If there was anything worth praising about the Nazis, it was their methodical nature. With them, hardly anything occurred by chance. The odds of the painting “just happening” to be along were slim.

Nodding, he picked up the telephone, dialed the operator, and asked for international directory assistance. He wanted to know if Jacob Yost, or one of the sons, was still in business in Zurich.

The phone rang twice before Seth replaced the receiver on the cradle. Stratton—or somebody else—had probably tapped the telephone. There was no telling who might be listening in on the line. He could make the call from a pay phone at the airport just as well.

Quickly, Seth pulled on a pair of corduroy slacks and a sweater. He emptied the briefcase of the tools he had carried earlier and placed in it both the painting and the damp pile of thousand-dollar bills Weinstock had given him.

He walked over to Zoe’s jewelry box and lifted out the top tray. From the bottom, he scooped up his passport and a healthy wad of Swiss francs he had brought back from Zurich. Absently, he opened the passport and gazed at the visas stamped in the back. Switzerland, England, Holland—every major country in western Europe and most of the minor ones, plus stamps from the little islands in the Caribbean that he and Zoe had visited. He thought fleetingly of those halcyon days cruising the Caribbean, then abruptly snapped the passport shut and began packing.

Ten minutes later he watched the two men in the black sedan come to attention as he walked briskly from the house and tossed the bags into the Volvo’s trunk. He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine. Putting the Volvo into gear, Ridgeway turned around carefully, drove slowly down the street, and stopped next to the black sedan. He rolled down his window and motioned for the men to do the same.

“Tell your boss I’m going to Amsterdam,” Seth said, and with an airy salute rolled up the window and drove off.

An hour later, he smiled to himself as he hung up the pay phone in the international terminal at Los Angeles International Airport. Jacob Yost and his sons were still in business, with a new generation of sons. The old man was still alive, they had told him, retired. Seth had mentioned the painting and artist by name, but neither seemed to evoke any recognition from the present Jacob Yost. He promised to mention it to his father, who, he was sure, would want to talk to the American gentleman about it.

I’m sure he will, Seth thought, as he walked into the nearly deserted snack bar and poured himself a cup of larcenously expensive and criminally bitter coffee. But I wonder what other people would like to talk about it as well.

As he settled himself behind a plastic-laminated table to pass time before his flight, Seth felt hope stir in his heart. For the first time, he believed there was a chance to find Zoe. An answer to his prayers, he wondered, or simply the way events were playing themselves out? He looked out the window and tried to pray. But the words failed him.