He turned around. The flat’s owner had attached a large mirror to the underside of the bed frame, and with the Murphy bed folded into the wall, the mirror made the space seem larger. Desmond stared at himself: at his toned, muscular face, at his blond, eyebrow-length hair, at the image of a man who was a complete mystery to him. His appearance wasn’t overly remarkable in Berlin—as a fugitive, he would have been far more noticeable in Shanghai or Egypt—but still, he would have to alter his appearance. When night fell, that would be his first task.

At the moment, however, he had to unravel what was happening. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something he needed to be doing.

He focused on what he knew: he had set up the phone numbers and left the voicemail greeting, knowing, or perhaps merely hoping, he would find them. The second voicemail greeting had led him to his own private labyrinth. What did the first phone number lead to? His words in the message had taunted him, saying he’d know what to do. What did he know?

He figured he must have purchased the prepaid credit cards first, then set up the phone numbers to match the credit card numbers. He did a series of internet searches and discovered that the first three digits of the phone numbers corresponded to Google Voice lines. The service was free and included an online control panel where users could access voicemail, forward the number to other phone lines, and more.

That was it: he could access the voicemail from the Google Voice app. He downloaded it to his cell and tried a few password combinations with no luck.

What am I missing?

He searched the suit again, but there were no other hidden pockets, nothing of note. He sat on a small wooden chair by the window to think. The plastic dry cleaning bag lay wadded up in the corner of the room. Through the clear layers, Desmond spotted a pink piece of paper stapled to the top.

He jumped up, ripped the plastic apart, and examined the small slip. It was a carbon copy of the dry-cleaning receipt. The name on the tag was Jacob Lawrence.

Desmond grabbed his phone and entered the name as the password on the Google Voice app. To his relief, it worked.

The application opened and displayed the voicemail mailbox, which contained three messages, all from the same phone number. The first was dated two days before. He clicked it and read the transcript:

I think someone’s following me. Not sure. Don’t call back. Meet me where we met the first time. Tomorrow. 10 a.m.

Desmond clicked the second message, which had been left yesterday at noon.

Where were you? They searched my flat. I’m sure of it. I’m going to the police if you don’t call me.

The last message was from today—at eleven a.m.

You’re all over the news. Did you kill him? Call me or I’m going to the police—I’m serious. I’ll tell them everything you told me and everything I know about you. I’ve given a colleague a folder with all my notes. If something happens to me, it will be in the police’s hands within an hour.