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Page 69.

"Sorry, I am driving as fast as I can. There are over 100 kilometers of little scenic roads like this deep in these magic forests. It's a bit like your Northwest—I have seen pictures of the Olympic Peninsula, which is however more flat, I think."

"In parts," Rick allowed. Nice of Romain to say a kind word about the land of the free—or the land of the fee, whichever shoe fit better.

Their journey took them on endlessly winding twists and turns through pine forest and beech and other deciduous trees. Here and there, one saw a little waterfall deep in the forest.

"Looks like magic," Rick said.

"The old people believed in magic," Romain said. "You have to imagine Paleolithic hunters here, chasing after animals that became extinct ten or fifteen thousand years ago, right here in these hills and valleys. We have caves from that time, like the Hohlay cavern. I always think how amazing that people like us walked here eons ago, thinking about life and death."

Rick added, "And probably they were pissed off that the wealthy cave owners controlled the traffic in flint stones and spear tips."

"Nothing ever changes."

The phone warbled, and Romain spoke softly, so that Rick did not quite hear. He said, "That was Mélu. She is in Belair, but tracking with our people up here in the Müllertal. Hannah was sighted in Consdorf, driving a stolen BMW into the direction where we are headed. She is being pursued by Savia and Yoichi in a maroon Mercedes, so we are all going to have a nice reunion soon."

"Amazing," Rick said bitterly. "I believed her. I didn't know she had any of it in her."

Romain said, "Emmer mat Gedold, Jengelchen (Patience at all times, little guy). We don't know who stole the car. But the license plate is of a German car missing since yesterday in Trier."

"Well then she didn't steal the damn thing, because we were in Belair."

"Right. So keep your pants on."

"You mean, keep my shirt on. The pants was yesterday." He was thinking of his passionate night with Hannah.

"You people invented the blue jeans. The rest of us put our pants on one pocket at a time."

"One leg, you Luxemburger Wurst."

"You mean Luxemburger Wort, our national newspaper, in German; in English the Luxemburgish Word." Romain added, "We have to be careful now. Stop telling jokes or I may drive into a tree from laughing too hard."

They came within sight of a small settlement—the usual neat, tidy little houses on a street that looked as if someone with an anal fixation had painted it with crayons and a ruler while biting the tip of his tongue. This stretch of CR118, called Route d'Echternach, was unmarked through the settlement, and looked suspiciously like a single lane but well-paved as if made from concrete.

"You can see some old farms that have been converted to modern use, like a pension."

"You mean bed and breakfast."

They cruised on through Larochette toward Consdorf. The double lanes in white markings resumed. In many places, the forest gave way to open fields—many of them closely shorn with tractor-drawn hair trimmers by some crazed neatnik. The next sign indicated a crossroads coming up—Berdorf to the right, Luxembourg City to the left, and Larochette straight ahead.

Romain reached under the seat and pulled out an automatic pistol in a blonde, clean holster. "I have two of them. Want one?"

Rick shook his head. "Tempting as it is, I don't want to get arrested on weapons charges here. I'm in enough trouble already. You got a license for that thing?"

Romain laughed. "Are you falling from a Christmas tree? This is more illegal in Luxembourg than you are. I just think it's a good idea right now, like in your nutty gun culture that makes the corporations wealthier while your children die by the thousands. You guys are really a nation of crazy people."

"We are just original," Rick said. "Stop the commentary and watch where you are driving."

Romain made a wry face and gripped the wheel with both hands. "Soon we may either be dead or we may have some answers. I am as tired of this McGuffin chasing as you are, Cowboy."

As they drove through a bend in the road, deep in a shadowy area in the forest, Rick saw a sight that almost made his heart stop.

He gripped Romain's right wrist, on the steering wheel, with his left hand. "Stop."

Romain made a perplexed sound but pulled over onto the soft shoulder, which was strewn with pine needles and leaves. The car was half on, half off the narrow road.

"Oh my god," they both said.

Off on their right was the white BMW in which Hannah had been seen by the PAX agents in the area. It could only be—the Trier license plates and the color gave it away.

Someone had driven the car off the road, leaving deep dark tracks in the soft forest floor. There was an air of desertion about the scene—water had already seeped into some of the tire gougings.

Rick tore open the door and ran as fast as he could. "Hannah!" he cried.

When he reached the white car—nothing.

She—or someone—had driven it about a hundred meters off the road, winding among slender tree trunks, until the car went nose-first into a small ditch in which a stream flowed. The front doors were both wide open and leaning toward the earth's center of gravity. Nobody was in the car. The inside was clean—no objects on the front or back seats, nor on the floor.

"No sign of violence or struggle," Romain said.

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