"They can't have," Em protested. "She was with us yesterday." Victor gave him a hard look and said nothing. "Okay, okay, that was stupid. Tell me what Section said."

"Charlotte's father reported her missing to his local police station early this morning when she didn't come home last night."

"But she left to go home. After her father called."

"Try to wake up, Em. Section 7's linked into the central police computer system. Everything's monitored. She didn't get home."

"What are the police doing about it?"

"Nothing. They have calls from anxious parents all the time. Teenager staying out all night isn't exactly headline news. Drunken party . . . new boyfriend . . . you name it. They filed a report, told her father to contact them again if she was still missing in forty-eight hours, and probably forgot about it. I should have followed my instinct, not let her get involved in this mess."

"You think the Knights have taken her?"

"Who else?"

"I didn't think they'd be especially interested in her," Em said defensively. "I'm still not sure why they would take her . . . if that's really what's happened."

"Look at it from their point of view. She was with you in France. Her father was a friend of your father. She brought you the iPod. She followed us to the safe house. She was part of our discussion about the code and the camera. If you were a Knight of Themis and you even knew half of that, wouldn't you think she might be worth talking to?"

"Okay, but where did they snatch her? I mean, they can't have known she was here with us."

"I don't know," Victor said. "But logically it had to be somewhere between here and her home. My guess would be the taxi stand I sent her to last night. Maybe there were no cabs. Maybe she had to wait. Maybe the Knights were looking for her and just got lucky. How should I know? But that's where we start to investigate."

Em watched Victor in action with unspoken admiration. Victor had changed into a neatly tailored suit and adopted an easy, confident style that positively commanded respect. The drivers at the taxi stand were practically tripping over themselves to help him, but unfortunately none seemed to have seen anything of a young girl the night before. Until, that was, the fifth one Victor talked to.

"Nice-looking kid in a red sweater?"

"That's her," Victor said, suddenly alert.

"Saw her all right, Governor. She was walking from the direction of Railway Street. I was next in line for a fare, so I was watching out. You get a feel for people who are looking for a taxi, even before they come up to you."

"Where did you take her?" Victor asked.

"Didn't take her anywhere, Gov; that's the point. She was picked up before she got to the stand."

"By another cab?"

The driver shook his head. "Naw, the boys here are decent skins, wouldn't try to steal your fare. What happened was, this car pulled up-black Merc-and the driver calls out something to her and she bends down to talk to him and I thought, 'There goes my fare; somebody she knows is giving her a lift.' Next thing, this big bloke was helping her into the back-"

"The driver?" Victor interrupted him.

"No, somebody else in the car. Only it was more like he was, you know, sort of pushing her, like maybe she didn't want to go. But she didn't shout or fight or anything, and he got in beside her, so I figured she must have known him. Anyway, the Merc took off and that was that."

"None of your colleagues mentioned anything like this," Victor said, nodding back toward the other cabs.

"Wasn't on last night's shift, was they? Plenty of people seen it, if that's what you mean."

"I don't suppose you got the car's license plate number?" Victor asked him.

The cabbie shook his head. "Naaw, why should I? Didn't do anything wrong, did he? Not like they carried her off kicking and screaming." He hesitated, with a sudden look of concern. "Isn't something wrong, is there?"

Listening to him, Em had a picture in his mind of the black Mercedes that had turned up at his father's funeral. And in his mind too was the absolute certainty that the big man who had bundled Charlotte into the back was the same man who'd carried the gun.

"Nothing wrong," Victor reassured him. He extracted a ten-pound note from his wallet and slid it in the man's direction. "Thank you. You've been a great help."

"Thank you, Gov!"The cabbie smiled as he pocketed the note.

"That had to be the Knights of Themis," Em told Victor as they walked away.

"No doubt," Victor grunted sourly. He had an absent look on his face.

"So what do we do?"

Victor shook his head. "I don't know. Maybe we just wait."

Em stopped dead to stare at him. "Wait?"

"What else can we do?" Victor said patiently, "We know she's been taken off in a black car, but we don't know where. We don't know the plate number. We can question cabbies from the night shift and any other witnesses we might find, but frankly, that's the longest of long shots. Would you note down a number in those circumstances? Waiting for developments may be our only option."

"But they might kill her!" Em protested wildly.

"They won't kill her," Victor said. "Worst they'll do is interrogate her."

"About us?"

"Yes, indeed. Not that they'll get anything very useful. We still haven't figured out all of your father's message."

"But they might . . ." Em hesitated. "Suppose they . . ." He trailed off, unwilling to say it.

"Torture her?" Victor finished for him. "That what you're worrying about? We're not dealing with a bunch of half-witted muggers here, Em. The Knights have access to the most sophisticated interrogation techniques on the planet, and torture certainly isn't one of them. The intelligence you get from torture is rubbish. People tell you what they think you want to hear just to stop the pain. They might drug her, but that's the most harm she'll come to."

It made sense, but Em still couldn't believe where it led to. "She'll be frightened. We can't let her go through all that and just hope they'll turn her loose afterward."

"I'm not sure it isn't the best course," Victor said.

But he changed his mind later that afternoon when Section 7 called with the news that Charlotte had been taken out of the country.

Chapter 35.

"One of our agents spotted her at Heathrow," Victor told him. "Lunchtime flight; but he was slow reporting in, and they've only just got around to telling me."

"How did he know it was her?" Em asked, a little desperately.

"He didn't. I suppose we don't for sure. But the girl matched Charlotte's description, and she was with two Themis personnel. Not actual members, but known employees of the organization. I'm fairly sure one of them is your famous man with the gun. His name is Stefan Kardos. Trained killer, good at his job, and likes it. I had my suspicions that it might be him following you, but I couldn't be sure until now. I don't think there's any doubt it was Charlotte."

"My God," Em gasped. "That's the man who visited my father just before he died! Where did they take her?"

"They boarded British Airways Flight 177. Eight-hour transatlantic, landing JFK in New York."

"They've taken her to America?"

"Looks like it," Victor said.

"What are we going to do?"

"Go after her, of course," Victor told him. "This is the first time the Knights have come out in the open with a direct move against you. I know they locked up your mother, but that was covert-and completely legal. This is kidnapping. It means they're beginning to panic, and that means we're getting close to something. If we can get Charlotte back, we can find clues to what's worrying them in the questions they've asked her. I don't suppose you have your passport?"

"Yes, I do," Em said, surprising himself. For some reason he felt the need to explain. "Mum insisted I take it to France even though you're not supposed to need it for EU borders; and then when we came back, I never took it out of my wallet." He hesitated. "It needs to be renewed soon."

"How soon?"

"Can't remember exactly." Victor looked worried for some reason.

"Less than ninety days?"

"Oh yes," Em said. "More like a month or six weeks." He began to scrabble for his passport in order to check the exact expiration date.

"Could be a problem." Victor frowned.

"Why?"

"The Americans waive entry visa requirements for British citizens, but only if your passport is valid for ninety days from the time you arrive in the United States. Which means you have to renew your passport or get a visa, and we don't have time for either," Victor murmured. "I'll have to organize fakes."

"Fake what?"

"Papers," Victor told him calmly.

Em stared at him appalled. "You want me to travel to America on fake papers?" Since 9/11, the Americans had gone security mad at airports. They probably shot you if they found you with fake papers.

"Don't worry," Victor said. "Our forger is really excellent. Have you been to America before?"

Em shook his head. "Never." He'd always wanted to visit New York, but he didn't suppose there'd be much time for sightseeing.

"Don't worry," Victor told him in that reassuring tone he used just before he dropped one of his bomb-shells. "I'll make all the bookings and have someone meet you."

For a beat Em said nothing. What Victor just said hadn't really made sense to him. Then it did. "Aren't you going too?" he asked.

"Yes, of course, but we have to travel separately."

"Why?" Em demanded.

"Security," Victor said. "I'll meet up with you in New York."

"You can't wear those socks," Victor told him sternly. They were in a menswear shop, where Victor was allowing him to choose new traveling clothes.

Em stared down at the socks in his hand. So far as he could see, they looked the soul of sobriety. "Why not?"

"Nobody in America will take you seriously if you wear black socks," Victor said.

Eventually Em found himself in a check-in queue at Heathrow Airport, a single suitcase by his side, and his ticket, passport, and forged visa clutched in one sweaty hand. His heart was thumping like a jackhammer. He wished he had Victor with him. He wished Charlotte were free. He wished the Knights would leave him alone. He wished he had a proper visa. At the rate the line was moving, he calculated that he had perhaps seven minutes before he reached the check-in clerk. That was when his phony visa would be discovered. That was when it would all go wrong.

Except it didn't. The clerk barely glanced at his passport, processed his ticket on the computer, then handed him back his documents with a brief smile.

The customs officer in New York proved a lot scarier.

The customs officer in New York was a burly black woman who didn't know how to smile. She was wearing a blue uniform and, to Em's discomfort, a sidearm. She glared at him as he approached, scowled as he reached her desk, and growled "Papers" when he attempted a grin.

Em watched her nervously as she examined his documentation.

"Purpose of visit?" she snapped.

To rescue my friend from the clutches of the world's most powerful secret society. "Holiday," Em said, following the instructions Victor had given him in London. "To see your beautiful country."

"Vacation?" asked the woman, frowning. She somehow managed to convey disbelief and disapproval of the word holiday both at the same time.

"Yes," Em nodded. Then repeated "Vacation" just to be on the safe side. He hoped this wasn't going to take too long. His nerves were stretched to the breaking point, and he was beginning to need a restroom.

"Where's your visa?" the woman demanded.

Em's mouth suddenly went dry. He fought down an urge to bite his lips. "Brit-" He coughed to clear his throat and began again. "I'm a British citizen."

"So?"

"We don't need visas."

"That so?" The woman stared at him for a moment, then flicked open his passport. "Edward Michael Goverton. That your name?"

For the first time he noticed the name tag balanced on her ample bosom. Her name was Hilda Bolden. He nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"And this is your own passport?"

Em felt a moment of total panic. Why was she asking about his passport? He swallowed. "Yes."

She glanced from him to his picture and back again, then said, "One moment." There was a weird-looking box attached to her computer on the desktop, and she pushed the open passport into a slot in the front. A green light came on, and the box hummed briefly. Hilda Bolden leaned forward to check something on the monitor. "One moment," she said again. She picked up the telephone and murmured something he couldn't catch. Then she cradled the instrument, favored him with one of her most ferocious glares, and said, "This passport is forged. Come with me, please, Mr. Goverton."

Em thought of making a break for it, taking to his heels and running for his life past the customs desks and through the airport concourse into the busy streets of New York. But he knew he would never manage more than fifty yards before Security had him pinned to the floor. With his insides churning, he followed her through a door marked PRIVATE and down a corridor into a windowless room furnished only with a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet. To his horror, Hilda Bolden locked the door behind them.

"Well, Em," she said, "time to give up this little charade, don't you think?"