All of it had begun after Paris.

Jonathan ran the envelope back and forth between his fingers. It weighed nothing. He guessed there was a single sheet of paper inside. He flipped the letter over and stared at the blank expanse where a return address belonged. A Swiss who didn’t put his name on an envelope was one step removed from a traitor. It was a national offense right up there with violating bank secrecy and filching the recipe for Lindt’s milk chocolate.

If not a traitor, then what?

A succession of four sonorous beeps emanated from the radio. An officious British voice announced: “It is twelve o’clock noon Greenwich Mean Time. This is the World Service of the BBC. The news read by…”

But in Jonathan’s mind, a different voice was speaking. Open it, it urged him. Open it now and get it over with.

If only it were that simple, he mused.

The fact was, he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to open it at all. Emma was dead. His memories of her were all that remained. He didn’t want to taint them. He brought the letter closer and his thoughts traveled to the one place he never wanted them to visit again.

Paris…where Emma had gone for a girls’ weekend to drown herself in culture and croissants and the new Chagall exhibit.

Paris…where Emma had disappeared for two days and two nights and not even his most fevered messages could reach her.

Paris…

Jonathan is asleep in his tent, lying on top of his cot in boxers and nothing else. At three in the morning, the heat is still oppressive. It has been a hot summer, even by the taxing standards of the Middle East. During the months he has lived and worked in the Bekaa Valley, he has learned to sleep and sweat at the same time.

The cot next to him is empty. Emma has left for a week’s visit to Europe. Four days at the agency headquarters in Geneva, then three days in Paris, where she will join her best friend, Simone, for a whirlwind tour of the City of Light. There will be an afternoon at the Jeu de Paume, an evening enjoying the Son et Lumière at Versailles. With her old exuberance, Emma has blocked out every minute of their days.

The sound of motors awakens him. The night growls with the approach of a mechanized invasion. Jonathan raises his head from his pillow. A gunshot shatters the darkness.

Jonathan scrambles from his bed and rushes outside. Rashid, a young Palestinian, stands in front of the hospital, arms outstretched, blocking entry. Two mud-encrusted pickups are parked nearby. Music blares from their speakers. A minor-key melody with a sledgehammer beat. A squad of armed militiamen encircles the boy, prodding at him with the barrels of their machine guns, shouting at him to unlock the doors. Jonathan forces his way into their midst. “What do you want?” he asks in rudimentary Arabic.

“You are in charge?” says the leader, a sallow youth of twenty with a wispy beard and catlike eyes. “You are the doctor?”

“I’m the doctor,” Jonathan answers.

“We need medicine. Tell this boy to get out of the way.”

“Never,” shouts Rashid. He is an angry youth, fifteen years old and fiercely independent. Since Jonathan and Emma’s arrival, he has been at their side constantly. Jonathan is his idol and mentor, his patron saint and most sacred charge. Rashid plans on studying medicine, if only to care for his numerous relatives. The hospital belongs to him as much as the aid workers.

“Please,” says Jonathan, with a smile to soothe raw nerves. “Let me help. Are you ill? Is one of your men hurt?”

“It is my father,” says the rabble’s leader. “His heart. He requires medicine.”

“Bring him here,” says Jonathan. “We’ll be happy to treat him.” He notes the boy’s glazed eyes, his dreamy smile. Is he drunk? High? On what? Raki? Hash? Meth?

“He doesn’t have the time.”

“Have you tried the hospital at El Ain? If your father has a heart ailment, I recommend that he go to Beirut.”

But Beirut is an eight-hour drive and the road to El Ain is impassable due to flash floods.

“Out of the way,” says the leader, pushing past Rashid. Rashid pushes back. Before Jonathan can react, before he can warn the boy to yield, the leader raises his rifle and fires a bullet into Rashid’s face.

“My father requires nitroglycerine for his heart,” the leader says, stepping over the body. “And we”-he gestures to his men-“We require something for our souls.”

One look at Rashid tells Jonathan that there is nothing to be done. He leads the militiamen to the dispensary. It is a raiding party. Greedy hands clear the shelves of morphine, Vicodin, and codeine. In minutes, the dispensary is bare. It is over as quickly as it began. Wishing the Prophet’s blessing upon him, the militiamen climb into their trucks and drive away.

A minute later, Jonathan has the phone to his ear, frantically hoping to reach Paris. Emma must fly to Geneva and go directly to DWB headquarters. He will telephone ahead to arrange a money order that she must take with her so he can resupply the hospital.

It is three-thirty in Lebanon. One hour earlier in Paris. He calls the Hôtel les Trois Couronnes, but she does not answer. Her cell is likewise out of service. He phones the hotel again and requests that a message be delivered to her room. But Emma does not call back. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even the next afternoon, after Jonathan has driven into Beirut and used the last of his personal savings to purchase the needed medicines from a black market supplier.

His wife is missing.

Every man’s patience has its limits. Sadly, he discovers that faith is not an inexhaustible commodity. At six the following morning, he calls the hotel yet again and asks to speak to the manager. “Are you sure you left the messages in the correct room?” he demands.

“I am certain, Monsieur Ransom. I personally delivered the last note.”

“Would you mind checking if my wife is in her room?”

“But, of course. I will transfer the call to my cellular. If I find your wife, you may speak with her immediately.”

Like a phantom, Jonathan accompanies the manager up to the third floor. Over the line, he hears the gates of the old-fashioned elevator bang closed; the plodding of well-shod feet down the carpeted hallway; the sharp knock on the door. “Bonjour, madame. It is Henri Gauthier. I am the hotel manager. I would like to ask if you are alright.”

There is no response. Time passes. Gauthier enters the room.

“Monsieur Ransom?” comes the urbane French voice. “The messages are all here.”

“What do you mean?”

“They are lying on the floor. None has been opened. In fact, it does not look like your wife is here at all.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“The bed has not been slept in. I see no suitcases or belongings of any kind.” Gauthier paused, and Jonathan envisions the man’s defeated shrug as if it were his own. “The room has not been touched.”

Open it.

Jonathan slipped a finger beneath the flap and tore open the envelope. There was a single sheet of paper inside. Blank. No name. No heading. Not a mark. He turned the envelope upside down and gave a shake. Two slips of cardboard paper fell into his palm. They were identical in shape and size. One edge was perforated, as if it had been torn from another piece. A six-digit number printed in red ink ran across the middle of each. To look at, it was a receipt. A claim ticket similar to what you received at a coat check. Some letters were printed in a very small font in the bottom right-hand corner.