The plane touched down in Zurich just before dawn, the sky barely starting to lighten. Lynda had not managed more than a few scraps of sleep, restless dreams, brief dozes, and long stretches spent gazing out the window at an ocean of clouds. Somewhere over the Atlantic, she had given up trying to script how the meeting would unfold. She caught herself, predicting outcomes was just another form of trying to keep a grip on things. This time, she realised, she did not want that grip. She wanted ...