“Are you going to hurt me?” the little girl said.

“No,” Charlie answered. “I’m going to make us tea.” The girl was as thin as a wasp, her breasts just budding. “Why don’t you light some candles?”

Looking at her more closely as the light turned from harsh to soft, Charlie was reminded of Lolita—not the film versions, but the transgressive novel wherein Nabokov’s prose describes Delores, Lolita, Lo, the object of Humbert Humbert’s ardent desire, as being prepubescent.

Charlie checked the stove to make sure it ran on gas, then turned on a burner. She had found loose tea in a canister, alongside a wooden rack of knives, to the left of the stovetop. Sticking her nose into it, she inhaled the rich aroma. Somewhat surprised that it wasn’t the usual Pakistani or Afghani varieties, she took a pinch between thumb and forefinger, kneading it, then smelling the released oils. Jasmine, she thought. But not just any jasmine—this tea had an ineffable essence that spoke of extremely high quality. Moving the canister into light thrown by a candle, she saw lines of Mandarin, below which, in smaller type was the English: Zhangyiyuan Tea Shop, 22 Dashilan Street, Xicheng, Beijing. Charlie had heard of Zhangyiyuan. It was one of the finest tea purveyors in the Mainland, with nearly two hundred teashops in Beijing. In fact, she had read somewhere that its jasmine tea-scenting technique had been elevated to one of the state-level intangible cultural heritages. What in the world would this tea be doing in a villa housing a Saudi terrorist, guarded by U.S. soldiers in the middle of Western Pakistan? It made no sense. Still pondering the possible meanings, she spooned the tea into a pot.

“The secret is to keep the water from boiling,” the girl said. “Boiling water spoils the flavor.”

Charlie turned, studied the girl, who sat like a schoolgirl, back straight, hands one atop the other on the table.

“Thank you,” she said, though she already knew this cardinal rule of tea brewing.

The girl started as she heard el-Habib’s cries.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Why don’t we concentrate on us?” Charlie poured the tea into two glasses and brought them over to the table where the girl sat on the edge of her chair. Her teeth were all but chattering. Sitting at right angles to the girl, Charlie set the tea in front of her.

She waited some moments before saying, “We’ll have less difficulty talking if we know each other’s name. Mine’s Charlie. I’m from Indiana.”

“I saw what happened to Beth. Is the same thing going to happen to me?”

Charlie drank some tea. “Seiran el-Habib shot Beth,” she pointed out.