“I do,” Seth said quickly. “It was the Harbor Reef, wasn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” the driver said slowly, “that could be it, but it was in English, I believe, and I don’t read much of that German is my only language other than my native tongue.”

The Harbor Reef! Seth knew the photograph. It had been taken with a Polaroid camera nearly three years ago, when he and Zoe had visited the isthmus at Catalina. And for the past three years that picture—the only one of its kind—had resided in Zoe’s wallet! What did it mean? Did it make it more likely or less that she was still alive? Or did it merely mean that the men who had kidnapped her had not learned what they wanted from her and had continued the search for him that had begun in Los Angeles?

“… will be looking for you at hotels soon,” the cab-driver was saying. “You must leave.”

Leave? Yes, Seth thought as he looked at his watch. Both Jacob Yosts—senior and son—would soon be waiting.

“Of course, they’ll look for me at the hotels later,” Seth said as he started for the stairway. Or maybe right now. Maybe there’s a man with a gun waiting at the bottom of the stairs. The thought made his stomach cramp.

“But I have an extremely important meeting I have to go to—an urgent one,” Seth said as he began to descend the stairs. “I don’t have time to worry about that right now.”

“I will take you to your meeting, Mein Herr,” the driver insisted. “It would not be safe for you to be seen by other drivers. They would surely turn you in for the money.”

Seth glanced sideways at the man as they gained the first landing, walked half a dozen steps, and continued on down the stairs. “How much money are we talking about?”

“More than two thousand Swiss francs.”

Two thousand francs! About a thousand American dollars. Not exactly a king’s ransom, but far more than street cops usually waved around at taxi stands looking for tips. They wanted him badly.

They passed the second-floor landing. Seth reached inside his coat and pulled his wallet from his hip pocket. From it he took one of Weinstock’s thousand-dollar bills.

“You passed up a lot of money just to be honest,” Seth said, as they reached the landing just above the lobby. He put his hand on the cabdriver’s shoulder and they stopped before descending the final flight. “I want you to have this.” He proffered the thousand-dollar bill. The Turkish immigrant looked first at the bill, and then fixed Seth with a hurt, insulted look.

“I can’t take that,” the man said. “I did not come here to ask you for money, or for a reward. I came because you are obviously a good man and you are in danger.”

“But your family… your children,” Seth stammered. “They could—you could—use this money, is that not truer

“That has nothing at all to do with this—a matter of honor,” the cabdriver replied proudly. “I am a man of honor and I must act like one.” He pushed the bill away firmly but politely with the palm of his hand, looked up into Seth’s eyes, and said: “Come! You have an important meeting to attend. I will drive you.”