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attention. Across the fjord a heap of white marble – the opera house – sparkled in the setting evening sun. He drove her back to her apartment, and she mentioned that her boys were with their father that weekend, but he didn’t even get out of the car. He let her peck his cheek, patted her hand, and said: “I’ll see you sometime, then.” And he drove off, disgusted with himself.
    When he got back to his place, there was a plain envelope on the floor. Why hadn’t they put it in the mailbox? He opened it. Inside were two folded pieces of paper. One was an electronic ticket: Oslo to Prague to Zagreb. The other paper bore a message in black ballpoint. He recognized the cramped, slightly accented writing. “I need your help.” That was it – a single line in the middle of the page. No name, no date. But he recognized the tingling in his palms. He turned back to the ticket. It was in his name. April 20. But that was Monday. Monday afternoon. He laughed. Zagreb was in Croatia, wasn’t it? He opened the laptop, did a Google search, and tapped through images of tidy markets and folk dancers and massive, crusty loaves of bread. He couldn’t go. No way. It was too risky; he didn’t know anything about this man. He felt dizzy. Needed to lay down. Should he …? No … he couldn’t go. He had to go to work. But he knew he’d already decided. To hell with the exploration application and the filthy Drammen skies and skinheads shitting on his table and plastic-haired Ingrid. He was going to Zagreb.
    April 5
    Dmitri was in the galley again, peeling potatoes. His wrists still bore the corrugated imprints of the thin plastic straps the commandos had used to cuff them. The crew had spent most of the morning in the rec room, watched by two of the commandos. One of them said, in English, that they were Swedish police and were searching the ship for drugs. Ludo had complained that he was thirsty and got a boot in the teeth, and after that they all lay quietly. One of the commandos came through the room, patting their pockets, removing cell phones, matches, lighters, knives. After an hour, the captain was taken away. Another hour, and one of the commandos came down the stairs and called: “Dmitri?” He turned onto his back and raised his head cautiously. The commando came over. He cut the strap off his wrists with a knife and pulled Dmitri to his feet.
    Dmitri was taken to the galley and ordered to prepare a lunch. “But not too much food,” the commando told him. “We must save the food.”
    So Dmitri was peeling potatoes. Meat was boiling on one of the gigantic gas rings. He could see the boots of the commando at the top of the metal steps. So it was drugs , he thought. Ludo was wrong – it was drugs. The police must be taking them to Sweden. What were Swedish prisons like? he wondered. Did you automatically get a sentence if you were just on board? The captain must have known – maybe the captain could convince them that he’d known nothing about the cargo.
    The commando came down the steps and looked into the galley. “Not too many potatoes,” he said. “One for each person, enough.”
    Dmitri nodded. Then he asked, “How many are you?” His voice came out as a tremulous croak.
    “Eleven.” The commando went back up to the top of the steps. Quickly, Dmitri reached up to the spice shelf where he’d left his cell phone. He half buried the phone under potato peelings, on the far side of the pot of boiling meat. Stirring the meat with his left hand, heart pounding, he tapped out a message. His hand was shaking so badly that he had to grip his forefinger between thumb and middle finger to hit the buttons accurately. It seemed to take forever. He kept glancing up at the boots, to make sure they were in the same place. 11 Swedish police on board , he wrote. He glanced at the boots again. Then he added: Drugs? He sent the message. Then he tossed the phone out the porthole.

Chapter 4
    Croatia
    April 21
    The plane bobbed