We’d abandoned our Chrysler back at the diner when we were taken in. We had to grab a taxi to go and collect it, and none of us spoke about what happened on the journey over. Then we went to a hotel room to hook back up with Walter and Bryce. Neither of the CIA men—active or retired—was there yet so we made ourselves busy gathering our own information. Harvey was as good at digging up data as any other person involved.

Up in Maine, the police there were a little ahead of the game. Probably it was because SAC Hubbard was pushing them for answers. Harvey brought up a couple of digital photo-fits formed from descriptions given by Imogen and by the boathouse owner who’d disturbed Rickard. There were subtle differences between the images, but they were enough alike to be the same man. Lieutenant Jonah Hawke was right: Rickard did have a resemblance to me. Slightly darker in the hair and definitely darker in the eye, but there were more similarities than there were disparities. For the purpose of incriminating me, Rickard had gone to a lot of trouble, maybe as far as having cosmetic surgery. It was an uncanny feeling, looking at my evil twin.

Rickard was a fucking abomination.

I had been hoping to recognize the man’s face, but not in this way. Part of me had even wondered if Jesus Henao Abadia had risen from the grave and was tormenting me like a vengeful specter from my past. I’d even wondered about Jack Schilling: I heard he’d killed himself, but I never saw the body. It sounds like a stretch, but Martin Maxwell had faked his own death before going on a rampage as the serial killer Tubal Cain, so I was ready to investigate any angle. But this man was neither Abadia nor Schilling. I’d never seen him before in my life—except in a mirror.

Harvey pressed buttons on his laptop. He brought up more pictures and then tapped the screen. “These two are Jean Shrier and Ben Le Duke. It looks like Wetherby was telling the truth about them. They’re deployed to Hong Kong and Nigeria respectively.”

A simple glance at the men’s mug shots told me that neither of them was the killer calling himself Luke Rickard. To all intents and purposes we were back to square one. Except for one thing.

“What about his wife?”

I’d no sooner asked the question than Walter and Bryce came in the room. Walter’s bodyguards waited outside in the hall. Maybe they should have followed him in, because Walter looked like he’d need their help to aid him in standing, he was so washed out.