Three minutes later, right on schedule, the Waxholmsbolaget ferry pushed back from the pier and began churning across the bay for the short passage to greater civilization. Christine watched Runmarö slip behind, descending into the mist much as Bricklayer had disappeared into the sea last night along the island’s deserted southern shore.

The children were being children, running through the cabin and squealing happy sounds, while their mothers chatted amiably and looked equally content. Christine leaned back and put a hand to her belly—her ribs were still tender from her flyer onto the boat in Stockholm. She tried to imagine what challenges these women might face today. Finding nutrition in fast-food lunch menus? A knot on a tiny forehead from a wayward playground swing? It caused her to wonder.

Will David and I ever find such a carefree day in our lives?

Christine looked out over the water. She’d spent one day with David on a stolen sailboat, and hour by hour she had watched him change, a year’s worth of transformation lapsing before her eyes. He’d become increasingly alert, listening and watching, expecting threats from every distant vessel and passing aircraft. She recalled the old gun, worthless as it was. David had found it, searched it out. Within an hour of arriving he had probably located every knife and flare gun and blunt instrument on the boat, and had each item stowed in a tactically advantageous position.

Have I lost him so quickly? she wondered. Or did I never really have him to begin with?

The ferry began to maneuver, arrival on the mainland imminent. Christine moved quickly toward the boarding ramp, and was the first passenger to step ashore.

*   *   *

The Stockholm Police nearly succeeded.

The transaction on the flagged credit card was immediately highlighted by the Swedish Security Service. SÄPO forwarded the information to National Criminal Investigations, who in turn sent an advisory alert to the Stockholm police—Edmund Deadmarsh had just purchased a ferry ticket on Runmarö Island, and his arrival at Stavsnäs was imminent.

Within minutes, four units of the local constabulary were making best speed to the ferry terminal at Stavsnäs. The first unit to arrive bounded onto the curb at 10:29, and two officers rushed out and began searching for their suspect: a light-haired American man who was likely armed and certainly dangerous. Hands on their holstered weapons, neither the driver nor his partner took notice of a departing cab in which an attractive, and very alert, auburn-haired woman was staring out the back window.

*   *   *

Sanderson arrived at the bunker-like building of Air Navigation Services of Sweden, run by the government-held LFV Corporation, and at the main entrance found himself staring at an imposing security keypad. There was a call button, and Sanderson pushed it and stared squarely into the camera lens over the door. He got an immediate answer.

“Can I help you?” a disembodied voice rang through the speaker.