Christine went below. There was no shower on the boat, so she soaked a hand towel with warm water from the sink and dragged it over the lower half of her body to cut the saltwater. It felt warm and wonderful. Using a fresh towel to dry, she dressed before turning to the table where a nautical chart was rolled open, anchored on opposing corners by two empty coffee mugs. The boat was fitted with receptacles for an electronic navigation suite, but the owner had clearly removed the system for the season—only the most hardened sailors bothered to cruise Scandinavia in the winter. The chart bore a single heavy line that was drawn from the center of Stockholm to her present position. Magnetic bearing, 111 degrees. Distance, 29 miles. The numbers had not worked out perfectly—as usual, variables had come into play, the most significant being the anchorage she’d settled on which was nearly a mile from the precise distance and bearing. David would also have to work out the beginning reference point of her last known position—the Strandvägen. And of course, all this assumed that he’d gotten to Sweden and found her message to begin with. From there it was simple. Find a way to reach her in the middle of nowhere.

What could go wrong?

Christine went above and stood on deck. A chilly breeze swept across the cockpit of the little boat, a basic and reliable Pearson 26. She scanned the horizon as she’d been doing all morning, but saw nothing new. Indeed she saw not a single man-made thing. Her last encounter with civilization had been yesterday morning, the seaside village of Runmarö eight miles north. There she had spent every penny in her pocket, mostly on food, and sent one message to her work email account. Then she had sailed here, to the back side of a remote island, and dropped anchor. With her part of the bargain done, there was nothing to do but wait. This was where David’s plan ended, a windswept natural harbor at the end of the earth, winter bearing down like a frigid anvil.

She looked ashore, to the tiny island called Bulleron. It was no different from a thousand others in the Stockholm Archipelago, barren rock outcroppings, a few hardy trees and shrubs clinging for life. It looked a jagged and inhospitable place. The other three cardinal points of the compass were equally discouraging—open water, a few remote islands floating in the marine haze. That was all Christine saw. No boats, no barges, no ferries.

And no David.

*   *   *

“I’d like you to draw a clock showing the time as nine twenty-one,” Dr. Samuels said.

“Digital or analog?” Sanderson asked.

The doctor stared at him with the solemnness of an undertaker.