THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
FORTY
FORTY-ONE
FORTY-TWO
FORTY-THREE
FORTY-FOUR
FORTY-FIVE
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
AN INVITATION FROM THE PUBLISHER
PROLOGUE
Obuda hills, August 1987
She crouched down behind the rose bush, shut her eyes for a moment to help her concentrate, then pushed her fingers into the earth. It was damp and loose on top, packed thicker underneath, but still free enough that she could feel the dirt gather under her nails as she sought a cold, flat surface or sharp metal corner. The tip of her index finger hit something hard and she smiled as she traced its outline. But no – it was round and smooth. A pebble.
She frowned for a moment. Where was it? It had to be here. It was here last week. Nobody else knew about it. Perhaps she had the wrong rose bush.
