Slaton was dropped at the Strand Hotel for the second time at six that evening. The massive building hovered at the water’s edge, seeming almost medieval as framed by the enduring Scandinavian twilight. He retrieved his bag from the bellman, went to the front desk, and just as Sanderson had promised was given a key to Christine’s room.

As soon as he stepped into room 324, Slaton knew it was hers. Obvious enough were her familiar things—a blue sweater in the closet, her father’s old suitcase on a chair. But her perfume was also there. He saw Christine’s effects laid out with intimate signatures—the way her comb and hairbrush were nested together, and the way her shoes were set in a perfect line. He was equally sure the police had been here, and he imagined Sanderson and his brutes plodding through the place with big boots and gloved hands. In a drawer he saw carefully folded shirts overturned, toiletries in the bathroom scattered and disorganized. He looked for her passport but didn’t find it. Slaton guessed she would not have taken it to a café—not unless she’d known what was coming. Was that a possibility? Might Bloch have arranged a meeting and forewarned her to bring it? Had he been trying to help her escape from something? From someone?

He found a conference welcome bag on a table stuffed with brochures, along with pens and lanyards emblazoned with the names of pharmaceutical conglomerates. A lecture schedule was on the adjacent desk, and he recognized her brisk check marks next to certain presentations, these ending yesterday afternoon. After that, nothing. Slaton scanned the margins of the schedule for scribbled notes, and checked the scratchpad near the phone for names or numbers. He picked up the hotel phone and dialed the code to retrieve messages. There were none, of course.

The bed was made, but Slaton noted a lengthwise impression where Christine must have laid down, an indentation in the pillow where her head had been. He sat on it and pulled in the air, searching for any remnants of her presence.

“Where are you?” he whispered.

Slaton eased back on the bed, into the day-old crease, and closed his eyes. He had little solid information, but more than when he’d arrived. Anton Bloch had come here to meet Christine. Then he’d been shot and Christine was forced to run. Had Bloch shot the other man? Had he been protecting Christine? If it came to that, Slaton was sure he would have. But more importantly, who had Bloch been facing? The usual suspects? Arabs? Iranians? Israel had her share of enemies. Slaton saw but one unbreakable strand: Bloch, and whoever else was involved, had come to Sweden because Christine was here. And Christine had been targeted because of him. Of this he was sure.