Finally, mustering his courage, he went to the bedroom window, which overlooked the gardens leading down to Long Island Sound, and peered through a small opening. It was dark outside, but the security lighting was on for some reason. It must have been a clap of thunder, he thought, since the walk around the swimming pool was wet with rain. He closed the curtains and went back to bed.

A couple of miles west of where Dr. Holland was trying to go back to sleep, Pablo Estancia looked down at the rapidly approaching ground for a place to land. It was his thirty-first parachute jump, a hobby of his youth.

Ahead and slightly to his left he saw a school, the grounds lit with streetlights. Estancia pulled on the left side of the harness to correct course and aimed for the darkened soccer field.

He touched down, buckled his knees and rolled as he had been taught, then he was on his feet, gathering in the billowing chute. He could not believe his luck. He carried the chute to the sidelines of the field, then walked past the bleachers and found a large oil drum, used as a wastebasket. He set down the chute and took some old programs out of the drum, then stuffed the chute into it and put the trash back on top. Then he started walking.

He had seen some railway tracks as he floated down, and he headed that way. When he found them he thought about it, then started walking south along the tracks. After half a mile or so he could see a train station ahead of him, and he made for that.

A sign on the station proclaimed the stop to be Rye, New York. Estancia hoisted himself onto the deserted platform and looked around. A schedule on the wall told him the first train of the morning would be arriving at five-ten. He checked his pockets for money but found only euros. He went into the station men’s room and urinated, then pulled out his shirttail and took out some dollars, replacing them with the euros from his pocket. He also removed an American passport. He put everything in his pockets, then tucked in his shirttail and buckled his belt.

He went back to the platform and sat on a bench, then he used his cell phone to call his home in Spain. His wife answered.

“Hello?”

“Listen carefully,” he said. “Plan B.” He waited while she thought about that.

“I understand,” she said.

“All is well,” Estancia said, then hung up.

Plan B meant that she was to immediately pack up the children, most of their clothes, put them and all the staff into four vans, drive to Gstaad, Switzerland, and occupy their house there.

A man walked onto the platform pushing a hand trolley loaded with a high stack of newspapers and began filling a row of coin-operated newspaper dispensers. Estancia didn’t have any change, but he negotiated the purchase of a New York Times for twenty dollars, the smallest bill he had, then he settled himself on a bench and waited for the train.