Simone hurried to catch up. “Getting rid of me already?”

“No. There’s something I have to check on.” He held up the receipts for her inspection.

“What are they?” asked Simone.

“I think they’re baggage claims. They came in a letter for Emma yesterday. The only thing inside was a blank piece of paper. No signature. No note. Just these things.”

Simone plucked them from his fingers. “SBB. That means the Schweizerische Bundesbahn. Is she missing any luggage?”

“That’s what I want to find out.”

“Who sent them?”

“No idea. There’s no name anywhere.” He took back the receipts. “Think it might be from a friend of hers?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You were with her in Paris.”

“Yes, I was. And so?”

Jonathan hesitated. “There was this emergency at work while you two were there. I tried to reach her for two days. When I couldn’t, I got upset. She said she’d camped out in your room at the hotel and didn’t bother going to her own.”

There it was then; his suspicions set out plain to see. Naked insecurities. In the light of day, they appeared petty and insubstantial.

“And you didn’t believe her?” Simone put her hand on his arm and gave a squeeze. “But it’s true. We stayed together the entire time. It was our ‘girls’ weekend.’ We didn’t even begin to talk until after midnight. That’s when the motors got going. That was our Emma. All or nothing. You know that.” She laughed wistfully, not so much recollecting the moment as to dispel his worry. “Emma wasn’t cheating on you. She wasn’t the type.”

“What about these bags? She never mentioned anything to you? A trip she had planned? A surprise of some kind?”

“A ‘lightning safari’?”

“Something like that.”

A “lightning safari” was the name they’d given Emma’s jaunts to secure supplies. At least once a month, she made unannounced dashes to points near and far to obtain type-A blood, penicillin, or even just vitamin C. Everything from the mundane to the miraculous.

Simone shook her head. “It must be something she ordered. Have you called her office?”

Jonathan said he had, and that they were quick to state that they hadn’t sent anything to her.

“Well, I wouldn’t worry,” said Simone, as she slipped her arm into his and they walked to the bottom of the hill.

At the main post office, they turned left, skirting the Obersee, a small lake, now frozen over and cordoned off by ropes to allow the new snow to settle. The Bahnhof was deserted. Two trains serviced Arosa each hour. The first, taking passengers down the mountain to Chur, departed at three minutes after the hour. The second, bringing passengers up, arrived at eight after.

Jonathan headed toward the luggage counter. The attendant took the tickets and returned after a minute, shaking his head. “Not here,” he said.

Jonathan stared into the recesses of the storage area where dozens of bags were stacked on a maze of iron shelves. “You’re sure you checked everything?”

“Try the ticket office. The station manager can tell you if the bags are in the system.”

The ticket office was likewise deserted. Jonathan stepped to the counter and slipped the receipts beneath the window. “Not here,” reported the station manager, his eyes locked on the monitor. “The bags are in Landquart. They arrived two days ago.”

Landquart was a small town on the Zurich-Chur line, best known as the terminus for Klosters, favored haunt of the British monarchy, and Davos, the fashionable ski resort.

“Do you know where they were sent from?” Jonathan inquired.

“Both items were sent from Ascona. Part of our drop-and-ship program. Put aboard the 13:57 to Zurich. Transferred onward to Landquart.”

Ascona was on Switzerland’s border with Italy. One of the palm-frocked resorts dotting the shores of Lago Maggiore. He had no friends who lived there. Apparently, Emma did.

Simone leaned her head toward the window. “Can you tell us who exactly sent the bags?”

The station manager shook his head. “I don’t have the authority to access that information from this terminal.”

“Who does?” she asked.

“Only the issuing station at Ascona.”

Jonathan reached for his wallet, but Simone beat him to the punch. She slipped her credit card across the counter. “Two tickets to Landquart,” she said. “First class.”

The compound was called Al-Azabar and it belonged to the Palestine branch of Far Falestin, a division of Syrian military intelligence. Philip Palumbo stepped inside the building and winced at the odor of ammonia permeating the main hall. It was not his first visit, not even his tenth, but the eye-watering smell and barren surroundings still got to him. Concrete floor. Concrete walls. Pictures of President Bashir Al-Assad (referred to by his countrymen as “the doctor” because of his training as an ophthalmologist) and his late father, the strongman Hafez Al-Assad, were the only decorations in sight. A desk manned by a lone officer occupied the center of the room. A German shepherd slept at his feet. Seeing Palumbo, the officer stood from the desk and saluted. “Welcome back, sir.”

Palumbo swept past him without answering. For the record, he was not present. If pressed, evidence could be produced to prove he’d never stepped foot on Syrian soil.

Philip Palumbo headed up the Special Removal Unit of the CIA. On paper, the Special Removal Unit belonged to the Counterterrorist Command Center. In truth, the SRU functioned as an autonomous unit, and Palumbo reported directly to the deputy director of operations, Admiral James Lafever, the second-ranking man in the Agency.

Palumbo’s job was simple enough. Locate suspected terrorists and abduct them for interrogation. To this end, he disposed of a fleet of three corporate jets, a team of operatives poised to travel to all four corners of the map with an hour’s notice, and the unwritten dispensation of Admiral Lafever, and behind him, the president of the United States, to do whatever needed to be done. There was only one caveat: Don’t get caught. It was a double-edged sword, to be sure.

The plane had touched down in Damascus at 1:55 p.m. local time. His first act was to transfer custody of the prisoner to the Syrian authorities. The papers he had signed in triplicate made Prisoner 88891Z a ward of the Syrian penal system. Somewhere over the Mediterranean, Walid Gassan had ceased to exist. He had been officially “disappeared.”

A trim, businesslike officer in a starched olive uniform emerged from a brightly lit corridor. His name was Colonel Majid Malouf-or “Colonel Mike,” as he insisted on being called-and he would be handling the interrogation. Colonel Mike was an unattractive man, his face haggard, his cheeks and neck violently pockmarked. He greeted the American with a kiss on each cheek, a hug, and a handshake as powerful as a bear trap. The two men retreated to Colonel Mike’s office where Palumbo spent an hour going over the details of the case, concentrating on the holes they needed Gassan to fill.

The Syrian lit a cigarette and studied his notes. “What’s the time frame?”

“We think the threat is imminent,” said Palumbo. “Days maybe. A couple of weeks at the most.”

“A rush job, then.”

“I’m afraid so.”

The Syrian picked a loose shard of tobacco from his tongue. “Will we have time to bring in any relatives?”

A proven interrogation technique involved producing a suspect’s mother or sister. The mere threat of physical harm to either was usually sufficient to secure a full confession.

“No way,” said Palumbo. “We need something actionable now.”

The Syrian shrugged. “Understood, my friend.”

Officially, Syria still figured on the United States’ list of state sponsors of terrorism. Though it had not been directly linked to any terrorist operations since 1986 and it actively forbade any domestic groups from launching attacks from its own soil or attacks targeting Westerners, it was known to provide “passive support” to various hard-line groups calling for Palestinian independence. Islamic Jihad based their headquarters in Damascus, and both Hamas and the leftist Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine kept offices in the city.