Gassan’s eyes bulged as he continued to hurl imprecations at the unfairness of his predicament.

“What was your contact’s name? How will they use the explosives?”

Two hundred degrees.

“Alright,” screamed Gassan. “I will tell you. Get me out! Please!”

“Tell me what?”

“Everything. Everything I know. His name. Now, get me out!”

Colonel Mike raised a hand to the guard controlling the gauge. He stepped closer to the vat so that the heat drew sweat on his forehead. “Who is the end user?”

Gassan gave a name Palumbo had never heard before. “I delivered it to him personally. He paid me twenty thousand dollars.”

“Where did you deliver the explosives?”

“Geneva. A garage at the airport. The fourth floor.”

The dam had broken. Gassan began to talk, spewing information like water from a ruptured main. Names. Aliases. Hideouts. Passwords. He couldn’t speak fast enough.

Palumbo got it all on tape. He stepped out of the room to review the information. Five minutes later, he returned. “A few of the names check out, but we’ve got a lot more to get through.”

“And so?” asked Colonel Mike. “Any other questions for our distinguished guest?”

“Oh yeah,” said Palumbo. “Mr. Gassan’s been in business a long time. We’re just getting started.”

Colonel Mike nodded at the guard.

“Hotter.”

Jonathan reached Arosa in ninety minutes. Driving to the top of Poststrasse, he parked across from the Kulm Hotel, three hundred meters up the road from the Bellevue. Simone sat slouched in the passenger seat, smoking.

“There’s no reason for you to stay,” he said. “It’s better if we split up. I can take it from here.”

“I want to,” she answered, peering out the window.

“Go home. You’ve done your duty. You held my hand when I needed it. I can’t be responsible for you.”

It was obvious the suggestion irritated her. “No one’s asking you to be,” she snapped. “I’ve made it this far looking after myself, thank you very much.”

“What are you going to say to Paul?”

“I’m going to tell him that I helped a friend.”

“That’ll sound nice when you call him from jail. All you’re doing is getting yourself deeper into trouble.”

Simone shifted in her seat, swinging her gaze at him. Her cheek was purple where the policeman had struck her. The bruise contrasted violently with her usual immaculate appearance. “And what are you doing? Tell me that, Jon.”

Jonathan had told himself that he was going to take things one step at a time. Technically, he knew that he was on the run, but it wasn’t the police-either the honest variety or the other kind-that scared him. It was the truth. “I’m not sure yet,” he said after a moment.

Simone sat up straighter. “How many brothers do you have?”

The question caught him off guard. “Two. And a sister. Why?”

“If this was happening to one of them, would you go home?”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t.”

“I don’t have any brothers or sisters,” Simone continued. “I’m married to a man who treats his work as his mistress. I have my children at school and I have Emma. I’m every bit as confused as you about what she was up to. If I can help you in any way find out, I want to try. I understand your concern for me and I appreciate it. Tomorrow, I’ll go to Davos to see Paul. I’m sure that by then we’ll have this straightened out. But if we have to confront the police, I am going to be with you.”

Jonathan saw that there was no getting around her. He couldn’t deny that her presence would be of help when he was standing in front of a police captain. She was a teacher affiliated with a prestigious school in Geneva; her husband, a respected economist.

He reached over and plucked the cigarette out of her mouth. “Okay, you win. But if you stay, you have to stop smoking these things. You’re going to make me puke.”

Simone immediately took another cigarette from her purse and screwed it into the corner of her mouth. “Allez. I’ll wait for you here.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “Be careful.”

Head bowed, Jonathan hurried down the road. Wind kicked up snow and flung it at his cheeks so violently that it was necessary to shield his eyes just to see ten feet ahead. He followed a fork that led off the Poststrasse, then veered onto a footpath that cut through the Arlenwald, the forest that carpeted the lower flank of the mountain. The wind was calmer here, and he began to walk faster.

Beyond the spray of the streetlights, the path grew dark, bordered by tall pines and ramrod-stiff birches. To his right, the hillside fell steeply. After a few minutes, he came upon the rear of the hotel and made his way down the slope through knee-deep snow. He stopped at the edge of the woods, pinpointing his room. Fourth floor. Front corner. A hundred-year-old pine shot from the slope near the building, its upper branches extending tantalizingly close to balconies on the third and fourth floors.

It was then that he felt the hairs on the nape of his neck prickle. He turned sharply, certain that someone was watching him. He scanned the hillside behind him. An owl perched high in a tree hooted. The throaty, low-pitched call made him shiver. He looked a second longer, but didn’t see anyone.

Five strides took him to the sturdy pine. Selecting a branch, he pulled himself into the tree, then climbed higher. Ten meters up, he crawled out onto a limb. The balcony was barely an arm’s length away, the pitch of the slope so severe that if he fell, he would land in the snow three meters below. He hung from the branch and swung his legs until he caught the retaining wall. Shifting his balance, he hopped onto the balcony.

Lights burned from behind closed curtains. The balcony door was open a crack. He stepped forward, rolling on the balls of his feet. At that moment, the curtains parted. The balcony door swung inward. He had a fleeting image of a man in a suit holding open the door and speaking to a woman. Retreating, Jonathan threw himself over the balcony. Dangling by his fingertips-what climbers called a bat hang-he inched past the divider separating the balconies. The railing was icy and intensely cold. He glanced down. It was sixty feet to the driveway, and if he missed that, another sixty to the street below. His fingers numbed out. He tried to convince himself that this was no different than hanging off a nubbin on a granite face. But he didn’t go free-climbing granite faces in the dead of winter. Inch by inch, he crossed the outside of the balcony. With a grunt, he pulled himself over the railing.

Gathering his breath, he tried the door. It was unlocked, just as he’d left it that morning. Inside, the lights were extinguished. He stepped into the room, pausing a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The maid’s efforts were plain to see. The bed was made. The pleasing scent of wood polish lingered in the air. Still, he couldn’t ignore the feeling that something wasn’t as it should be.

He approached the bed. Emma’s nightshirt was beneath the pillow. Her paperbacks stacked neatly on the night table. He picked up the one on top. Prior Bad Acts. The title was appropriate enough, but he was relatively certain that she hadn’t started that book yet. He found the book Emma had been reading at the bottom of the stack.

He walked into the hall and opened the closet. Drawer by drawer, he checked Emma’s things. He was supposed to be looking for clues to her activities. But what kind of clues? If he didn’t know what she’d been doing, how could he know what to search for?

He closed the closet and checked above it, where he stored their suitcases. Standing on his tiptoes, he pulled down the larger of the two. It was Emma’s suitcase, a Samsonite hardshell similar to those favored by stewardesses. He put it on the ground, then froze.