The car made its way on paved road for about five minutes, then began to pitch and rattle as it slowed for a rough surface. They were thrown about in the backseat and somehow Seth found Zoe’s hand. He squeezed and she squeezed back. Strength, comfort, hope, love. They communicated all these things wordlessly as the old Mercedes banged its way slowly into the darkness.

After what seemed like half an hour the Mercedes stopped. They were led out of the car and placed, still blindfolded, into another seat, this one hard and cold. An instant later, the sounds of a small engine roared to life in front of them. Seth recognized it as a snowmobile engine.

They started to move and, still holding Zoe’s hand, Seth imagined that they were in some sort of sled being towed by the snowmobile.

They went for another half hour, mostly slowly through brush that plucked at their clothes.

“Duck your heads,” they were warned once as they obviously went under some low-hanging objects.

Finally they stopped on a level area and the snowmobile engine died in the night. They were led through the snow. A door opened. Warm air enveloped them as they were led into a room. They heard the door close behind them.

A voice said: ‘Take off their blindfolds,” and the sock was pulled off his head. Seth didn’t have to squint to adjust his eyes, for the only light in the room came from a kerosene lantern and a wood fire burning in a crude stone fireplace. The room looked like the alpine huts that dotted the countryside throughout the Tyrol. It had a rough bunk and an assortment of rough-hewn furniture. The room smelled of burning wax and coffee.

Zoe put her arm around Seth’s waist. They turned. By the fireplace, each with a tin mug in his hands, were two men. They recognized Gunther. A thinner, more aristocratic man stood beside Gunther. He looked at Zoe and Seth for a moment and then walked toward them.

“Welcome,” he said as he extended his hand. “I am Hans Morgen.”

THIRTY-TWO

Morgen didn’t look like a priest. In his heavy cable-knit sweater, wool blazer, and wool slacks, he seemed more a professor or research scientist. He did not wear a clerical collar. He shook their hands, Zoe’s first, then Seth’s. “I must apologize for the bizarre way you were brought here,” Morgen said. “But there are many people who would like to find me now. I had to be sure you were who you said you were.”

Seth rubbed the back of his neck. “I am truly sorry, Mr. Ridgeway,” Morgen apologized again, “about your head. But Richard…” He glanced at a man by the door. Seth turned to look at him. Richard Stehr had a gentle, almost baby-round face with soft blue eyes, set on top of a defensive tackle’s body. “Richard is fortunately an expert. You have been done no lasting harm.”

“Easy for you to say,” Ridgeway replied, but his anger was only skin deep.