning. Nothing out of place; even the cows knew enough to stand in appropriate groups. An occasional farmhouse screamed out, painted in loud colors. A mark of rebellion, I thought. It surprised me that such paint was even available here; it must be smuggled in from Italy.

About thirty minutes out of Geneva, a young couple came into the car and, without a word, sat down on the seat facing mine. They looked South Asian, the woman much younger than the man. I figured the Israelis would have someone, maybe a couple of people, watching me on the train, but otherwise I thought I would be left alone. No contact, other than with the conductor. So who was this couple?

The man was striking to look at, a very dark complexion and sharply defined features. He was also well dressed. The woman seemed uncomfortable, in physical distress of some sort, and leaned on his shoulder. He paid no attention to her, but looked out the window without much interest. At last he turned to me. "You are a traveler in this country?" His English was clipped, with a bit of a singsong to it. I might have enjoyed talking to him, but I had the feeling that was something I didn't want to do. There were plenty of empty seats in the car. They shouldn't be sitting knee to knee with me. He was waiting for me to reply.

"You might say I'm a traveler. Would your companion like to stretch out on this seat? I can move."

The man ignored the offer. "From where do you come?"

Briefly, I considered the possibilities. "I'm Mexican," I said. "And you?

"Sri Lanka." He murmured something to the woman, who picked up her head and nodded to me. "My wife is from Pakistan. She has become quite homesick and a little feverish in this place." He waved his hand at the passing landscape. "It's very neat, wouldn't you say?" The woman put her head on his shoulder again and closed her eyes. He closed his eyes as well for a moment, and then opened them suddenly. "Do you travel much?"

"Some." I realized I had seen him before. What was he doing on this train? How did he know me?

"Some." He repeated the word slowly. "Have you ever been to Pakistan?"

"Me?" From anyone else, someone who hadn't been in the second-row photo M. Beret had put on the table in the Sunflower cafe, someone who hadn't been standing next to my brother, this all might have passed for polite conversation between strangers on a train. If he had been a Martian, he might have been asking innocently, "Have you ever been to Pluto?" But this wasn't polite conversation. His presence was poison. I stood up. "Please excuse me; I can't ride backward for very long. I've got to find another seat."

The man gave me an odd smile and looked out the window. "Should we ever visit Mexico," he said, "no doubt we'll run across each other." I don't know what sarcasm sounds like in Sri Lanka, but that must have been it.

5

Two cars ahead, I found a seat facing forward and sat down. I had the coach to myself. I didn't bother to sit on the left side because I had a feeling there wasn't any use looking for a flag on a blue truck. The man from Sri Lanka didn't follow me. From the odd smile he gave me, though, I didn't think this was in the script for Jeno?s operation. Maybe they should have gone through it twenty-one times. Jeno surely would have told me to expect the dark man. Who was he? He might be working for M. Beret, at least he was in one of M. Beret's photographs. But M. Beret's file vaults probably contained miles of photographs. I was running through the list of possibilities from habit-even though I already knew the answer. The man knew my brother. Lots of people knew my brother, to their regret I imagined, but not that many would be photographed with him. It was always possible the man worked with Sohn, more likely against him. What if the man had murdered Sohn? Once you start making up lists of possibilities, they can go on reproducing and mutating for a while all by themselves. It's like having the flu. You get better eventually, or you don't. The last thing on the list isn't necessarily right, but it tends to stick with you.