CENTRAL EUROPEAN TIME The phone shattered Standish Harrington’s tranquillity as he sat on the balcony of his Swiss chalet, watching the sunset purpling the waters of Lake Geneva. He watched a Jet Skier draw a chalk-line across the mirrored surface, sipping sherry and smelling the bratwursts his girlfriend was grilling. Standish was a happily retired investment banker at the ripe old age of forty-seven. He was indebted to several politicians, who had provided him with a platinum parachute to bail out of his own financial Hindenburg. But the parachute had come with a lot of strings attached. One of them was attached to the phone, whenever it might ring, for the rest of his life. He noted the number of the incoming call and picked it up, waving off his girlfriend, who walked away, annoyed. “Yes?” he answered. Someone proceeded to give him the names and numbers of two men who might be susceptible to a financial incentive for accepting a certain assignment. The task was to make sure that neither of the hendros joining a certain dangerous expedition survived.
