Paul digested the information he had gleaned. Pia had been here, but why hadn’t she been in touch? Was it so imperative that she leave that she would do so without so much as a text? Paul thought it unlikely. No, it wasn’t unlikely, it was impossible. He looked at the copy of the newspaper and the carton of milk. Did Pia drink milk? He had never seen more than a pint of milk in the fridge, and there was no new box of cereal to account for using so much. And a newspaper. To Paul’s recollection, he had never seen Pia read a local newspaper. And why buy one only to leave it behind, obviously unread? Paul tried to think like Pia would, first about the worst-case scenario to explain a series of events. Someone had been here and tried to make it look as if Pia had been here. Whoever was behind this was trying to establish a timeline, and what better way to do it than with a newspaper?

Continuing to think along those lines, Paul went over to Pia’s Mac and tapped on a key. The screen came to life, and showed an open MapQuest Web page, with driving directions to a nanotechnology research laboratory in New Jersey. That’s a little too convenient, thought Paul. But then again, in the absence of Pia herself to say otherwise, how else would anyone explain what he had found in the apartment?

Paul suddenly felt very uneasy, and he left Pia’s apartment as quietly as he was able to, carefully replacing the spare key. He looked down the hall, but the old lady’s door was closed. The thought went through his mind that if Pia was really gone and there was an investigation, would he be a suspect?

He sat in his car in the parking lot pondering his options. In the morning he would call the police, but he was pretty sure they wouldn’t do anything. Before that, there was one call he could make and be sure of a quick response. He looked in his phone’s contact list and found the number for George Wilson.

Chapter 49

49.

THE OLD VICARAGE, CHENIES, U.K.

TUESDAY, JULY 23, 2013, 3:58 P.M. BST

It was a beautiful English midsummer’s day. Zach Berman felt somewhat better after his three-hour sleep, but he wanted to feel fresh air on his face. The interior of the vicarage was a warren of stale air, with corridors and passageways linking wings of the building. Most of the rooms, like his bedroom, were tiny, and all the ceilings were low. Running along the walls and framing doorways were massive wooden beams, some of which had been salvaged from British warships in the eighteenth century, according to Jimmy Yan.