Slaton knew what he needed next, but walked a brisk mile before asking a passerby for directions. He selected a young man who looked Middle Eastern, perhaps even Iranian, and was given friendly instructions. Slaton reached the Internet café three minutes later.

Knowing he could no longer use Edmund Deadmarsh’s credit card, he paid cash for an access code. He surveyed the place and saw a vacant workstation at the end of a row, and as he made his way there Slaton noticed a nearby computer that had been turned off, an OUT OF SERVICE placard topping its keyboard. He stopped at this machine, set his bag on the table and began rummaging through its contents. No one seemed to notice when moments later he left with the placard in his bag.

He took a seat at the last console and established a connection. Slaton called up the local Stockholm news feeds and read everything he could find about the shooting of two days prior. He read six stories, three of which quoted Detective Inspector Arne Sanderson. Every article put suspicion on foreign-hatched terrorism, disregarding Sanderson’s quote that “We can’t yet rule anything out.” Nothing Slaton saw gave a lead to Christine’s whereabouts.

He next went to the Stockholm police website and performed a search of recently stolen property, but didn’t find what he was looking for. Slaton switched to a commercial mapping program and zoomed in on the Strandvägen. From there he dragged the cursor north, and then east along the waterways, following the Stockholm-Riga passage and weaving through a maze of islands until the widening channel was finally swallowed by the Baltic Sea. From that point Slaton reversed. He studied the largest islands and primary tributaries. He tried to imprint a mental picture, but the geography was overwhelming amid an endless network of coves and estuaries. Without knowing where to begin it was a vexing problem, but also satisfying—because that had been the idea all along.

Finished with the maps, he called up a search engine and typed in: Sweden, seaplane, charter. He was rewarded with six hits, and after cross-checking locations he narrowed his options to three. He studied the respective websites, made his choice, and entered the contact number for Magnussen Air Charters into one of the phones he’d just purchased.

The timer in his head rang, as it systematically did, and Slaton took a moment to scan the room. He saw perhaps twenty people engaged at computer stations, ranging from deeply engrossed loners, these hunched and wearing earbuds, to casual surfers with friends at their shoulders. The coffee bar ran a short line, and behind the counter a steaming espresso machine hissed and spewed. Nothing felt wrong.