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end of the tunnel.
    HE DIDN’T know how long he’d been running. Every nerve, every muscle, every brain wave was focused on reaching that light as fast as humanly possible.
    He tapped reservoirs of strength that exceeded reasonable ability. Deep in the blackness of his own mind, he found a place of power. He knew because he’d been there before.
    The realization gave him some warmth. Hope. Whoever he was, Kelly would help him understand. He’d looked into her eyes and seen love. And Matthew . . .
    The thought of his son filled him with an unexpected burst of love and energy. He whispered Matthew’s name as he ran.
    To his surprise, the emotion grew until he thought he might cry. He was still running, but his focus had been shattered and his vision blurred. Allowing himself to feel this kind of love for his son was intoxicating—like a drug equally pleasing and destructive.
    He caught himself, steeled his mind against the destructive power of the emotion, and refocused on the tunnel.
    The compound looked vacated when Carl crested the hill that hid it. But it wasn’t. The buildings were all there, hiding their secrets, like Jonestown in the jungles of Guyana.
    He sprinted toward the building that had held Kelly. The window he’d climbed from an hour ago was still open, as if it, too, had been abandoned. He reached it and pulled up, panting hard.
    The bed was there, red nylon cords cut and dangling from the metal frame. Kelly was not.
    Carl dove through the window, smashing his knee in the process. He landed on the floor.
    â€œKelly?”
    Only his hard breathing answered him. He was too late!
    The tremble returned to his hands and spread to his whole body. For the briefest of moments, he felt shame, not for failing Kelly, but for being overcome. He staggered to his feet and let a new emotion crowd his mind. Anger. Rage.
    â€œKelly! Where is my wife?”
    He was wheezing. Standing with fists tight, wheezing like a . . .
    Ssssss . . .
    Carl spun to his right. A translucent vapor hissed from a small hole in the wall. They were gassing him. He knew this because he’d been gassed before. And he also knew that it was too late to run from it. He would pass out in less than five seconds, no matter what he did, or where he went.
    Kelly is alive .
    It was his last thought before he fell.

4
    C arl?”
    The sound of her distant voice came to him like an angel.
    â€œCarl.”
    His mind began to clear. How many times had he awakened with the sound of an angel in his ear? This time Kelly was here, which meant that . . .
    Kelly?
    Carl opened his eyes. He was on a hospital bed with the bright round lamps above him and the large humming machines on each side. But he wasn’t restrained.
    He sat up.
    â€œHello, Carl.”
    He turned to the voice and saw a familiar man. Tall, thin, dark hair that was graying on the sides. Bushy eyebrows. Did he know this man? Yes. This was Kalman. Laszlo Kalman.
    Beside him stood the doctor. Agotha Balogh. She wore a white smock over a blue dress and held a cup of tea, which she now set down on the counter.
    â€œHello, Carl.”
    Carl looked to his right. Kelly leaned against the counter, arms crossed, smiling. There was no sign of any injury on her leg where he’d seen Englishman shoot her. She wore black dungarees, much like his own. A brown cotton turtleneck.
    â€œWelcome home,” she said.
    His first impulse was relief. Sweet, sweet relief. Enough to make him feel weak. His wife was safe.
    But why no wound?
    â€œKelly?”
    â€œYes. Kelly.” Her eyes flashed blue like the sea. She stepped away from the counter. “You did well. I’m very proud of you.”
    Carl stared at her leg. It supported her without any sign of weakness. How . . . ?
    He looked into her eyes, suddenly terrified by confusion. “Is Matthew—”
    â€œYou have no son,” Kalman said. “Kelly is not your wife.”
    Familiar voices