“So, a one-man job. A shooter, probably for hire,” Ziggy said. “Okay, who hired him?”

More silence.

“There is one more person who knew you were in Europe,” Roy said finally.

York had sat up during their tour of the debris. Now, he frowned. “Um, RJ? The base commander?”

“Winchester Marshall? The guy who stole your reservation, who pulled RJ to a coffee shop where she just so happened to spot Alan Martin. The same Alan Martin who cut you, and kidnapped RJ, not once, but twice —”

“And nearly a third time, in Heidelberg.”

York sat back. “Yeah. I know. But…he’s an actor, not a spy, not a secret agent. I know he plays one in the movies, but really the guy is about as crafty as Santa Claus.”

“Who manages to sneak in and out of a billion houses in one night,” Ziggy said. She looked at Roy and winked.

York shook his head, looked out the window. “Okay. Fine. What would Winchester Marshall want with my death. And don’t say yacht—he probably has one.”

“Maybe it’s not about the bounty. Maybe…I dunno. Remember what you said about the CIA using famous people to courier information. Maybe Alan Martin—or the rogue CIA group we talked about—asked Marshall to track you down, set you up.”

It didn’t feel right. Spit-balled, maybe pieces stuck, but… “What about the plane crash?”

“What plane crash?” Ziggy said as she passed a slow-moving Fiat. Oh, he liked how this woman drove.

“Gustov took down a plane in France—it was full of Marshall’s publicity team.”

She looked at Roy. “Took down the plane?”

“Yes. He was supposed to be on it, but it had mechanical issues, so he left earlier, on a commercial flight.”

“So, they thought they were killing him?”

“Or maybe they deliberately created a diversion. Maybe he was supposed to live,” Roy said.

“Still feels wrong,” York said. “Killing him would make a big splash. Investigations. Scrutiny. He’s an international star—he has fans in China, for Pete’s sake.”

“Has he been to China?” Ziggy asked.

“Probably,” York said.

“Now that feels like something the CIA would be interested in.”

A pause as her words settled in.

Then, finally, York said, “But what does it have to do with me?”

More silence.

“We need to find Alan Martin,” Roy said. He turned to Ziggy. “I need a phone. Mine blew up in the Fiat.”

“You also need a change of clothes and a bath.”

He grinned at her, and York just stared at him. Oh brother.

York settled down in the back seat, staring out the window until the world turned fuzzy.