Dagmar was aware only of being trapped, that she could die in this car and not know what to do.

There was a metallic noise as Putri drew her knife. Dagmar stared at it. It was unlike any knife she’d ever seen, a nasty S-shaped thing with a bright little hook at the end, just the size to cut off someone’s finger.

TINAG, she thought. This is not a game.

There was a flash, a bang, and a singing of metal. Someone was shooting.

Abu Bakar leaned out the window and yelled at the driver of the rear car. Then all three cars were scrambling backward as fast as they could go. Crumbling brick walls shot past, and parked vehicles. Whoever had the gun held his fire.

After it put some distance between itself and pursuit, the convoy sorted itself out and began moving westward. Abu Bakar shouted into his cell phone. Dagmar tried to slow her racing heart.

“That kampung,” Putri said, her face white, “was captured by friends of the military.” She sheathed her knife.

“I see,” Dagmar said. She was trying not to gasp for breath.

Abu Bakar managed to reroute his convoy. Now the tank farm was on the right. Then Dagmar scented the iodine smell of the sea, and her nerves gave a little thrill. Despite all obstacles, they had managed to come near the sea. The sea, where rescue floated somewhere in the darkness.

The convoy moved east, and now there was water on the left. Then the convoy turned left and was driving down a long jetty. Wooden schooners floated left and right, all in the local style, with a distinctive raked prow. Some had anchored out in the water, where no one could reach them, but some were drawn right to the pier, their fabulously raked stems and bowsprits hanging over the jetty like openmouthed sharks caught in the act of devouring their prey.

The convoy drove unmolested to the end of the pier. Abu Bakar, very calm now, made a call on the cell phone.

Doors opened. People got out of the cars, stretched, breathed in the sea-drenched scent of the land breeze. Dagmar wandered about in a daze.

A boat engine throbbed somewhere in the darkness. The lead car flashed its headlights. Dagmar stared hopefully out to sea, and then she saw it, a blue and white boat with a tall mast and an extravagantly raked stem in the local fashion. The engine cut out, and the boat made a gentle curve and came up broadside to the jetty. Two crew members threw out rope mats to cushion any impact with the pier, then cast lines to lasso bollards with practiced efficiency. Dagmar saw that jerricans of fuel were lashed to the pilot house. A man in a baseball cap peered out of the pilot house and called over.

“Is Dagmar here?”

She wanted to jump in the air, whoop, wave her arms.

“I’m here,” she said, and then realized her voice was pitched too low. “I’m here!” she repeated, louder this time.

“Good! Come on the boat!”

Dagmar took the time to embrace Putri, the girl who had been willing to draw a knife to protect her. She hugged Abu Bakar as well, much to his surprise. And then she let Widjihartani in his baseball cap help her onto the boat. Lines were cast off, and Dagmar’s last view of Indonesia was of her rescuers lined up on the pier, silhouetted against the car lights, waving as she set off on her return to the Western Paradise.

I never got to meet Billy the Kid, she thought.

Maybe next time.

The dawn rose over the moving ocean, throwing the schooner’s long, dark shadow before it over the sea. Red sun twinkled from the wave caps, long rollers driven by the dry monsoon. Java was well out of sight, but there were islands off the starboard bow. Dagmar stared out over the stern and smelled breakfast cooking.

Suddenly “Harlem Nocturne” rang out over the throb of the engine. Dagmar saw “Charlies Friend” on the display, laughed, and answered.

“Hello, darling,” said Tomer Zan. “How are you?”

“I’m in a boat,” Dagmar said, “heading for Singapore.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Good,” Zan said finally. “The helicopter was crap anyway.”

“Well,” said Dagmar, “I’m sure you tried your best.”

No points to you, she thought.

No world domination, no donut.

FROM: LadyDayFan

It has been pointed out to me that this image has appeared briefly on flat-screen billboards in major cities.

The image is a sem@code, a type of bar code that leads to Web content and, once decoded with the proper software, leads us to this Web page, where we find still photographs of a young woman in what appears to be an ordinary motel room. We also have an inventory of her possessions.

Looks like a rabbit hole to me.

I have started the usual series of topics under the name Motel Room Blues, which will serve until something better comes along. This announcement will be copied to the Introduction.

Anyone want to play?

FROM: Corporal Carrot

I’m in!

FROM: HexenHase

Me too. And hey, the lady is armed and dangerous. I think that pistol is a Firestar, probably the 9mm M-43 variation.

The Firestar is a Spanish pistol. I wonder if it is a clue to her place of origin.

FROM: Desi

Her driver’s license is from California and gives her name as Briana Hall. But she’s checked into the motel under the name of Iris Fitzgerald.

FROM: Hippolyte

Hey, cool! I’m in!

FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

If you download the picture of the driver’s license and enlarge it, you find tiny numbers inserted just below the photo: 01100011011101010110110001101100011001010110111000100111011100110010000001100100011001010110000101100100 (if I have that transcribed correctly).

Which is binary, and which converted to decimal is 6518124.

FROM: Corporal Carrot

6518124? Is that a phone number?

FROM: Hippolyte

But which area code?

FROM: Corporal Carrot

I’ll call them all!

FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

I’ll have to get on my other computer before I’m able to convert the binary to roman numerals. That could be important, too.

FROM: Hippolyte

File the 6518124 until later. I’m sure we’ll need it.

FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

File along with the fact that 216 plus 6518124 is 6518340, which could be a whole = other = phone number. I = never = think numbers are coincidence.

FROM: LadyDayFan

I’ve just converted that binary string into ASCII, and it says “cullen’s dead.” Which is probably the clue that you’re really after.

FROM: Chatsworth Osborne Jr.

‹glyph of slapping forehead›

FROM: Consuelo

Hey, guys! Among the contents of Briana’s bag is an invitation to Planet Nine, which is an online RPG. They’re offering free membership for the next eight weeks, which suggests the length of the ARG.