“Eva Kruger,” he said, reading the cardholder’s name. E.A.K. “Ever heard of her?”

Simone shook her head. “She must be one of Emma’s contacts. I’m glad it will be you telephoning her to tell her what you did to her lovely bag and not me.”

But Jonathan didn’t respond. Not to the comment or its implicit humor. He had set about making an inventory of the wallet. There was cash in the amount of one thousand Swiss francs and five hundred euros. In the coin purse, he found four francs and fifty rappen.

Abruptly, he sat up. It came to him that there was one thing missing. Something Mrs. Eva Kruger, the law-abiding owner of a Mercedes-Benz, wouldn’t be caught dead without. Mind racing, he opened the crocodile wallet. It was a surgeon’s shockproof hands that defied his thumping heart and navigated through the credit cards and banknotes, delving into every possible nook and cranny.

He discovered Eva Kruger’s driver’s license, slipped into the space beneath the credit cards. He unfolded it and studied the color photograph affixed inside. An attractive woman with sleek brown hair pulled severely off her forehead, chic tortoiseshell spectacles hiding large amber eyes, and a full mouth gazed into the camera.

“What is it?” asked Simone. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

But Jonathan couldn’t speak. There was a great pressure on his chest, robbing him of air. He looked at the driver’s license again. Behind the diva’s mascara and the tart’s lipstick, Emma stared back at him.

Jonathan threw open the door and stepped outside. Walking a few paces, he stopped to lean against a tree. It was difficult to keep moving, to act as if the world hadn’t just shifted beneath his feet. He forced himself to regard the image of the severe woman with the slicked hair and the fashionable spectacles staring brazenly into the camera.

Eva Kruger.

One look at the photo and the idea of Emma having had an affair seemed an annoyance. No worse than a fly on a horse’s ass. But this-a false driver’s license, a false name, an entire double life-this was a black hole.

Simone came round the front of the car and stood next to him. “I’m sure there’s an explanation. Wait until we get back to Geneva. Then we’ll find out.”

“That watch costs ten thousand francs. And what about the other jewelry? The clothes? The makeup? Tell me, Simone, just what kind of explanation do you have in mind?”

She paused, thinking. “I don’t…I mean I can’t.”

He glanced down at his jacket and saw a patch of blood encrusted on it. He didn’t know if it was his or one of the policemen’s. Either way, the sight revolted him. He struggled out of the jacket and tossed it onto the hood of the car. The cold hit him immediately. “Hand me the sweater, would you?”

Simone retrieved the cashmere sweater from the car. “Here you are…”

An envelope dropped from the sweater’s folds into the snow. Jonathan traded glances with Simone, then picked it up. The envelope was unmarked, but heavy. He knew its contents immediately. It had the right heft, the right shape. He tore it open. Money. Lots of it. Thousand-franc notes. Newly minted and crisp as tracing paper.

“My God,” said Simone, eyes agog. “How much is it?”

“A hundred,” he said, after counting the stack.

“A hundred what?”

“One hundred thousand Swiss francs.”

I have hidden resources, Emma had said.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Simone was laughing, a high-pitched, hysterical laugh a hair’s breadth from out of control.

“Now we know,” said Jonathan, transfixed by the stack of banknotes.

“Know what?” asked Simone.

“Why the police wanted the bag.”

He slipped the bills back into the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket. It remained to be seen how they’d known the bags were in Landquart, and more important, at least to Jonathan’s mind, why Emma was meant to be the recipient of so much cash.

A breeze rustled the branches, wrestling flocks of snow to the ground. Shivering, he pulled the sweater over his head. The cashmere crewneck clung at his chest and his shoulders. The sleeves stopped three inches short of his wrist.

It was another man’s sweater.

“Have you seen these?” demanded Justice Minister Alphons Marti, as von Daniken entered his office. “NZZ. Tribune de Genève. Tages-Anzeiger.” He snatched up the phone messages and balled them in his fist. “Every newspaper in the country wants to know what happened at the airport yesterday.”

Von Daniken removed his overcoat and folded it over his arm. “What have you told them?”

Marti threw the wadded-up ball into the garbage. “‘No comment.’ What do you think I told them?”

The office on the fourth floor of the Bundeshaus was nothing less than palatial. High ceilings decorated with gold leaf and a trompe l’oeil painting of Christ ascending to heaven, Oriental rugs adorning a polished wooden floor, and a mahogany desk as big as the altar at St. Peter’s. A battered wooden crucifix hanging on the wall testified that Marti was really just a simple man.

“And so,” Marti began, “when did they take off?”

“The plane left as soon as their engine was repaired,” said von Daniken. “Sometime after seven this morning. The pilot listed their destination as Athens.”

“Another shovelful of shit the Americans expect us to swallow with a smile. I’ve made stopping rendition on European soil a cornerstone of this office’s policy. Sooner or later, someone will talk to the press and I’ll have egg all over my face.” Marti shook his head ruefully. “The prisoner was on the plane. I’m convinced of it. Onyx doesn’t lie.”

Utilizing three hundred phased-array antennas positioned high on a mountainside above the town of Leuk in the Rhône valley, Onyx was capable of intercepting all civilian and military communications passing between an equal number of pre-targeted satellites in geosynchronous orbit over the earth. Algorithm-based software parsed the transmissions for key words indicating information of immediate value. Some of those key words were “Federal Bureau of Investigation,” “Intelligence,” and “prisoner.” At 0455 yesterday morning, Onyx had struck pay dirt.

“I reviewed the intercept last night,” Marti went on. “Names. Itinerary. It’s all there.” He pushed a buff folder across the table. Von Daniken picked it up and examined the contents. Inside was a photocopy of a telefax sent from the Syrian consulate in Stockholm to the Syrian Directorate of Intelligence in Damascus titled, “Passenger Manifest: Prisoner Transport #767.” The list gave the pilot and copilot’s names, as well as two that were more familiar. Philip Palumbo and Walid Gassan.

“Check the time stamp, Marcus. The manifest was transmitted after the plane took off. Gassan was onboard. I don’t buy for a second that Palumbo pushed him off. You know what I think. I think someone tipped off Mr. Palumbo that we intended to search the aircraft. I’d like you to start an investigation into the matter.”

“Only a few of us had copies of the intercept. You, me, our deputies, and, naturally, the technicians at Leuk.”

“Exactly.”

“We searched the aircraft top to bottom,” said von Daniken as he laid the folder back on the desk. “There was no sign of the prisoner.”

“You mean you searched it.” The hyperthyroid blue eyes peered at him.

“I believe you were present.”

“So we can rule ourselves out,” said Marti, a smile showing his bad teeth. “It’ll make your investigation that much easier. I’ll expect a report daily.” He tapped the folder twice with his knuckles, indicating the matter was closed. “And so? What is it, then? Your secretary informed me that you have something on the murder in Erlenbach last night. What’s this about a search warrant?”