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three diamond necklaces—the work of a French jeweler at the peak of his career. The prices were discreetly hidden. Another display showcased the talents of Swiss watchmakers. Morg scanned the pieces on offer with a connoisseur’s eye.
    A man in his forties and a three-piece suit came around the reception desk to intercept the intruder. He cleared his throat to interrupt the window shopping. “Perhaps I can help you, sir?” Morg adored obsequiousness. He peered down at the man, who was a good ten inches shorter.
    “Sir has a reservation. Sir is awed by the beauty of the place. And sir’s name is Eytan.” He thrust out a virile hand and cracked a big smile. “And you are?”
    “Er, Friedkin. James Friedkin. I’m the night manager, sir.”
    “Tsk-tsk. Eytan.”
    “Yes. Eytan. Would you care to step to my desk to check in?”
    “With pleasure, James.”
    A few minutes and some fastidious formalities later, the night manager ushered his guest into a studio suite. Morg glanced appreciatively at the king-size bed and the living area separated from the sleeping area by a brown velvet couch. Above all, he was blown away by the floor-to-ceiling windows offering an unbeatable view of the Manhattan skyline.
    A bellhop, slightly awkward in his old-fashioned red uniform, arrived with a black case, which he handed to James before snapping to attention.
    “Sir, your assistant left this case for you yesterday,” James said to Morg. “As per your instructions, we kept it in the vault until you arrived.”
    “Fine, James. Thank you very much for your warm welcome. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to…” He nodded toward the door.
    “Of course, sir…er, Eytan. Enjoy your stay. Don’t hesitate to ask if you need anything.” In a flash, the two hotel employees were in the hallway, hundred-dollar bills in their hands. They chatted briefly about this strange but friendly guest before going back to their duties.
    Morg grabbed the case and settled down on the couch. No opening mechanism was visible. Another innovation from the guys at R&D. He positioned his thumbs on the sides of the handle and heard a slight click. The top half of the case swung up, revealing the precious contents. Morg reached for the two magazines first and slipped them into his jacket pockets. Then he took out a brown paper envelope, which held a tidy sum of cash, half American bills, half euros. He guessed it was at least twenty grand. Working for Mossad brought little thrills like this. A second envelope held a series of pictures of a blond guy with a buzz cut, the kind of player who’d spend more time in front of the bathroom mirror than in the library. The detailed description revealed that blondie was thirty-one and a financial whiz in a booming Wall Street firm. Bachelor, no kids. Unfortunately for him, he had no military training. Finally and most important, Morg looked at the assignment codes. Two applied to this Jeremy Corbin guy: 111a and 111b. The first, surveillance, was hardly surprising. It was the second that elicited a heavy sigh from Agent Morg. Grumbling, he drew his gun and checked the clip.
    At the same time in Poughkeepsie, the night nurses at Saint Francis Hospital were preparing the patients’ morning medications. The two nurses swapped raunchy remarks about the new oncologist, whose model good looks would make an appetizing afternoon snack in the storeroom. They continued discussing their not entirely implausible fantasy as they left the room. In the hallway, a colleague with short red hair and an athletic build passed by and nodded to them. She was a few inches shy of six feet, with a pale, angular face and small brown eyes that lent it a cruel expression.
    The two friends were too busy laughing to see her swing into the room they had just left.
    The girls are burning it up on the dance floor. Rapid-cut videos play on two huge screens. My skull’s pounding with the heavy bass. The seething mass in the stroboscopes is whooping