Ingrid Weiss also slept in her car, across the street from the Hotel Edelweiss in Berchtesgaden. But Gottfried stayed awake, listening to the news on the radio and following the updates online. First came reports of an explosion in Obermenzing, followed by speculation that there had been a gas leak. It didn’t take long, though, for police to confirm that this had been no accident. Then, just before dawn, came the news that police had received a mysterious message from the owner of the house implicating two women in a terrorist attack. Apparently no one had been killed in the attack. Both of the women had escaped—a detail Ingrid Weiss would find none too pleasing, thought Gottfried. Within an hour the press had put together that information with what they had learned about the charitable work of Columbia House and concluded that the explosion had been an anti-Semitic attack by a white supremacy group. When a cameraman crossed the police line behind the house and took a photograph of a swastika spray-painted on the remains of the back garden wall, the case for anti-Semitism became even stronger. By the time the dawn light painted the sky around the Alps, every media outlet had warned all of Europe to look out for two terrorists—Patton Harcourt and Jean Simpson. Photographs of both had been broadcast and posted online. The four associates of Columbia House had just enlisted the help of every law enforcement officer in Europe. Gottfried closed his computer and turned off the radio. Even if Simpson had somehow escaped, everything had gone to plan. He leaned back in his seat and allowed himself to sleep for an hour, a smile on his face.

Patton was the only one awake as she steered the van through the streets of Prague in the early morning light. The library would not open for several hours, and she couldn’t bear the thought of spending that time cooped up in the van, hidden away in some parking garage, so when she saw a seedy-looking hotel just off Wenceslas Square with a sign in English that said Park Behind, she steered the van through a low stone arch and into a tiny, mostly deserted car park.

“Where are we?” said Nemo, his eyes still not open.

“The Hotel Charles III,” said Patton.

“I thought Charles IV was the famous monarch from Prague,” said Jean.

“He was,” said Patton.

“It’s five in the morning,” said Nemo. “Do you really think they’ll have any rooms?”

“Trust me,” said Patton. “They’ll have rooms. But you’re the one with all the false identities, so you go book them.”