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Association Nationale des Professionels de la Sécurité des Pistes, ANPSP. How do you say in America? Ski Patrol, oui?”
    She nodded. “Your capitaine had the same logo on her shirt.”
    “For many years, she heads the school for the training. In Chamonix, it is common for the gendarme to take the second job doing the ski rescues. I am instructor there also.”
    They inhaled the chilled night air as the conversation died. Pia thought of several things to say and pushed them back. She glanced at a diagram affixed to the railing. It showed the hydroelectric system as it was built in 1887: the lake, intake, penstock, turbines, and generators. Annotated in four languages.
    While she stared at the sign, she considered her attraction to him. Was it his looks? No, he was handsome but not exceptionally so. His demeanor? Maybe. Most of her boyfriends had been fine until they grasped the extent of her wealth. Then they turned into self-prostrating suck-ups. Alphonse’s directness was refreshing, even admirable. At least, so far.
    His phone chirped three times before he took the call, quickly turning around and taking a few steps. She listened to his voice. Maybe it was his baritone. While she listened, she recognized the words Pont de la Machine and wondered if she might learn French someday. She was impressed that he spoke English so well.
    Alphonse spun around. “I must leave at once. Terrible news. There has been another shooting. Another murdered banker.”
    He turned and ran down the footbridge, past Jonelle and Marty and into the darkness.
    Jonelle put her palms out, asking if everything was OK. Pia considered yelling to her and decided to text instead. A car pulled up at the opposite end of the footbridge as she thumbed out the news to Jonelle. Some other couple would arrive to take in the romantic sights. Until then, she would savor the mood.
    A second murdered banker in the world’s banking capital. What was going on? Should she try to figure it out or take Jonelle’s advice and leave it alone? Marot had never hired them to do anything. Her inexperience had made matters worse at the dress shop. If she stuck around trying to solve Geneva’s problems, she was bound to make more mistakes. Jonelle was right. Murdered bankers were not her—
    Pia’s ears picked up a noise. Someone was running. She knew the sound of running footsteps, athletes on grass, people on treadmills, college girls in boy’s dorms. This was different—not an athlete’s precision-planted steps but aggressive steps, angry steps.
    She looked over her shoulder toward the far shore. A man charged straight toward her. His posture was aggressive. Too aggressive. Her muscles froze. Halfway up the bridge, forty yards out, he stopped and raised an arm. He pointed at her—a blond guy, spiky hair, black boots. Al-Jabal’s accomplice. Beyond him was a small gray car, the driver’s door open.
    She dropped into a squat, then burst up and sideways as a shot banged through the air. She’d faked out defenders around the world, but bullets were faster. Her tricks would probably not work for long against the soldier. She leaned left and snuck a peek over the railing. The plant’s intake platform floated on the water below her, a few yards out. She spun around and ran right as another bang shattered the quiet night.
    Behind her, Agents Marty and Jonelle were closing in as fast as they could but were still not close enough for Sabel darts. She ran for the building, looking for refuge—a column, a bay to hide behind, anything. She needed a few seconds of cover to dig out her gun and return fire. Nothing. The building was a flat brick front.
    She glanced at the shooter, planted her feet and flew backward two yards in a single bound, forcing another miss. His third shot shattered the glass inches from where she’d been. She landed on her butt and rolled in a backward somersault.
    Her memory reeled in lessons from the firing range. A Sig Sauer held eight bullets. He