My instinct is to impugn her over failing to tell me about this lie, but instead I grab her hand—the ring on her finger burning hot against my skin—and lead her away. Without arguing, without recrimination, without lobbying for the ring back, I lead us through the silent hallways toward freedom. I do this not because the exertion of violence has made me magnanimous, or because being so close to death has given me a new perspective on forgiveness, or because expedition affords us the best chance of escaping Azar’s facility alive.

I do it because it distracts Charlie from seeing me reach into my pocket and press the Sankt-Moeller button.

The Forty-fifth Murder

The Forty-fifth Murder

I bloodhound through the hallways. It’s not easy—given Charlie’s hand in mine, her scent in my nose, and, naturally, the very real prospect of death looming over me—and I have to focus like never before. If for one second I let myself become distracted I lose it all, but when I order silence from Charlie and Kong, and I reach out mightily with my senses, I apprehend everything. I hear every decibel fraction within a hundred yards; my bare feet on the tile are as sensitive to vibration as any long-period seismometer you can name; I detect the cicada-like throb and sizzle of the building’s electricity in my fillings, in the tender egg-white tissue of my eyes.

I am aware of everything. I know all.

At least as long as I can concentrate, that is.

It’s a good thing, too. Twice I have to duck down another corridor to avoid incoming muscle. Another time I have to signal to Charlie exactly when to fire the dart gun at a guy sneaking around a corner. On a fourth occasion I have to pull her into a closet to stop her from using the last two bullets in the revolver. All in all, I save us from at least ten murder-bent henchmen.68

I know that in the strictest sense this constitutes repayment to Charlie for saving my life, but I still cringe with guilt over having pressed the button. As if it can help, I repeat my flimsy mantra: It’s not evil. You’re not betraying love.

Finally Kong directs us to an intersection with a long hall that terminates in an open door on the other side of which is a trash-clogged alley and, bordering the street beyond, some balding, spavined trees.

Freedom.

Kong urges us to hurry up.

“The system is edging me out,” he says. “I can’t hold it forever.”

I tug Charlie toward the door but she tugs toward the other hallway.

“Otto,” she says, “I’ve got to do one thing first. You get out. I’ll meet you.”

“What?”