Zurich, Switzerland

Declan Murphy stood outside the Fraumunster Church and watched. It was September, so there were only a few tourists wandering the area near him. Enough, he thought, to keep him from looking out of place, but not so many that he would have to be worried about being overheard. It was just the amount of foreign voices and selfies he would have chosen, if that sort of thing were possible to control.

Not that Zurich was ever really a city for tourists. The winding pathways filled with shops selling fondue pots were a misdirection. Most tourists came to the city for a day before heading off to Lucerne or the Matterhorn.

The people who stayed usually did so for one reason. Zurich was a city of money. Not always made honestly. Often hidden. It was a city where everyone spoke four languages and kept secrets in each of them.

It was not his favorite place, if only because it reminded him too much of himself.

When it was time, Declan walked inside, up the center aisle, past the massive pillars, to the choir. He was not a religious man. He and God had given up on each other a long time before, but he did like churches. So much sin and forgiveness comingling among the cool air and whispered voices. So much pointless hope.

He took a seat to the left and looked up at the windows. The church was built on the remains of a ninth-century monastery, but that’s not what brought people in. It was the windows. Extraordinary stained-glass windows designed by Marc Chagall when he was in his eighties. Declan breathed out, feeling slightly more free in their presence. Certainly more at peace than he’d felt since he’d left Ireland. Each window was dominated by a color—red, blue, green, yellow—that, in the early morning light, bathed the church with drama and excitement. It was how art was meant to be. Public and private all at once, for everyone who cared to see it. He knew he was a man of few principles, but at least he was consistent in this one belief.

As he sat, watching the softness of the light play off the gray stone of the church’s floor, a man slid next to him.

“Guten Morgen.”

Declan nodded at his new seat-mate, a small man with a Turkish accent. “Morning,” he said.

Like Declan, the man’s eyes were on the windows. He took a deep breath, as if meditating. “You’ve had losses.”

Declan bit the inside of his lip. “Months ago. I’ve put it behind me.”

“You are in need of friends, I think.”

“I’m in need of money, mate.”

The man looked puzzled, but Declan felt no need to explain. “There are those who would pay well for the book,” the man said.

The book. An address book that had been almost within his reach before it was gone. “It was taken by two Americans. Amateurs.”

“They have it?”

Declan shook his head. “I don’t know. Either they have it or they handed it over to Blue.”

Again, the man looked puzzled. This time Declan helped him out.

“They thought it was Interpol. They don’t understand the finer points of the game.”

“Do they know what the book means?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t think Blue knows, either.”

The man let out a breath. Declan hadn’t realized until that moment that the man had been nervous. He allowed himself a half smile at the thought, at knowing he wasn’t the only one with muscles constantly tense, eyes always on the alert.

“You drew attention to yourself recently,” the man said. “Blue is after you.”

“I’m a small fish.”

“But you could point toward the bigger fish if you wanted to.”

“I just want to get off this bloody continent. And I need a bit of cash.”

The man nodded. “Our porteño friend needs some aid.”

“I’d heard there was trouble.”

“The job was bigger than he could handle. It’s brought unwelcome attention, and most are deciding to stay away.”

“Leaving our friend desperate for help.” Declan felt a little thrill at the idea.

The man nodded. “He has a reputation, you know this, for being reckless. Think through carefully before you say yes.”

“But there’s money to be earned.”

“Yes, there is money.”

“And it’s spring in Argentina.”

“A time of renewal. A fresh start.”

As the man spoke a woman moved toward the windows, looking up with the kind of awe that made Declan envy her. Seeing something beautiful for the first time is unlike any other experience.

“Send me the details,” Declan said.

As he got up, the man grabbed his arm. “If things go wrong, I cannot help you. And, from what I understand, there’s no one left in Ireland who can offer you any assistance. You’ll be completely on your own.”

“Not entirely,” Declan said. “There are two people who owe me a favor.”

“Capable people?”

Declan raised an eyebrow, amused at a memory he wasn’t intent on sharing. “Surprisingly so.”