It was only at seven a.m. that the port turbine engine belonging to the Gulfstream IV was finally repaired and the jet made ready for takeoff from Bern-Belp airport. Despite Marcus von Daniken’s offer of lodging, Philip Palumbo had remained on board, choosing to sleep on a couch at the rear of the passenger compartment.

As the jet pushed back from the terminal, Palumbo left his seat and ducked through the aft hatch that led to the luggage compartment. The cargo area was a tight space with a sloping ceiling, absent windows. Three suitcases were stacked in one corner. Pushing them aside, he kneeled and slid back a panel in the floor that concealed a sturdy stainless steel handle. Giving a yank, he pulled a section of floor clear to reveal a seven-foot by four-foot compartment kitted out with a mattress and belt restraints.

Lying inside the compartment was a slim, olive-skinned man dressed in a white jumpsuit, his hands and feet bound by flexi-cuffs and connected by a perp chain. His beard had been shaved. His black hair cut to a soldier’s regulation length. The diaper he wore was also regulation. All were measures designed to depersonalize the prisoner and make him feel powerless and vulnerable.

He looked like a young man. With his wire-rimmed glasses he might have been a university student or a computer programmer. His name was Walid Gassan. He was thirty-one years of age, an avowed terrorist linked at one time or another to Islamic Jihad, Hezbollah, and like every self-respecting Islamic fanatic, Al-Qaeda.

Palumbo hauled the prisoner to his feet and guided him into the passenger compartment, where he pushed him into a seat and attached the seat belt tight around his waist. He spent a moment daubing Mercurochrome on Gassan’s ruined fingers. He’d given up three fingernails before Palumbo had quit.

“Where are you taking me?” asked Gassan.

Palumbo didn’t answer. Leaning down, he unlocked the man’s foot restraints and spent a moment massaging the prisoner’s calves to keep his circulation active. He didn’t want Gassan to drop dead of deep vein thrombosis before they squeezed some information out of him.

“I am an American citizen,” Gassan went on defiantly. “I have rights. Where are you taking me? I demand to be told.”

There was a maxim that had sprung up about extraordinary rendition. If the CIA wanted to question someone, they sent him to Jordan. If they wanted to torture him, they sent him to Syria. If they wanted him to disappear off the face of the earth, they sent him to Egypt.

“Think of it as a surprise, Haji.”

“My name isn’t Haji!”

“You’re right,” said Palumbo with menace. “You know what? You don’t have a name. As far as the world is concerned, you no longer exist.” He snapped his fingers an inch from the prisoner’s nose. “You just disappeared into thin air.”

Palumbo buckled himself in as the jet lifted into the air. A screen at the head of the cabin showed the plane’s progress on a world map, along with updates about its speed, the outside temperature, and time to destination. After a few minutes heading north, the Gulfstream banked to the left until its nose pointed south by southeast. Toward the Mediterranean Sea.

“I’ll give you one more chance,” said Palumbo. “Talk now or later. I can promise you that the first option is the one you want to take.”

Gassan’s timid brown eyes darted toward him. “I have nothing to say.”

Palumbo sighed, shaking his head. Another hardcase. “What about the explosives you picked up in Germany? Let’s start there.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t.”

He looked at Gassan, imagining the terrible things that the young man had done, the deaths he had caused, the families he had torn. And then he thought about what the man would face when they landed.

In four hours’ time, Mr. Walid Gassan would get his due.

A knock came at the door.

“Moment, bitte.” Jonathan pulled a worn Basque sweater over his T-shirt and slipped into a pair of moccasins as he walked to the door. “Yes?”

The hotel manager stood in the hallway. “On behalf of all the staff, may I offer our heartfelt condolences,” he said. “If there is anything I or any member of my staff can do…”

“Thank you,” said Jonathan. “But I’m alright for the moment.”

The manager nodded, but did not leave. Instead, he drew a buff envelope out of his jacket and extended it toward Jonathan. “Some mail. For your wife.”

Jonathan took the envelope and held it under the light. It was addressed to “Emma Ransom, Hotel Bellevue, Poststrasse, Arosa.” The script was large, bold, and meticulous. A man’s hand, he thought automatically. He turned the letter over. There was no name or return address.

“A day late, I’m afraid,” explained the hotelier. “The crew enlarging the railway tunnel near St. Peter-Molinas brought down an avalanche on the tracks. I explained it all to Mrs. Ransom. She was quite upset. I must apologize.”

“You talked to Emma about this?”

“Yes. Saturday evening before dinner.”

“So she was expecting this letter?”

“She whispered something about a birthday. She made me promise to hold it for her.”

A birthday? Jonathan’s thirty-eighth was March 13, more than a month off. “That must be it. Thank you.”

Closing the door, he walked to the bedroom, turning the envelope over in his hands. Emma Ransom. Hotel Bellevue. Poststrasse, Arosa. The postmark was smudged. While the date remained legible, the name of the town where the letter had been posted was blurred. The first letter was an “A,” unless, of course, it was an “R.” The second letter was a “c,” or an “o,” or maybe an “e.” The third an “l” or an “i.”

He gave up. It was useless.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, he slipped a thumb beneath the flap. Taken by the blue express stamp, he paused. It meant the letter had been mailed Friday for next-day delivery.

Again, he turned it over. No return address.

How long had he suspected? Six months? A year? Was it only after Emma’s trip to Paris, or had there been intimations before? Hints that he should have picked up on, but had been too busy to notice.

It was no exaggeration to say that he loved her madly. “Madly” was such a frightening word. It suggested carelessness and danger and abandon. Nothing like his feelings for Emma. His love for Emma had been based on an absolute absence of doubt. He saw her and he knew. The crooked grin that said, “Try me. I’m game.” The wild mane of auburn hair that she refused to tame. The torn jeans that cried out for mending. “There are more important things, Jonathan, than putting your hair in braids and wearing a clean frock.” The challenging gaze that demanded the best of him. It was as if she had been run up and made especially for him. He held nothing back, because she didn’t either.

Yes, he loved her madly. But he had not loved her blindly.

Over the past months, she’d shown a growing disinterest in work. Once routine fourteen-hour days were cut to twelve, and then to eight. As a regional director of logistics for Doctors Without Borders, Emma was in charge of coordinating relief operations for the Middle East. This meant she supervised the hiring and training of staff and volunteers, oversaw shipments of supplies, liaised with local government agencies, and kept a handle on finances needed to keep the operation up and running. It was a hectic job, to say the least.

At first, he attributed her slowing down to burnout. Emma had always been one to drive herself too hard. Her flame burned too brightly. “Incandescent” was not too strong a word. It was natural to need a rest.

But there were other signs. Headaches. Solitary walks. Protracted silences. He had felt the distance between them growing day by day.