Thus, now, the detour through Germany.
Freiburg is supposed to be a lovely city, with a medieval university and lively market squares and a winding road that leads deep into the Black Forest. I saw none of these. I clambered off the bus, deliberately walked two blocks in the wrong direction and ducked down a smelly alley lined with Dumpsters, before zigzagging back to the Hauptbahnhof, the main train station. I had no idea whether this was the right way to go about disguising my tracks. I’m trained as a scholar of French literature, not as some wizard of antisurveillance tradecraft. But I’ve watched the same Bourne movies as everyone else, and Matt Damon’s character seems to embrace a pretty basic philosophy: if you’re being chased, either find yourself a hell of a good hiding place, or else keep moving.
Inside the train station I purchased a cheap black wool hat and a ticket to Frankfurt. I toyed with riding farther north, continuing all the way up to Antwerp, the Belgian port city that is headquarters to the world’s diamond trade. I had visited Antwerp before, had marveled at the diamond district, the Orthodox Jewish traders mingling with Brazilians and Russians, Lebanese and Indians, tens of billions of dollars changing hands every year. Once I identified the right man to approach, I could sell off my stones one by one. If they were worth anything close to what I had paid in Atlanta, the money would last me years.
Antwerp could wait, though. Frankfurt already marked yet another detour. But it is a transport hub, and from there, I could catch a direct train to my final destination.
? ? ?
TWO HOURS AND twelve minutes later, as the train pulled into Frankfurt’s main station, I arrived at a decision. I needed to find an Internet connection and check the headlines. Perhaps I should have done this the moment I cleared customs back in Zurich. But given the choice between dawdling at an Internet café and racing to put as many miles as possible between me and my pursuers, I’d chosen to run. I also felt uneasy about unwittingly creating an electronic trail. Police would easily follow me to Zurich; they would be no more than a few hours behind. Common sense dictated that they would use every cybertool at their disposal. From this point forward, I was determined to leave no traces.
Still.
Separate from the question of whether Ethan’s body had been discovered was the matter of his wife. By now twenty-four hours had lapsed since I had tied her up in the laundry room. She had spat at me, she had called Sadie Rawson a whore, and she would do everything in her power to deliver me to prison. But I couldn’t just leave her there forever. I needed to confirm that she had been found.
From a kiosk across the street from the station I paid cash for two prepaid phones. I tucked one in my pocket. On the other I launched a browser and searched for Ethan Sinclare. The bio from his law firm’s website pulled up first, followed by an article about a speech he’d delivered in Miami, and a squib about a fund-raiser he and Betsy had chaired for the Atlanta Botanical Garden. Nothing more recent.
Puzzled, I checked the Journal-Constitution home page. I nearly skimmed right past it. It was the seventh item, only a couple of paragraphs. A body had been found in a private residence on Tuxedo Road. Police stated that the body had gunshot wounds, it had been found on Thursday morning, and they were investigating the death as a homicide. Detectives were seeking to question a person of interest in connection with the incident. The victim’s name was being withheld, pending notification of family members. No suspect had been named at this time.
I walked a clockwise loop around the station, stuffing the black hat into a garbage can and donning a pair of forest-green earmuffs that someone had forgotten on the previous train. I reentered the station by a side entrance. At the ticket machines, the woman ahead of me purchased a one-way, first-class trip to Munich. As she turned away, I dropped the prepaid phone I had used into her shopping bag. A nice touch, I thought. On the off chance that my ten minutes online had provided any clues as to my whereabouts, that phone would lead investigators straight to Bavaria.
? ? ?
I FELT A palpable sense of relief as the train crossed the border into France. I spoke the language. I knew the customs. I could blend in. My fingers closed around the keys to Madame Aubuchon’s apartment. When I had groped around for them at the bottom of my handbag yesterday, I had known this was where I would run. Hélène had urged me, had practically ordered me, to go to Paris. To heal, and to hide. Her exact words. Of course, she hadn’t known that I would be wanted for murder by the time I got here. The police would question her—interviewing a suspect’s employer must be part of the drill—and she might reveal I had borrowed her Paris house keys.