Sanderson trudged along a gravel railroad siding, head down and collar high, and tried to collate what he knew. Before landing—if that was what you called it in a seaplane—Magnussen had shown him where she’d dropped the American, a small cove a few miles up the coast. From there the shoreline was empty in either direction, and Sassnitz the only civilization nearby. As he sidestepped across the rails, heading for the town’s transportation hub, Sanderson was comfortable concluding that this was where Deadmarsh had come.

Unfortunately, it only led to a larger question. Before leaving Sweden, Sanderson had taken the time to reference Janna Magnussen’s flight planning table. He’d drawn a line south from Sweden across the Baltic, and in doing so had proved his suspicion that Poland was a more direct escape. There were also any number of other options on the compass. West to Norway, or east to Latvia or Estonia.

Why did you come here? he wondered.

Sanderson crossed the entrance of a holding yard, his feet pressing gravel into wet earth, and he tried to see it all as the assassin would have. A busy transfer point with a constant flow of trucks and boats. A rail yard with scheduled departures to firm destinations. Perhaps there was his answer. Why here? Because from Sassnitz a man could go virtually anywhere in Continental Europe with little chance of being tracked. It was an ideal waypoint. Yet as good as that theory was, it only led to another question. A waypoint to where? Without knowing where Deadmarsh was heading, he was grasping at air.

A gust swept leaves over the ground like so much October confetti, and Sanderson tucked his chin lower. He stopped in the rail terminal and talked to a few of the attendants, language an ongoing obstacle as he mixed halting German with English. I’m looking for a man who might have passed through yesterday. Six foot one, fair hair, unshaven. Name? I don’t know. Where was he going? I’m not sure. He was persuaded by a night watchman to ask a ticket agent, and the ticket agent told him to try the taxi stand. After ten minutes and six sets of shrugged shoulders, Sanderson gave up on a quest that bordered on the ridiculous.

He went back outside where the night’s coolness hit him. He plodded over service roads and circled warehouses, looking for any inspiration. He came upon a large parking apron where trucks and shipping containers were lined in rows. At the back he saw an assortment of parked recreational vehicles. Sanderson walked up to the access point feeling strangely light-headed. A tiny gatehouse was staffed by a middle-aged woman, and he saw an identification badge hanging round her neck on a lanyard. Her name was Helga. She was engaged in an intense conversation with a swarthy, younger man, but both fell silent when Sanderson came within earshot.