"If the bottle was used by the terrorists, you won't find any fingerprints."

Hwan looked up at Donald. The voice was a barely audible monotone; his pipe was unceremoniously stuffed into his vest pocket and his flesh was the color of chalk. But he was here and he was alert, and Hwan was happy to see him.

"No," Hwan said. "I don't expect we will."

"Is that why they didn't take the bottle with them? Because they knew it couldn't lead you to them?"

The Professor said, "One would so conclude."

Donald took a few steps into the shadowy depths of the alley. His arms hung limp at his sides and his shoulders were rounded beneath his awful burden. Watching him move with such pain, Hwan had never felt so helpless.

"This alley, so near to the hotel," Donald said. "I would imagine it's picked clean by the poor. A clean bottle like that was sure to be noticed in your sweep-- and, seeing it, you would also see the boot prints."

"I was thinking that myself," Hwan said. "We'd recognize the pattern and would jump to a conclusion about who was behind it."

"This is possible." The Professor shrugged. "But it's also possible that an inconsiderate jogger threw it there and the perpetrators never even noticed it."

"In which case someone's fingerprints will be on it," Hwan said.

"That is correct," said the Professor. "So I had best get to the matter. I'll see if there's anything to look at in the hotel, and then I'll return to the laboratory."

When the diminutive Professor left, Hwan walked to Donald's side.

"Thank you for what you did back there," Donald said, his voice tremulous, his eyes on the ground. "I heard you, but-- I couldn't get a grip."

"How could you?"

"I'm not sure I have, even now." Tears spilled from his eyes as he looked around the alley. He breathed heavily and wiped his eyes with his fingers. "This thing, Kim-- it isn't their way. They've always used incidents at the DMZ or assassination to send us messages."

"I know. And there's something else."

Before Hwan could continue, a black Mercedes with diplomatic plates screeched to a stop in front of the alley. A clean-cut young man got out on the driver's side.

"Mr. Donald!"

Donald stepped from the darkness. "I'm Gregory Donald."

Hwan moved quickly to his side. He didn't know who else might be a target today, and was taking no chances.

"Sir," said the man, "there's a message for you at the Embassy."

"From?"

"'An enemy of the Bismarck,' I was told to say."

"Hood," he said to Hwan. "I was expecting that. Maybe he has some information."

As the men approached the car, the young Embassy official reached down and popped the electric door lock.

"Sir, I was also told to see to Mrs. Donald. Is there anything she needs? Perhaps she'd like to come with us?"

Donald pressed his lips together and shook his head; then his knees gave out and he fell against the side of the car, his arms folded beneath his chest.