Reine took the opportunity on the short flight to Rome to catch up with Iverson. She got more than she was looking for.

By the time they boarded the transatlantic plane bound for Washington, she had multiple reasons for feeling sick. Not only was the ceaseless headache making her nauseated, but the details the professor confirmed also made her too anxious to get any much-needed rest.

She now knew they were called to Venice to examine a painting that turned out to be a previously undocumented DaVinci. From the professor's digital photographs, she saw it was clearly a portrait of her, which just added to her confusion. She had also attended one of the grandest balls in the city, but because he wasn't there, the professor didn't know the details of the night. The farther they got from Venice, the more Reine's hopes of finding out what had happened there faded.

Because they were seated in front, she and the professor were among the first passengers at Dulles International Airport to deplane. He knew how awful she'd been feeling, so he insisted she go ahead without him if he wasn't able to keep up. Grateful for the courtesy, she walked swiftly among the crowd of disembarking travelers with her passport and completed customs' form in hand.

Even though there were a handful of others in the 'US citizens' line ahead of her, Reine was ecstatic to at least already be in the passport control area. She didn't have any checked bags so she'd just breeze through customs and grab a taxi. Judging by the address on her drivers' license, she could be home in an hour.

The routine welcoming of residents made the queue move quickly. Soon, it was Reine's turn to approach the Immigration and Customs Enforcement officer at the next available cubicle. His poker face, however, hid any type of empathy for the weary travelers he encountered. The tall, granite topped counter - practically up to Reine's chin - made the setup even more imposing.

Handing her passport to the officer, she greeted him with a small smile. "Hello, sir."

He silently opened the official document and quickly compared the image with the face of the woman standing in front of him. Satisfied with the match, he scanned the main page through his computer. Several seconds passed as the system searched its records. Meanwhile, the officer looked with disdain at the rarely waning crowd.

A small beep from the machine brought his attention back to the screen. His posture stiffened in reaction to the information, and he glanced back at Reine with increased interest. Picking up the phone, he referred to a "hit in the system" and asked for an "escort to a debrief" before quickly hanging up.

"Is there a problem?" she asked as her heart began to race at the unusual reaction. She had never encountered such a problem before.

"If you could just wait patiently, ma'am. I'd appreciate it," he replied formulaically.

Not having any other choice, Reine watched as other passengers from her flight got cleared through. Even Professor Iverson, who had been at least a dozen people behind, made it through ahead of her.

After several more uncomfortable minutes had passed, another uniformed officer arrived. She took Reine's passport and asked her to follow. Leading her away from the public arrival area, they first entered a suite of offices and ultimately made it to a windowless conference room.

"Ma'am, I'm going to need to take your bag."

Reine handed over her carry-on satchel.

The woman continued to look her up and down. "Do you have a cell phone on you?" she asked.

Reine pointed at the bag. "It's in there."

"Thank you, ma'am." The officer nodded. "Please have a seat. Someone will be in shortly."

Shortly - it turned out - meant something quite different to government agents than it did to Reine. To pass the time, she went through the contents of her pockets, analyzing every ticket stub and crumpled-up receipt she could find. None of them proved to be interesting, except for a cute little silver fleur-de-lis in the bottom of her jeans' pocket.

According to her watch, she waited for nearly an hour before anyone came back into the room again. She had almost fallen asleep with her head on the bare table when two people in civilian clothes entered.

Stretching her numb limbs, Reine waited to be addressed. Although the large man with the distinct Russian features looked more formidable, it was the slight, dark haired woman who took the lead.

"I'm Criminal Investigative Officer Jameela Singh with Interpol. I need to ask you a few things before we can let you go on your way." She pulled out a chair and sat down across the table.

She didn't introduce her companion who silently stood against the wall, watching the two women in the center of the room. Reine, however, was too tired to care about the formalities. Hopefully, the less she fussed, the quicker she would be able to leave.

Officer Singh opened a thin, manila folder and removed a small, blue booklet. "First, please confirm your identity for me."

"Reine Maria Baldwin," she said.

"Ever use any aliases, Miss Baldwin?"

"No." She guessed, not knowing if it was true or not.

Officer Singh looked up. "What about Baldovini?" she asked.

Reine tried not to show surprise. It was certainly possible she had gone by that name. Anything was possible because she couldn't remember much before waking up that morning.

She shook her head and kept her voice even. "I don't recall using that name."

The woman wrote something in the file in front of her, and then continued. "Were you on flight AI107 that touched down at 6:05 pm coming from Rome?"

Finally, a question she knew how to answer. "Yes, I was."

Jameela Singh picked up the passport again and slowly flipped through the pages. "But you had arrived in Venice just yesterday morning, correct?"

This must have been an obvious red flag, but given the evidence, Reine couldn't possibly deny it. "Yes, it is," she said.

"Most people wouldn't travel so far and then spend less than a day at their destination." Officer Singh paused for effect before continuing. "What was the reason behind your hasty trip?"

Reine didn't answer, but instead, hid a yawn behind her hand. All she wanted to do was get home. Why in the world were these people were interrogating her? Although they probably wouldn't be letting her go any time soon, she tried to remain pleasant. "Why was I brought here?"

Officer Singh slammed the folder closed. "We'll be asking the questions, if you don't mind."

"It's just that-," she began, but the previously silent man cut her off.

"Answer the question," he demanded in a strong Slavic accent.

"This is ridiculous. I have a right to know why I'm being held here," Reine raised her voice for the first time.

"Actually, Miss Baldwin, you have very few rights at the moment. We can keep you for questioning up to seventy-two hours without even telling you why," Singh threatened.

Reine leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. "Then I'm not saying anything else until I can call a lawyer."

"Feeling guilty?" Singh leaned forward, her long, straight hair grazing the tabletop.

Reine inadvertently smiled. "How can I feel guilty if you won't even let me know what I'm suspected of?"

The question was so absurd she had to keep herself from outright laughing. She hadn't broken any laws, her paperwork was all in order, and there was nothing they could legitimately find fault with. There wasn't anything for her to worry about, so she waited to hear their accusation.

Instead of answering, the agents looked at each other. Silently nodding, they seemed to agree it was their time to leave the room.

They were gone for over an hour.

Reine again had nothing to do, but sit and wait. She began to worry that perhaps they were interested in something that happened during the time she couldn't remember. In that case, they could hold her for the next three days.

When they returned, the duo had conveniently forgotten her request for a lawyer and began the questioning once again.

"What do you know about the painting that was pulled from auction yesterday? We know you examined it." Officer Singh began as soon as she entered the room.

After hearing such a direct question, Reine hoped they would soon get to the point. "Yes, I did. It was authentic and worth a lot of money. A lot more than they would have gotten for it at that auction."

Singh scratched her nose. "Do you know who owns that painting?"

"Is that what this is about? The portrait?" Reine asked.

The officer leaned closer and slammed her hands on the table. "Miss Baldwin, do you know who the owner of the painting is?" she asked again.

Reine, however, was distracted by the sparkling jewelry that slipped out from under Jameela Singh's sleeve.

"What? No, it was an anonymous seller," she said absent-mindedly while trying to recall why the observation bothered her.

Singh continued to berate her. "Are you sure about that, Miss Baldwin?"

It probably wasn't wise to press the issue, but this was her only chance to take control of the conversation. "That's a beautiful silver bracelet, Officer Singh. Too bad it seems to be missing a charm."

The woman pulled her shirtsleeve over the jewelry and stepped away from the table. After nodding toward the silent Russian, they quickly left the room again.

Reine's comment had definitely hit a nerve.

She already dreaded waiting another hour or more until they returned to continue her interrogation, but within five minutes, the door opened again.