Krater got closest to the needle.

For sixty euros, Marco purchased a first-class ticket in hopes that he could avoid the exposure of traveling by coach. For the ride north, the first-class car was the last one, and Marco climbed aboard at five— thirty, forty-five minutes before departure. He settled into his seat, hid his face as much as possible behind the sunglasses and the tan straw hat, opened the book of Polish poetry, and gazed out at the platform where passengers walked by his train. Some were barely five feet away, all in a hurry.

Except one. The guy on the bus was back; the face from Caffe Atene; probably the sticky-fingered thug who'd grabbed his blue Silvio bag; the same bloodhound who'd been a step too slow off the bus in Modena about eleven hours ago. He was walking but not going anywhere. His eyes were squinted, his forehead wrinkled in a deep frown. For a professional, he was much too obvious, thought Giovanni Ferro, who, unfortunately, now knew much more than he wanted to know about ducking and hiding and covering tracks.

Krater had been told that Marco would probably head either south to Rome, where he had more options, or north to Switzerland, Germany, France-virtually the entire continent to choose from. For five hours Krater had been strolling along the twelve platforms, watching as the trains came and went, mixing with the crowds, not concerned at all with who was getting off but paying desperate attention to who was getting on. Every blue jacket of any shade or style got his attention, but he had yet to see one with the worn elbow patches.

It was in the cheap black briefcase wedged between Marcos feet, in seat number seventy of the first-class car to Stuttgart. Marco watched Krater amble along the platform, paying very close attention to the train whose final destination was Stuttgart. He was holding what appeared to be a ticket, and as he walked out of sight Marco could swear that he got on the train.

Marco fought the urge to get off. The door to his cabin opened, and Madame entered.

Once it was determined that Backman had disappeared, and was not finally dead at the hands of someone else, a frenetic five hours passed before Julia Javier found the information that should've been close by. It was found in a file that had been locked away in the director's office, and once guarded by Teddy Maynard himself. If Julia had ever seen the information, she could not remember. And, in the chaos, she was certainly not going to admit anything.

The information had come, reluctantly, from the FBI years earlier when Backman was being investigated. His financial dealings were under great scrutiny because the rumors were wild that he'd bilked a client and buried a fortune. So where was the money? In search of it, the FBI had been piecing together his travel history when he abruptly pled guilty and was sent away. The guilty plea didn't close the Backman file, but it certainly removed the pressure. With time, the travel research was completed, and eventually sent over to Langley.

In the month before Backman was indicted, arrested, and released on a very restricted bail arrangement, he had made two quick trips to Europe. For the first one, he'd flown Air France business class with his favorite secretary to Paris, where they frolicked for a few days and saw the sights. She later told investigators that Backman had spent one long day dashing off to Berlin for some quick business, but made it back in time for dinner at Alain Ducasse. She did not accompany him.

There were no records of Backman traveling by a commercial airliner to Berlin, or anywhere else within Europe, during that week. A passport would've been required, and the FBI was positive he had not used his. A passport would not have been required for a train ride. Geneva, Bern, Lausanne, and Zurich are all within four hours of Paris by train.

The second trip was a seventy-two-hour sprint from Dulles, first class on Lufthansa to Frankfurt, again for business, though no business contacts had been discovered there. Backman had paid for two nights in a luxury hotel in Frankfurt, and there was no evidence that he had slept elsewhere. Like Paris, the banking centers of Switzerland are within a few hours' train ride from Frankfurt.

When Julia Javier finally found the file and read the report, she immediately called Whitaker and said, "He's headed for Switzerland."

Madame had enough luggage for an affluent family of five. A harried porter helped her haul the heavy suitcases on board and into the first-class car, which she consumed with herself, her belongings, and her perfume. The cabin had six seats, at least four of which she laid claim to. She sat in one across from Marco and wiggled her ample rear as if to make it expand. She glanced at him, cowering against the window, and gushed over a sultry "Bonsoir." French, he thought, and since it didn't seem right to respond in Italian, he relied on old faithful. "Hello."

"Ah, American."

With languages, identities, names, cultures, backgrounds, lies, lies, and more lies all swirling around, he managed to say with no conviction whatsoever, "No, Canadian."

"Ah, yes," she said, still arranging bags and settling in. Evidently American would've been more welcome than Canadian. Madame was a robust woman of sixty, with a tight red dress, thick calves, and stout black pumps that had traveled a million miles. Her heavily decorated eyes were puffy, and the reason was soon evident. Long before the train moved, she pulled out a large flask, unscrewed its top which became a cup, and knocked back a shot of something strong. She swallowed hard, then smiled at Marco and said, "Would you like a drink?"

"No thanks."

"It's a very good brandy."

"No thanks."

"Very well." She poured another one, drained it, then put away the flask.

A long train ride just got longer.

"Where are you going?" she asked in very good English.

"Stuttgart. And you?"

"Stuttgart, then on to Strasbourg. Can't stay too long in Stuttgart, you know." Her nose wrinkled as if the entire city was swimming in raw sewage.

"I love Stuttgart," Marco said, just to watch it unwrinkle.

"Oh, well.1' Her shoes caught her attention. She kicked them off with little regard as to where they might land. Marco braced for a jolt of foot odor but then realized it had little chance of competing with the cheap perfume.

In self-defense, he pretended to nod off. She ignored him for a few minutes, then said loudly, "You speak Polish?" She was looking at his book of poetry.

He jerked his head as if he'd just been awakened. "No, not exactly. I'm trying to learn it, though. My family is Polish." He held his breath as he finished, half expecting her to unleash a torrent of proper Polish and bury him with it.

"I see," she said, not really approving.

At exactly 6:15, an unseen conductor blew a whistle and the train started to move. Fortunately, there were no other passengers assigned to Madame's car. Several had walked down the aisle and stopped, glanced in, seen the congestion, then moved on to another cabin where there was more room.

Marco watched the platform intensely as they began moving. The man from the bus was nowhere to be seen.

Madame worked the brandy until she began snoring. She was awakened by the conductor who punched their tickets. A porter came through with a pushcart loaded with drinks. Marco bought a beer and offered one to his cabinmate. His offer was greeted with another mammoth wrinkle of the nose, as if she'd rather drink urine.

Their first stop was Como/San Giovanni, a two-minute break during which no one got on. Five minutes later they stopped at Chiasso. It was almost dark now, and Marco was pondering a quick exit. He studied the itinerary; there were four more stops before Zurich, one in Italy and three in Switzerland. Which country would work best?