TO: Katherine BreedenFROM: Miles BradfordSUBJECT: Emily Burbank-Disappearance/InvestigationMs. Breeden:On behalf of Richard Burbank and for the purpose of review by your client Michael Munroe, I am sending the complete collection of documents related to Emily Burbank's disappearance.In addition to the summaries that follow below, attached are six PDF files that include copies of all communication from Ms. Burbank prior to her disappearance, government records and documents, as well as reports and transcripts (including translations) from private investigations, in total 238 pages.Sincerely,Miles Bradford CapstoneSecurity ConsultingBACKGROUND SUMMARYNamibia: Wild, vast, spectacularly beautiful, and home to some of Africa's best animal preserves. It is sparsely populated, outlined by the Namib Desert on the Atlantic coast and the Kalahari Desert on the eastern border. The country is, by African standards, safe and modern, the government stable, and the infrastructure solid. It is not the first place on the continent to come to mind when a foreigner disappears, but an Internet cafe in the capital of Windhoek became Emily Burbank's last known place of contact.Nearly five months separated Emily's arrival in Africa from her disappearance. The journey began in South Africa as an overland safari. The tour by open-air truck lasted thirty days and passed through six countries on its way through the south and east of Africa, ending in Nairobi, Kenya.Originally scheduled to return to Johannesburg by air, Emily remained in East Africa with two men from the overland tour, Kristof Berger (German, later determined to be 22 years of age) and Mel Shore (Australian, 31). Of this decision, Emily wrote, "We want to skip the game parks and visit towns and villages off the beaten trail and, if we can, spend time living with the local population in some of the rural areas we've already passed through. Don't worry about me, I'm fine. Kris and Mel are great, and we keep an eye out for each other." (See addendum for original copy.)Two months separated this e-mail from the next contact, which came by way of a phone call out of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania. There is no record of this conversation; it was later relayed by Elizabeth Burbank. The trio still traveled together, the lapse in communication due to their having spent over a month living in a Masai village outside of the Serengeti, where they had been without electricity and the closest telephone over a day's walk away. That stay had ended when Emily developed a fever and her traveling companions took her to a Catholic mission for malaria treatment. At the time of the call, Emily had fully recovered and the trio was about to begin the overland return to Johannesburg.E-mail from Emily arrived at regular intervals: Lusaka, Livingstone, Gaborone, and finally Johannesburg, each a brief note providing detail on location and the next segment of travel.Several days before her scheduled return to the United States, Emily gave notice of her decision to remain in Africa for an additional two months. Her plans would then route her through Europe, where she would spend a few weeks traveling the Balkans with Kristof before returning home.In communications that followed, Elizabeth agreed to send Emily money for Europe if her time in Africa was limited to one month and, upon receiving Emily's consent, wired four thousand dollars.Emily wrote from Windhoek a week later. Together with a small amount of descriptive detail on the trip and the promise to notify her family as soon as she knew where they would go next, Emily provided Kristof Berger's address in Langen, Germany, requesting that her mother post a few items so that they would be waiting when she arrived.This was the last communication received from Emily Burbank.When Emily did not contact her family and failed to return home on the established date, the Burbanks contacted South African Airways in an attempt to discover if Emily had departed Africa for Europe. The airline had no record of Emily's boarding the flight out of Johannesburg or the connecting flight in Europe and, citing security factors, was unable to provide information on either Kristof Berger or Mel Shore. The Burbanks filed a missing-persons report with their local police department and contacted the Department of State.INVESTIGATIONS SUMMARYFrom the onset it has been understood that the chances of locating Emily are slim. Emily had set a precedent for traveling to remote areas, and although it is assumed that she would have notified her family before leaving Namibia, it is not certain; therefore the actual location of her disappearance is open to speculation. Additionally, little is known about her traveling companions and the relationship among the three. Permutations are many, and the investigations that followed centered not only on locating Emily but also on locating the men who traveled with her.Phase One: The initial phase of the investigation branched immediately in three directions. The initial phase of the investigation branched immediately in three directions.Namibia: The U.S. Department of State, the U.S. embassy in Windhoek, and local law enforcement worked jointly to trace the movements of the trio throughout the capital. After outlining three days of stay, the trail ended cold. Beyond being able to ascertain that Emily Burbank and her traveling companions had indeed been in the capital, no additional information was forthcoming. From this first phase, the following is worth noting:At the hostel in which they stayed, the proprietor heard them discussing Luanda (Angola), and at a restaurant the trio frequented, a waiter recalled Kristof Berger inquiring extensively about the Caprivi Strip and road conditions to Ruacana on the border of Angola. Another waiter said he had heard them discuss Libreville (Gabon).Kristof Berger: Using the address Emily provided, a second team was sent to Germany to locate Kristof Berger's mother. When shown photos of Emily, the woman denied having seen her, and when the line of questioning turned to Kristof, she terminated the conversation.Working through the Langen Rathaus, the team was able to confirm that Kristof had returned to Germany, and it is worth noting that the date of Kristof's return to Europe does not coincide with the flight details Emily provided her parents. Repeated attempts to locate him proved futile.Mel Shore: Emily's letters home had provided only scattered pieces of information about Mel Shore, and through these his name, age, and nationality are assumed. Beyond this, little is known of the man, and all attempts to locate his city of origin or family members have failed.Phase Two: Local law enforcement worked to establish a basis for Emily Burbank's remaining in or leaving Namibia. The only intra-African airlines flying out of Windhoek that retained searchable records were South African Airways and Air Namibia, neither of which held any listing of Emily. That the trio had caught a bush plane or traveled out of Namibia by road could not be ruled out. Local law enforcement worked to establish a basis for Emily Burbank's remaining in or leaving Namibia. The only intra-African airlines flying out of Windhoek that retained searchable records were South African Airways and Air Namibia, neither of which held any listing of Emily. That the trio had caught a bush plane or traveled out of Namibia by road could not be ruled out.Based on information provided in phase one, the investigation transferred to Ruacana and then to the cities through the Caprivi Strip, a narrow stretch of lush land sandwiched between Botswana and Zambia. The investigators were not able to locate anyone who recalled the young travelers.All indications pointed to the group's having left Namibia, but no record of their having done so existed. At this phase active searching within Namibia stopped.Phase Three: The Burbank family sent a team of lawyers to the U.S. embassies in Luanda, Pretoria, and Gaborone. Similar visits to the German and Australian embassies were made on the chance that information on Kristof Berger and Mel Shore could be garnered. The embassies had received no reports of missing citizens and were unable to help. The Burbank family sent a team of lawyers to the U.S. embassies in Luanda, Pretoria, and Gaborone. Similar visits to the German and Australian embassies were made on the chance that information on Kristof Berger and Mel Shore could be garnered. The embassies had received no reports of missing citizens and were unable to help.Phases one through three lasted the better part of eight months and concluded when no definitive information on Emily Burbank or either of her two traveling companions could be unearthed.Phase Four: Roughly a year after Emily's disappearance, the package that Elizabeth Burbank had mailed to Emily in care of Kristof at his address was received back in Houston, unopened, marked "return to sender." Once again a team was dispatched to Europe, and Kristof was eventually located at Klinik Hohe Mark. Chronologically, Kristof's first admission appears to be shortly after his return from Africa. Medical records show that he suffered a mental breakdown, initially responded well to treatment, and was released after six months. He was returned that same month and has since been a permanent resident. Roughly a year after Emily's disappearance, the package that Elizabeth Burbank had mailed to Emily in care of Kristof at his address was received back in Houston, unopened, marked "return to sender." Once again a team was dispatched to Europe, and Kristof was eventually located at Klinik Hohe Mark. Chronologically, Kristof's first admission appears to be shortly after his return from Africa. Medical records show that he suffered a mental breakdown, initially responded well to treatment, and was released after six months. He was returned that same month and has since been a permanent resident.The investigative team was able to speak with him, but he wasn't lucid and what responses he gave had no bearing on the conversation or the questions asked of him. Transcripts and translations are included in the supporting documents.Unable to learn anything from Kristof, the team once again attempted to speak with Frau Berger. Offered a substantial sum of money, the woman agreed to listen to their questions. When again shown photographs of Emily Burbank, Frau Berger did not recognize her, nor could she provide details on where Kristof had been while in Africa or whom he had befriended while traveling. She merely confirmed the date that Kirstof had returned and admitted to the date he had entered the institution.Suspecting that Frau Berger knew more than she was revealing and seeing the state of the woman's home, the investigating team offered an additional sum of money should she recall further details, and with that, Frau Berger again terminated the conversation.Phase Five: In Namibia, where the first and second phases ended, a group of former military personnel attempted to track Emily's path out of the country. Over a four-month period, they reviewed exit records at every staffed land-border crossing in Namibia and spoke with every official available; given that they were generously dispersing "bonuses," they also spoke with many who were not officials. In the end there was no record of Emily's having left Namibia. In Namibia, where the first and second phases ended, a group of former military personnel attempted to track Emily's path out of the country. Over a four-month period, they reviewed exit records at every staffed land-border crossing in Namibia and spoke with every official available; given that they were generously dispersing "bonuses," they also spoke with many who were not officials. In the end there was no record of Emily's having left Namibia.Phase Six: In e-mails home and in conversations with Elizabeth Burbank, Emily had indicated plans to remain in Africa to travel through countries not yet visited. Geographically, the only direction the group could go to fulfill this plan would have been north. In e-mails home and in conversations with Elizabeth Burbank, Emily had indicated plans to remain in Africa to travel through countries not yet visited. Geographically, the only direction the group could go to fulfill this plan would have been north.No visas were issued to Emily or to either of her companions from the Angolan, Congolese, or Gabonese embassies in Windhoek. Visas for these countries could have been applied for elsewhere on the continent, or the trio, now familiar with the protocols of African border transit, may have attempted to purchase visas while border crossing.Although Angola borders Namibia to the north, those who knew Emily had difficulty believing that she would enter the country. Entering Angola overland as a tourist was not considered possible at the time and is still inadvisable due to the decades of conflict. However, there was the possibility that the trio had flown to Luanda as a stop point to head farther north. Congo and Gabon also posed question marks, as they are expensive to travel to, in terms of the transportation costs as well as visas, food, and shelter.Language was an additional consideration. Unlike South and East Africa, where English is widely spoken, along the west coast of Africa, French is the primary language. Emily did speak rudimentary French, and it had by this point been confirmed through Kristof Berger's school records that he, too, spoke French. Nothing is known about Mel Shore.The search team split in three and traveled to Angola, Gabon, and Congo. As with the previous phases of the investigation, this venture ended with no additional information.

Munroe turned the page and jotted another note on the addendum. All things considered, the extensiveness of the search was impressive, and the family had committed a sizable chunk of resources to it. But there were questions the history did not answer.

Papers were strewn around her. The coffee cup on the bedside table had been filled and refilled several times and, in spite of precautions, had left a ring on the furniture.

Munroe picked up the mug-time for another. It was nearly eight in the evening. Noah would be back soon; he wouldn't be able to help returning to her. She poured another cup of coffee.

The details of the case ran through her head, and with them came the memories. It was another life, another world, untamed and vast, where stretches of two-lane tarmac ran veinlike through sub-Saharan emptiness, and buses-old, rusted, and belching black smoke-pumped the blood of humanity along the way.

It was a world where urban areas were intractable masses, indelible human footprints that rose out of the landscape fusing modernity with the castoffs and refuse of Europe and Asia, where even the new was old before its time, and where hot running water and stable electricity were still considered luxuries to most.

Munroe took a sip of the tepid liquid and let out an involuntary snort. No wonder each investigation turned up nothing. The continent was vast, records nonexistent, and evidence scarce. Finding the girl was highly improbable.

But the challenge was seductive, and its alluring tendrils wrapped themselves around her mind like the ethereal threads of a spider's web.

A gentle knock at the door jolted her from her thoughts. She opened the door, and Noah greeted her with a kiss and handed her a small white rose. She tucked the flower behind her ear, and he looked past her to the documents spread out on the bed. In French he said, "Are you busy? Should I come back another time?"

She tugged on his shirt collar, drew him close, and kissed him. "No. Give me a minute to put this in order. There's something I want to show you."

Outside, Munroe pulled away the sleeve that protected the bike from the elements and curious hands, and Noah knelt down beside it and brushed his fingers across the sleek body.

"From one enthusiast to another, I thought you could appreciate it."

He smiled. "I do."

They headed to lower Greenville, where they found a dance club and spent several hours moving around the floor oblivious to everything and everyone around them, engrossed in the rhythm and in the closeness of their bodies. By the time they got back to the hotel, it was nearly three in the morning.

The days that followed brought a similar pattern. Noah would be gone before she was fully awake, and in his absence she perused and deliberated over the information provided in the Burbank files. When he returned, they would take the bike out.

She showed him Dallas, took him to the places she rarely found the time to go to, and when they had experienced all that they could, they would return to the quiet of the room and the satisfaction of exploring each other's bodies. Being with him brought peace; the edge of anxiety that had been stalking her since her arrival ebbed, and inside her head the demons were sleeping.

IT WAS THE fourth morning, and for the first time Munroe woke with Noah in her bed. She ran her fingers over his chest, and he reached for her hand, rolled to his side, and kissed the top of her head. fourth morning, and for the first time Munroe woke with Noah in her bed. She ran her fingers over his chest, and he reached for her hand, rolled to his side, and kissed the top of her head.

Munroe switched on her phone, and waiting was a message from Breeden. She got up to jot a few numbers and then crawled back into bed and snuggled against Noah's chest. "When is your flight?" she whispered.

"Tomorrow evening."

"I leave for Houston early tomorrow," she said.

Silent for a moment, he said, "We still have tonight." There was genuine sadness in his voice and, worse, she felt it too. He was meant to be a challenge, a conquest to numb the torment of anxiety, not to seep into the crevices of her mind. "I'll be back at eight," he said. "Have dinner with me?"

"Of course," she whispered and kissed him, and then as a way of escape climbed out of bed for the shower.

WHEN HE HAD gone, Munroe sat cross-legged on the bed with dossiers on Richard, Elizabeth, and Emily Burbank lined up in front of her. The dossiers-assembled by Breeden or whoever Breeden had hired to put them together-were standard practice, critical to an assignment. Every potential employer had a private motivation for pulling her into a project, and that motivation didn't always coincide with what she was officially told. gone, Munroe sat cross-legged on the bed with dossiers on Richard, Elizabeth, and Emily Burbank lined up in front of her. The dossiers-assembled by Breeden or whoever Breeden had hired to put them together-were standard practice, critical to an assignment. Every potential employer had a private motivation for pulling her into a project, and that motivation didn't always coincide with what she was officially told.

Munroe searched the dossiers for information to better understand the background, and after having spent the greater part of the day finding nothing more than what amounted to high-society gossip, she tossed them aside.

She left the hotel just before six and headed north on the bike, no destination in mind, only the desire to burn fuel and, through a surge of speed, purge the demons that had begun to stir. The adrenaline worked as a nostrum, an appeasement, a small sacrifice to the gods in exchange for a few hours of peace.

Three hours later, with nearly three hundred miles added to the odometer, Munroe returned to the hotel. When she entered the room, Noah greeted her with a full bouquet of flowers-no accusatory questions about why she'd kept him waiting, only a kiss and the fragrance of the roses. She smiled and reciprocated his kiss. Both were gestures of rote, neither calculated nor genuine. Internally, she was shutting down.

He produced a bottle of wine and poured a glass. "Are you still going to Houston tomorrow?"

She took the glass, kissed him again, and set it aside. "I'll leave at six or seven," she said. She shrugged out of her jeans. "Let me shower, and then we can go."

He stroked her cheek and ran his fingers through her hair, then sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her, half naked, to his lap. His hands slid around her waist. "Come with me to Morocco."

The invitation should have signaled triumph, official notice that the challenge was over, that it was time to go. She slipped off his lap and stood by the window, staring at the city lights in the distance and hating most that she wanted what he offered.

It wasn't the first time a conquest had made such a request or similar words had been spoken, but it was the first that she'd felt a twinge of longing-that desire to fly off into the proverbial sunset for however long it might last.

"I'm not saying that I don't want it," she said. "I just can't do it." Silent for a moment, she returned from the window, climbed onto the bed, and placed a knee on either side of his legs. She held his face to her chest and kissed the top of his head.

He held her tight and then with a deep breath stood, pulling her up with him. "I need to go," he said.

From his wallet he extracted a business card. "So that you can find me-in case you change your mind." He placed it on the desk and, without looking back, left the room.

The door closed, a resounding thud in the silence. Munroe picked up the wineglass, swished the liquid in a gentle circle, ran her thumb against the stem. It was so delicate, would be so easy to snap, and she waited for the urge to do so. No reaction. Numb. The internal shutdown was complete. She placed the glass back on the desk, lay on the bed with her hands behind her head, and, as she knew they would, waited for the demons to rise.

chapter 3

Walker County, Texas.

The sky was dark, tinged by the murky haze of city lights, of civilization and pollution. The weather had warmed; even in the predawn, Munroe could feel it, and if the temperature was rising, she would welcome it. The roads were empty, and at 150 miles an hour the wind had a way of rushing through a person.

At three in the morning, she'd tossed the documents from the Burbank case into a backpack and left the hotel. Her head was filled with a cacophony of ancient words and the accompanying attacks of anxiety that prevented sleep. She would ride through the night, and in the dark and the silence her head would clear.

She traveled the winding Texas backcountry, endless lane dividers blending into a solid line, time calculated by the changing colors of the sky and a tugging ache that lurked at the periphery of her consciousness, the result of hours spent on a machine built for speed rather than comfort.

The meeting was set for ten, and now at nine-thirty she moved with the flow of traffic through the tail end of the morning rush hour into the matrix of Houston's downtown. She found parking and then, gazing up at the building, ruffled her short hair free of the shape of the helmet.

She stretched and pulled the kinks out of her shoulders, locked the helmet onto the bike, and unzipped the riding jacket. Underneath she wore a tight T-shirt, and the combination of the shirt, blue jeans, and thick-soled boots gave her the appearance of having recently stepped out of the cab of an eighteen-wheeler. Like every decision she made, the choice in clothing was calculated, a statement to the client, a silent "fuck you" to a succession of men in suits who aggressively jockeyed to have their assignments accepted.

To them she provided no decorum, abided by no protocol, and each in turn would accept this because they all wanted the information she would procure that had the potential to turn meager profits into gold.

It hadn't started out that way. The first assignment had been a fluke and had come at a time when she considered herself marred for life, unhirable in the traditional sense and wondering how to pay off amassed student loans in her own lifetime.

During sophomore year of college, in a period of drink- and drug-induced haze, with the deadline of a research assignment for her comparative-politics class looming, she pulled an all-nighter with a beat-up laptop and four pots of coffee, fabricating a report using Cameroon as her target of study. The sources were fudged, but the information, based on past personal observations, logical conclusions, and in-depth understanding of the demographics, was highly accurate.

The relief of having completed the assignment segued to dread when instead of a grade she received a request from the professor to discuss the paper. He had, as it turned out, taken the liberty of passing her report to a colleague, who after reading it had asked to meet her.

The colleague was an economist for the International Monetary Fund working in the IMF's African Area, and he in turn introduced Munroe to one of his business partners, a man named Julian Reid. Although it was evident to those who read the report that the material had not been pulled from genuine sources, the analyses and conclusions had piqued their curiosity. Over lunch Reid inquired as to the chances of having her prepare a similar report on another country. He and his partners, he explained, were planning to begin a venture in Morocco, and although the country was fairly stable politically and economically, what they didn't have was someone on the inside with an innate understanding of the place, the customs, the subtleties, and a map, for lack of a better term, of how to navigate the political hierarchy with its graft and jockeying for power. It was such underlying information in her report on Cameroon that had caught the eye of those who'd read it. Could she, he wanted to know, replicate the research in a different scenario?

That was how it began.

Morocco was the first assignment; it had taken eight months, and those eight months transformed the direction of her life. The drugs stopped, the drink dried up, the intense focus of the work brought peace, and that one assignment carried her finances into the black. Next was a two-month period in Uruguay on behalf of the IMF. By the time the third project, in Vietnam, had been completed, word had begun to spread. With each assignment her reputation for extracting impossibly accurate information grew, and it was only a matter of time before the law of supply and demand took over. The value of her services increased exponentially, and so did the paychecks. No one questioned how she came by the information or what she had to do to get it; they simply paid.

Now came the possibility of an assignment far outside the area of her expertise, and for that reason it intrigued her-that, and the fact that she had not returned to the continent of her birth since abruptly departing it nine years ago. Munroe pushed the memories away, joined Kate Breeden in the lobby of the building, and in silence rode the elevator to the thirty-eighth floor, where the doors opened onto a wide reception area.

The halls were carpeted, the wooden office doors richly paneled, and the atmosphere hushed and reverent. Titan Exploration was a fascinating specimen of the acme of corporate America, and Munroe observed the goings-on with detached curiosity while she followed Burbank's assistant across expensive rugs and through well-lit hallways.

With its internal politics and sedate proprieties, the corporate world was as foreign as any of the countries she'd traveled, and it comprised a distinct culture she had yet to internalize. Over the years she'd made several attempts to live as "normal" people did, holding standard jobs and maintaining a permanent residence, each try a more miserable failure than the one before it. The longest stretch of employment had been eight weeks as a bean counter at an auditing firm. It had come to a quick end when the idea of killing the department manager became palpable. Insecure and inept, the woman had been a tyrant set out to destroy talent before it replaced her, and few would have wept over her passing. But when ideas of how to do it and get away with it danced through Munroe's head, she had known it was time to get out. And that was the good job.

The assistant brought them to a corner office, knocked gently, and opened the door. Thirty feet of empty space unfurled between the door and Burbank's desk. The front of the office held a sitting area with a wet bar; framed autographed photos lined the right wall. The left and back walls were solid glass, with a spectacular view of the downtown Houston area.

Burbank sat on the edge of an oversize mahogany desk in front of the wall of windows, a phone to his ear, one leg firmly on the floor, the other dangling over the corner of the desk, and he was in the middle of a heated conversation. He paused, beckoned to Breeden and Munroe, and then curtly dismissed whoever was on the other end of the line.

Burbank was Munroe's height, tanned, fit, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit with a pale pinstriped shirt and a pink tie. Silver around his temples framed eyes the gray-blue of a winter sky. He radiated tangible energy and genuine charm.

Munroe sat in one of the two chairs facing Burbank's desk and immediately regretted having done so. The chair was plush and comfortable, and she sank into it several inches so that her eye level was closer to Burbank's chest than to his face, forcing her to look up at him.

When the silence in the room became uncomfortably long, Burbank smiled at Munroe and finally said, "Thank you so much for coming. I really do appreciate your taking the time to hear me out and at least consider the job that I need done."

Munroe stared out beyond him through the windows and, with a look of boredom and her voice monotone, said only, "I came for the money."

Burbank laughed, and he placed his hands together. "I trust that the transfer went through smoothly and that everything is in order?" Breeden nodded, and Burbank continued. "Have you had a chance to look over the material I provided?"

"Yes, I have," Munroe said.

"Good, good," he said, nodding as he spoke, and then he paused as if cutting himself off in the middle of a thought. "You know, I'm not really sure what to call you-do you prefer Michael, Ms. Munroe, Vanessa, or is there perhaps another moniker you've taken?" The words were almost sarcastic, but his tone was sincere. He had done his research and was letting her know.

"Most of my clients call me Michael," she replied.

"Fine, Michael it is." Burbank paused and looked out the window at the skyline, then rubbed a finger against his mouth. "Michael," he said, "I know you don't have children, but perhaps you can understand the pain of uncertainty and the lack of closure that come from simply not knowing what happened to a child.

"Emily is the brightest and most lovable daughter a parent could wish for, and I thank God every day for bringing her and her mother into my life." He pulled a photo out of his wallet and handed it to Munroe.

"That's Emily's high-school graduation picture," he said.

Munroe nodded. As in the file photos, Emily was a petite girl with straight, long blond hair and brown eyes made stunning by deep, dark lashes.

"When Emily decided to go to South Africa, I was against it. I didn't feel it safe for her to travel alone. She insisted that she wasn't wasn't alone, and she was right in a sense-the whole expedition traveled as a group. I think you know what I mean, though. But she was eighteen, old enough to start making her own decisions. I didn't think it was a good one, but her mother felt that the overland adventure would give Emily a chance to come into her own, and I really did not have a lot of say in the matter. alone, and she was right in a sense-the whole expedition traveled as a group. I think you know what I mean, though. But she was eighteen, old enough to start making her own decisions. I didn't think it was a good one, but her mother felt that the overland adventure would give Emily a chance to come into her own, and I really did not have a lot of say in the matter.

"Emily is a tiny girl and soft-spoken, but she has a very determined personality. When she wanted something she found a way to get it, and this was no exception.

"As I'm sure you've read in the file, shortly before Emily was scheduled to travel to Europe, she disappeared. It's been four years now, Michael." Burbank's voice cracked. He stopped and caught his breath, and after a long silence began again. "Between the private investigators and security experts, I have spent a small fortune. I have been through hell trying to deal with government agencies that know nothing." He paused again, his breathing deep and measured. "Honestly," he continued, "I have little hope of finding her alive after all this time. But I do want to understand what happened, to know if there is any way that I can make wrongs right, to right them on her behalf." A sense of heaviness filled the room. "I need to find her, Michael."

Munroe waited and then said, "I'm sorry that you've had to go through this." She spoke slowly, mirroring Burbank's pattern of speech and choosing words that would convey meaning without causing pain. "I do understand the agony of losing someone you love for reasons that make absolutely no sense. But what I don't understand is why you want to hire me. I don't do this. I don't travel the world trying to find missing people and I don't think I can help you."

"No, you don't find missing people." Burbank sighed. "But you do have the skill set to survive and blend in with any culture that you come into contact with. Even more, you know how to ask the right questions of the right people to get the answers you need." He pulled a folder from his desk and slid it to her.

It was nearly an inch thick, a thorough encapsulation of the past nine years of her life. With an air of indifference, Munroe leafed through the pages. After the documents came the photos: of her family, of her on each of the three Ducatis she had owned, of Logan's shop, of Logan and his then boyfriend, and several from college that she wished had never been taken. Munroe stopped when she came to a high-resolution blowup-a still lifted from Internet footage of one of the many BASE jumps she'd made at Kjerag in Norway. The bastard had been meticulous. Medical records, school records, and her driving record with its long list of speeding tickets. The file included conversations and details recounted by people who knew her when she had just entered the country. But except for a few notations on her childhood, prior to her arrival in the United States, the file had nothing. The way it should be.

Munroe tossed the file on the desk. "You get a B-plus on your homework assignment," she said with a yawn. "I hope you're not expecting that to be some form of blackmail to convince me to take the case, because there's nothing in there that bothers me."

"Blackmail? Goodness no," he said. "I have nothing to gain from forcing you into a job you don't want to take-surely the results would be less than ideal. No, Michael, I had that file put together so I would have a thorough understanding of what you were capable of. I also wanted you to know that I had done my research before presenting the offer I am about to make."

Munroe said nothing, and the room went silent. When it was apparent that Burbank was waiting for a reaction or an indication of interest, she yawned again and slid deeper into the chair, resting her head on the back of it and stretching her legs out in front.

Burbank clasped his hands together and leaned forward on the desk. "I'm prepared to offer you a contract of two and a half million dollars as a final attempt to locate my daughter."

She tilted her head to the side, raised an eyebrow, and continued to say nothing.

"Michael, I need closure. I cannot sit around day after day for the rest of my life just waiting and hoping that someday someone will bring me news. You are the best at what you do. You have never gone on an assignment and failed to deliver. I know that if you agree to this assignment, you will deliver. And maybe that's partially what I'm afraid of. I'm afraid that you'll choose not to do it because you don't think you can deliver, and that's why I'm willing to pay you two-point-five million for giving it your very best effort. I don't know how long it would take before you ran up against a dead end. We've been at it for four years. If you give me a year, that's all I ask, even if you don't get any further than we have."

"So you're willing to take a two-and-a-half-million-dollar risk on the remote chance that I might get further than you have?"

"If you want to put it that way, then yes, although I don't see it as a risk." He swept his hand around the office. "Obviously, money is not my greatest concern. I have enough to last me several lifetimes. What I don't have is closure. I can't handle not knowing-and possibly not ever ever knowing-what happened to my daughter, and time is running out. Each day that passes without bringing new information further seals the outcome. I've read some of the reports you've put together. You snatch information out of what seems to be thin air. I believe with utmost certainty that if you say my daughter is dead, that she is dead, and if she is alive, that you are the one who can find her. And if you tell me that the trail has ended and there is no hope of going further, I will know that all that can be done has been done." knowing-what happened to my daughter, and time is running out. Each day that passes without bringing new information further seals the outcome. I've read some of the reports you've put together. You snatch information out of what seems to be thin air. I believe with utmost certainty that if you say my daughter is dead, that she is dead, and if she is alive, that you are the one who can find her. And if you tell me that the trail has ended and there is no hope of going further, I will know that all that can be done has been done."

Munroe pulled herself up in the chair and leaned forward across the desk so that her eyes were level with his. "That's it? I promise to do my best and you hand over payment? What if I signed your contract, took a yearlong vacation in Africa, and simply said that I tried?"

Burbank smiled and held her gaze. He waited a few seconds before answering, as though choosing his words carefully. "If I've come to understand you correctly," he said, "I don't think you would even consider that as an option-you have your reputation at stake. However, I am also a businessman-I protect my investments. I would expect to receive progress updates from you on a frequent if not regular basis, and I retain the right to send one of my people to assist you if I deem it necessary."

"You do realize," Munroe remonstrated, "that I have never been babysat on a job before, and I have no desire to start now. I work alone, Mr. Burbank, and I very carefully select the people who help me. If I should choose to accept your assignment, what makes you think your 'people' are qualified? If they were, you wouldn't need me."

Burbank reached into his desk and withdrew a second folder. "This is Miles Bradford," he said. "I trust him with my life. He has been with me through hell and back, and it was he who recommended you to me. Miles is no stranger to Africa, and although it wasn't mentioned in the background documents, Miles was on the investigative team that traveled from Windhoek to Brazzaville, Congo. You are free to research him yourself. If you feel he's unqualified, let me know and you can have your pick of the people within my organization whom I would trust with this."

Munroe glanced briefly through the file and then took her own file off Burbank's desk and handed them both to Breeden. "All right, Mr. Burbank," she said. "I will think about your offer. After I've reread the information on your daughter's case, then read the information on Miles Bradford and the dossier you have on me, I'll get back to you. You should hear from me through Ms. Breeden within seventy-two hours."

"Thank you, Michael," Burbank said, his voice softer. "That's all I ask."

THERE WAS SILENCE in the elevator on the way to the lobby. Breeden tapped on the thick files and said, "I'll drop these off at your hotel as soon as I get back into town." in the elevator on the way to the lobby. Breeden tapped on the thick files and said, "I'll drop these off at your hotel as soon as I get back into town."

"Don't bother," Munroe said. "I'm not planning to read them anytime soon. I just wanted to have copies handy. When's your flight?"

Breeden glanced at her watch. "About three hours."

"Let's get some coffee."

"Does that mean you're considering Burbank's offer?"

"Perhaps."

Two blocks down the street, they found a coffee shop, cozy and quaint, and when the caffeine had for the most part been quaffed and all that remained of the scones and muffins were a few crumbs that had tumbled onto the table, Munroe shifted the conversation back to the offer Burbank had made. "I'm going to take the job," she said. "If Burbank will agree to several concessions."

Breeden put down her mug and pulled a handheld from her purse.

"I want the two-point-five million up front," Munroe said, "plus expenses." She paused for a moment and tapped her fingers on the table in a rhythmic pattern that resembled Morse code. "If I can deliver hard evidence on the facts surrounding his daughter's disappearance," she continued, "then I want an additional two-point-five upon delivery, and I want to work alone-no tagalongs. I may have a few more stipulations, but the tagalong is the only one he's going to balk at. Wait at least seventy hours before you submit the terms-I want to buy time to change my mind."

Breeden nodded and jotted notes.