ORE HOURS passed, and then with hands cuffed, feet shackled, mouths taped, and hoods over their heads they were stuffed in an SUV with blacked-out windows and driven for a long time. Shaw had been counting off the seconds in his head. And while they were not on major highways, at least that he could tell, their speed had been pretty consistent and at least sixty miles an hour from the sound of the engine and the whine of the wind outside the truck.

When the vehicle finally pulled to a stop he had a rough gauge. Nine hours. In which direction he wasn’t certain, though he didn’t think it likely it had been back west toward Montreal or south to the United States. Security between the U.S. and Canada wasn’t that tight, but four hooded and trussed-up figures in an SUV would have raised at least modest curiosity along the way. If not, there was no hope ever of border security.

That left the direction they’d gone in as north or east. Nine hours due east in Canada at sixty miles an hour would also have taken them through Maine in the United States, in order to reach New Brunswick or farther along to Nova Scotia. And when the Yukon had cut off, the largest city they had been near was Quebec. From there to Halifax in Nova Scotia was far longer than the approximate distance they’d driven. For those reasons Shaw concluded they’d been heading more north than east, skirting the border with America but not crossing it. They had been allowed one bathroom break along the side of the road, and then they were off again.

Later, the vehicle’s doors opened and they were forced to lie facedown partially on top of each other in the back cargo area. For one terrible moment Shaw thought this was it. Execution time. From the quick breathing of his companions, he deduced they were thinking the same thing.

Instead, a heavy tarp was thrown over them and a voice said, “Not a sound or your friend is dead.”

Truck doors closed and the vehicle drove on. Then it stopped. Doors popped open again. There was talk. The doors closed again and the vehicle pulled forward haltingly, and then stopped. Whatever they were on now, it was not solid ground, Shaw could tell. The truck was moving though the engine was off. Only it was moving slightly up and down and side to side. Or at least whatever it was on was doing that.

A few minutes passed and Shaw heard more noises, including the clanging of a bell and feet moving fast. There was a lurch and the sensation of something sliding away, like a train leaving a station platform. The first real jolt he felt answered the question.

We’re on a boat. Probably a car ferry.

The water was rough, the ride uncomfortable, particularly lying facedown while wedged in the back of a truck. Shaw could hear Reggie moaning next to him and he thought she might become sick again, as she had on the ferry crossing from Amsterdam. And then it was over. They drove for more hours and then the truck stopped again. They were pulled from the back and made to march, still hooded and shackled, in single file. They were maneuvered roughly into seats in a confined space. Shaw actually hit his head on the top of whatever they were inside. When the engine engaged, the sound of the prop wash started, and the stomach lurch occurred when the vertical lift happened, he knew they were on a chopper.

Shaw continued to count the seconds even as he tried to calibrate their speed. When they began their descent at least eighteen thousand seconds, or five hours, had elapsed. If they’d been traveling in excess of two hundred knots north or east they would have covered over a thousand kilometers. That put New Brunswick or even Nova Scotia in play, though much farther than a thousand kilometers east and they would’ve been in the Atlantic. But Shaw didn’t think they had traveled directly east, because of the ferry.

While in the truck coming from Montreal and then Quebec they had been on the southern tip of the strip of water that cut through that part of Canada and that employed ferry service to cross it. He knew that because he had been on one of those ferries. No one would bother to take a boat north only to chopper back across that slice of water to head south or east. If New Brunswick or Nova Scotia was the destination, they would’ve gotten on the chopper on the southern side and not used the ferry at all. One would use the ferry if one were going due north, toward Hudson Bay or even the Arctic Circle, or to the east to Newfoundland and Labrador.

When the chopper set down and they climbed out, Shaw knew they were not in the Arctic Circle; they hadn’t flown long enough or stopped for refueling. He didn’t know what sort of chopper they were on but figured for most models five hours of flight with that many people on board bumped right up against the limits of the fuel load. And it was too warm. If he had to guess, they were more east than north. When the chopper engine quieted down and he heard the ocean slamming against the shore, he concluded they were on the coast of either Newfoundland or Labrador, which still covered a lot of territory. And how knowing all this helped their current situation he didn’t quite have a handle on yet.

The hoods and mouth tape were finally removed and they all looked around, their eyes adjusting to the new light levels. They had left Montreal in the late afternoon and now dusk was giving over to dark. An entire day had passed and then some, Shaw calculated. His grumbling stomach confirmed this.

They were driven in a truck on a route away from the ocean.

“Any idea where we are?” Reggie whispered to Shaw.

“Shut up!” said the man riding next to the driver.

Ten minutes later lights came into view.

The house was built from sturdy logs with a covered front porch and a cedar shake roof. Trucks were parked out front. Several hundred meters away Shaw saw another building that was dark. In the distance he could see the shadows of mountains. The extreme northern extension of the Appalachians, he figured. He had been to this area a couple of times in the past, as part of his work. It was foreboding, desolate, and there was no possibility of a handy policeman lurking on a street corner. The law was whatever someone with a gun or at least the upper hand said it was.

The truck stopped. They were offloaded and marched into the house, still shackled and cuffed. The first man they saw was Pascal; his grin threatened to split his face in half. The second man was Alan Rice. The third face was why they were all here.

Fedir Kuchin walked into the room. He was dressed casually in jeans and a corduroy shirt with thick work boots on his feet. He was not smiling in triumph, nor did he look angry. His features were inscrutable. This made Shaw more uneasy than if the man had started attacking him. It showed self-control, careful preparation. But for what?

The next person he saw made him forget about Fedir Kuchin.

A battered-looking Katie James smiled weakly at him.