The streets were quiet that early on a Sunday morning: no children playing, no traffic. Low cloud pressed over the valley and rendered the air milky white. She’d spent the night in a hotel, one that wasn’t much used by internationals, biting her lip each time the lift next to her room made a sound. As soon as she could pretend it was decent, she’d slipped out the back entrance. Levin, OMPF, Michael’s diary had said. OMPF was the Office of Missing Persons and Forensics – or had been, until it was rebranded as the Department of Forensic Medicine a year ago. Michael had never been one to take notice of bureaucratic reshuffling. Levin, she guessed, was Shai Levin, Chief Forensic Anthropologist. Abby had met him a dozen times over the years, different encounters in different parts of the world, though she doubted she’d left much of an impression. She’d been to a party at his house with Michael back in June. He lived in one of the freshly painted villas that climbed the slope opposite the main town, where the foreign proconsuls lived and lorded it over the city they administered.
