George Stratton’s knock at the door sounded like thunder, startling them, wrenching them from a rest they had missed for more than six months.

“Eight o’clock,” Stratton said as he rapped gently at the door. “Banks open in two hours. Water’s hot for a shower. Breakfast in half an hour.”

Seth stretched as he listened to Stratton’s footsteps fade down the hallway.

“Cruel bastard,” he muttered in a good-natured way. She mumbled a reply into the pillow. He leaned over to kiss her once more before getting up.

“Interpol has an advisory out on you,” Stratton said, as the chalet’s caretaker cleared away the remains of the extravagant breakfast he had prepared for them.

Stratton looked at Seth. “You’re wanted for murder.”

Zoe gasped.

“Somebody’s pulling strings,” Stratton said. “They want you out of circulation.”

Seth nodded slowly. It wasn’t surprising. He had been too near too many murders to remain unnoticed. He thought of the murders on his boat, Rebecca Weinstock and her chauffeur, Tony Bradford, the massacre in Amsterdam, the killers at Yost’s apartment, and the hapless crane operator. Death had scorched a wide, dark path behind him.

“Any details?” Seth asked finally.

“Seems that you were seen near the body of a UCLA professor, Tony Bradford.”

“Oh my God,” Zoe exclaimed. “How did Tony get tied in with all this?”

“It’s a long story,” Seth began. “I’d better start at the beginning.” He took a deep draught from his coffee mug and then began: “I was sleeping on the boat—” He turned to Zoe. “I couldn’t sleep in our house… not with you gone. Everything there reminded me of you. It was as if it was haunted.” He took a deep breath.

“It was raining like hell one morning and I get this frantic knocking on the companionway.”

He told her about Rebecca Weinstock and the killers and the chauffeur and George Stratton.

“The Valkyrie’s gone, then?” Zoe asked sadly. Seth nodded slowly.

Then he told her about the rest of it: the mysterious motel that was a safe house, the recovery of the painting, and the discovery of Bradford’s body. His flight to Amsterdam and the killers who found him there.

“And this priest used the word ‘brown’?” Stratton asked. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

Seth nodded. Stratton said he would sure like to know more about this mysterious group of priests in the Vatican.

Except for the occasional interjection or question, Zoe and Stratton remained silent for nearly two hours as Seth related the story of a string of murders that had begun in Marina Del Rey and continued to follow him through the streets of Zurich.

They sat in silence for a long time, listening to the caretaker rattle dishes and pans in the kitchen, watching the shadows grow shorter as noontime approached.

“Well, I think we need to get moving,” Stratton said. “I assume that this Father Morgen that Yost told you about isn’t likely to remain in Alt Aussee forever.”