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“—And if he moves the hat from his left arm to his right?”

“That’s the abort signal.”

“Yeah. He’s spotted someone we can’t afford getting involved with.”

Switzerland was surrounded by vast territory under Axis control. And with Adolf Hitler wanting to grind his boot heel on its neck, the Swiss were not going to give the belligerent Nazi leader any excuse to even attempt an invasion. Thus, it was the job of the Swiss foreign police—Fremdenpolizei—to keep an eye on those who might violate Switzerland’s neutrality.

Their job was without end—the country was infested with spies of all stripes, particularly the German Abwehr’s Kriegsorganisation—War Organization—but also the SS’s Gestapo, and of course agents from the Office of Strategic Services and England’s Special Operations Executive (SOE) and Secret Intelligence Service (SIS, known as MI-6). The vast majority operated with either a diplomatic or commercial cover.

Sanderson went on: “Fritz said this place is crawling with Kraut spies and that Dulles’s contacts have ID’d at least fifteen hundred.”

Fulmar grunted. “Yeah, it’s called the German Fucking Embassy. And I bet Dulles has tried turning all of them.”

Sanderson chuckled.

Allen Welsh Dulles, carrying credentials of a diplomat with the United States Legation to Switzerland, was OSS deputy director for Europe.

Sanderson glanced at his wristwatch, then looked over his shoulder. “Two minutes. Be careful, buddy.”

Fulmar picked up a soft leather briefcase—one packed with $10,000 in mixed currencies, all counterfeit but $500 in U.S. ten-dollar bills—and the white Sprüngli confectionery bag that was next to it.

“Jawohl, mein Führer!” Fulmar said drily in flawless German, then nodded and continued in equally flawless English: “Don’t worry about me. Just make sure you guys grab the bastard after the exchange. See you back at the safe house.”

He reached for the door handle, worked it, and swung open the door with a creak of its hinges. A cold gust blew in, and as he stepped out he turned up his woolen coat collar against the wind.

* * *

Geoff Sanderson watched as Eric Fulmar more or less casually made his way down Kramgasse. The briefcase and the white Sprüngli confectionery bag Fulmar carried in his left hand. His right hand was in his overcoat pocket, gripping his .45.

A minute later, as Fulmar passed some twenty feet in front of Fritz, Fritz moved his ice cream to his left hand, then used his right hand to turn the homburg so that its crown touched his chest.

Sanderson caught the signal and quickly scanned the crowd as he put the Mercedes in gear. It took him a moment but—There! Coming out from beneath the tower!—he first saw the two white bags and then the contact—a man who looked to be in his late thirties and oddly resembled his code name.

The Sparrow had a bony face with beady eyes and a beak of a nose. He had short legs—he stood maybe five-two—and was thin, almost sickly-looking.

The Sparrow stopped, put the bags at his feet, then pulled out a cigarette and lit it. He nervously exhaled as he surveyed the crowd around him. He then noticed a tall blond man approaching with a leather briefcase and a Sprüngli confectionery bag—and immediately looked in the opposite direction.

Sanderson then watched as Fulmar stopped and asked the Sparrow for a cigarette. Then, Sanderson knew, they exchanged their code messages: “I don’t know which is a worse habit, the actual smoking or always asking for a free smoke,” answered with “Everything must have its price, including chocolate.”

Sanderson let out on the clutch and slowly rolled toward the men.

He scanned the crowd for anyone who might be taking unusual interest in Fulmar and the Sparrow, noticed none, then watched as Fulmar placed his leather briefcase and confectionery bag beside where the Sparrow had put his two.

The Sparrow produced a cigarette and, after passing it and then lighting it for Fulmar, exchanged nods, reached down to the bags—and grabbed the handle of only the leather case. He turned and tried to casually walk away, but it was clear that he was motioning nervously with his cigarette as he went.

Sanderson watched Fulmar, his lit cigarette hanging from his lips, smoothly scoop up the three Sprüngli confectionery bags in his left hand, then quickly disappear in the crowd at the foot of the Zeitglocke.

At almost the same time, Sanderson saw Fritz put the homburg on his head and carefully track the Sparrow as he walked up Kramgasse in their direction.

Sanderson maneuvered the Mercedes so that the vehicle would be positioned directly in front of Fritz, with the Sparrow, walking at a good clip, soon to be between them.

As the Sparrow nervously scanned the crowd, then the taxi, and then the crowd again, two men in heavy dark clothing and hats suddenly converged on him from behind. One man held at his hip what appeared to be a snub-nosed revolver.

“Oh, shit!” Sanderson said aloud, then saw the gun raised and aimed at the Sparrow’s back.

Sanderson began hammering the taxi’s horn as he reached for the .45 on the seat beside him. Fritz saw what was happening and pulled out his pistol as he moved quickly toward the Sparrow’s attackers.

It was too late.