“She said with certainty that it was.” Padlo indulged again and lit a Sobieski. “You seem to be the hub of this strange wheel, Mr. Middleton. A man kills Rugova and his wife and then tortures and kills a man you’ve just met with. So, now, you and I are entwined in this matter.”

It was then that a young uniformed officer arrived carrying an envelope. He placed it on the inspector’s desk.

“Dzenkuje,” Padlo said.

The aide nodded and, after glancing at the American, vanished.

The inspector handed the photos to Middleton, who looked down at them. “Oh, my God.” He sucked cigarette-smoke-tainted air deep into his lungs.

“What?” Padlo asked, seeing his reaction. “Was he someone you know from your investigation of Rugova?”

The American looked up. “This man . . . He was sitting next to me at Krakow airport. He was taking my flight to Paris.” The man in the ugly checked jacket.

“No! Are you certain?”

“Yes. He must’ve killed Henryk to find out where I was going.”

And in a shocking instant it was clear. Someone—this man or Faust, or perhaps he was Faust—was after Middleton and the other Volunteers.

Why? For revenge? Did he fear something? Was there some other reason? And why would he kill Rugova?

The American jabbed his finger at the phone. “Did he get on the flight to Paris? Has it landed? Find out now.”

Padlo’s tongue touched the corner of his mouth. He lifted the receiver and spoke in such rapid Polish that Middleton couldn’t follow the conversation.

Finally the inspector hung up. “Yes, it’s landed and everyone has disembarked. Other than you, everyone with a boarding pass was on the flight. But after that? They don’t know. They’ll check the flight manifest against passport control at De Gaulle—if he left the airport. And outgoing flight manifests in case he continued in transit.”

Middleton shook his head. “He’s changed identity by now. He saw me detained and he’s using a new passport.”

The inspector said, “He could be on his way to anywhere in the world.”

But he wasn’t, Middleton knew. The only question was this: Was he en route to Africa to find Tesla at her relief agency? Or to the States, where Lespasse ran a very successful computer company and Brocco edited the Human Rights Observer newsletter?

Or was he on a different flight headed to D.C., where Middleton himself lived?

Then his legs went weak.

As he recalled that, showing off proud pictures, he’d told the piano tuner that his daughter lived in the D.C. area.

What a lovely young woman, and her husband, so handsome. . . . They seem so happy.

Middleton leapt to his feet. “I have to get home. And if you try to stop me, I’ll call the embassy.” He strode toward the door.

“Wait,” Padlo said sharply.