He led with his arms, like going down a playground slide face-first. Halfway down the shaft, his grease-slicked hold failed and he tumbled into the fireplace, his shoulder smacking into the stack of cedar logs. A crooked, upside-down view told him the room was empty.

It was a study.

Careful not to upset the pyre of logs further, he eased his way out of the fireplace, emerging into the room. Using a towel slung over the stack of extra logs on the hearth, he wiped his hands and the soles of his boots.

Then he stepped tentatively onto an elaborate Pakistani rug. He checked behind him to make sure his boots left no track. His shirt and jeans remained filthy—he’d have to take care not to brush up against anything.

Brass sconces painted dim sprays of light on the walls. Dark bookshelves towered on either side of an imposing desk. An ergonomic chair sat cocked and waiting. Casting a glance over his shoulder at the closed door, Evan moved across the room. He pulled the chair out and checked the wall beneath the desk, confirming that the electrical outlets were indeed standard North American. Then he turned his focus to the file drawer. Its thick, shiny lock did not look factory-installed. There was no give when he tugged the handle.

The desk surface was spotless and bare, save a bouquet of pens and pencils sprouting from a leather cup and a pair of slender reading glasses resting on a desk mat. No letter opener.

Evan slid open the top drawer. Nothing inside but a few paper clips, a roll of Scotch tape, and a scattering of file tabs. The other drawers were empty.

The lack of personal items seemed in keeping with René’s obsessive use of his DNA privacy spray. He went to great lengths to keep his identity hidden, to leave not a trace of himself behind. I rent this life. What is mine is hidden away down a rabbit hole. A necessity with which Evan was all too familiar.

He knew he was living on borrowed time by now—if they hadn’t already figured out that he wasn’t in his room, they would at any minute. He made the choice to keep looking. The key was finding something before they showed up. Something he could use.

He quickened his search. The trash can held only a balled-up junk-mail envelope. He uncrumpled it and checked the address label. It had been mailed to the Chalet Savoir Faire in Maine. Maine. Another piece of disinformation? He doubted it; no one would expect him to be snooping through trash cans on the fourth floor. He wadded up the envelope again and dropped it back into the bin.

As he rose, his face came level with the spectacles folded on the blotter. Something on one of the rectangular lenses caught his eye. He tilted his face to peer at it. A fingerprint-size smudge marked the glass.