It was not long before he discovered why his surveillance expert had not reported on schedule—she was dead, shot sometime between three and four o’clock this morning. Crossing his arms, Bosa mulled. Her murder explained the lapse before her most recent e-mailed report. Whoever had written it had been motivated to pretend she was still alive. The logical deduction was Krot had wiped her then impersonated her to lull Bosa into thinking nothing unusual was going on in Marrakech. Bosa felt his iPhone vibrate. He checked the digital identification—Sacher Torte. Bosa answered immediately. “You have news?” “More than that … an answer.” There was an unusual amount of steel in the timbre of the old voice, which told Bosa something had happened—or was about to. “I did some digging into the woman Krot’s been romancing. From everything I could learn, her American identity started some twenty-five years ago. Before then, she was a cipher. So I ran her face through several Cold War data banks of known spies.
