Sabina had already gone back inside.

It looked, from the back of that car, like the most ordinary morning in the world.

A busy man leaving.

A household settling into its day.

Every part of it had been arranged the night before, and none of it was true.

The plane was not fueled.

The Toronto meetings did not exist; his assistant had built a decoy itinerary that morning and sent it to exactly four people, three of whom were on his payroll.

There was no hotel.