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mistress of the house told him to go downstairs so he wouldn’t drag any dirt into the place. He got disoriented and went into the workshop by accident.”
    Von Daniken walked past the bathroom, its door open, lights blazing, and continued down the corridor. “I can see how he might be confused.”
    Widmer flipped on the light in a room at the end of the hall. The workshop was a stainless steel marvel. Stainless steel workbench, stainless steel tool rack, all as shiny as the day it left the factory. But this was no Sunday tinkerer’s room. No saws and hammers here. Instead, there was a collection of high-tech instruments that screamed “professional engineer.”
    On a nearby table lay a freezer bag stuffed with passports.
    “What’s this?” asked von Daniken.
    “My man found it in the top drawer.”
    “Looking for some toilet paper, was he?”
    Widmer sniffed, and raised an eyebrow. Von Daniken had his answer. The officer had engaged in a quick and dirty search of the premises. The evidence was inadmissible, but so what? Lammers wasn’t going to be standing trial anytime soon.
    “Holland. Belgium. New Zealand.” He flipped through the passports one by one. “A regular world traveler. Did your man
happen
to find anything else?”
    “Under the cabinet,” said Widmer. “It seems that Mr. Lammers was aware that he had some enemies. Oh, and be careful. It’s loaded.”
    Von Daniken kneeled down and stuffed his head into the space beneath the workbench. Clamped to the back wall was an Uzi submachine gun. He felt his pulse quicken. “Try and find out who sold it to him,” he said, getting to his feet and scooping up the passports. “I hope you don’t mind if I keep these.”
    “I need a chit,” said Widmer.
    Von Daniken wrote out a receipt for the passports and ripped it from his notepad. “All square. Now you have something to question Mrs. Lammers about. Inform her that we will deport her and her three children in twenty-four hours unless she tells us everything she knows about her husband’s need for multiple identities. We’ll see how closemouthed she is then.”
    “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” asked Widmer. “I mean, her husband was the victim.”
    Von Daniken buttoned his coat and headed out the door. “A victim?” His expression hardened. “Anyone with three passports and a loaded Uzi isn’t a victim. He’s either a criminal or a spy.”

6
    Darkness pressed in from all sides. Jonathan blinked. His eyes were open, but the black remained absolute. He tried to raise his head, but found it locked into place. His legs and arms were likewise pinned down. Snow encased his body as if he lay in a concrete bath. He could not lift a hand, not a finger. All the while, a steady voice told him to remain calm. It mused that it was not as cold as he’d expected. But, yes, it was dark. No one had ever mentioned the dark. His breathing grew labored. The air was going fast. He realized that he was buried deep below the surface, and that no one could possibly find him in time. Fear rose from deep inside him, crawling upward through his stomach, gathering speed and strength, gutting his discipline and strangling the calm, reasonable voice. The dark. The pressure. The failing air. He was overcome by a full-throated terror. He opened his mouth to scream and sucked down a torrent of snow and ice.
    He bolted upright in bed.
    “Emma,” he gasped, his hands searching the mattress beside him.
    He’d had the dream again. He needed to hear her voice. To feel her hand on his shoulder. He turned on the light. Emma’s side of the bed was unbothered. The crisp white duvet remained neatly folded down. A corner of her nightshirt extended from beneath her pillow.
    She’s gone.
    It came over him slowly, like an approaching storm. His breath quickened. His fingertips began to tingle. Something sharp and cold tore into his stomach and forced him to bend double at the waist. He sobbed.
    She’s gone.
    The words played