He and Flix joined her. Blue Eyes, the man known only as Dante, could finally be seen beneath the inferno of the blinding white West Pakistan sky. The thin cloud cover seemed to have spread light over the entire bowl of the sky, so that it appeared as if the sun had expanded to ten times its size.

Dante was driving a dust-coated half-track truck. He was alone, Charlie saw through her powerful field glasses: where were the two girls, the replacements for Alice and Beth? Hidden in back? Charlie was willing to bet not. The promise of release from bondage another lie they had had to swallow.

She frowned. Did Dante know the mercs were no longer in control of the compound? Did he know he was driving into an ambush? If so, he gave no sign of it. He continued down the dusty track that wound through the foothills, and which, at length, arrived at the outer walls of Seiran el-Habib’s hideout.

“Places,” Whitman said softly, and they all deployed.

They were ready for this moment, every move meticulously designed—they all had their parts to play. Charlie was pleased with the plan. She had to give Whit credit; out in the field he knew what he was doing. She could imagine no one better, and this assurance provided a sense of security she would not otherwise have had.

“Wait,” Whitman said. “Wait.”

And then, just as the truck was within range, they heard the signature whup-whup-whup! of rotors, and the gunship appeared over the top of the highest hill, heading straight toward them.

*   *   *

Strange days have found me, Julie thought as she walked through Foggy Bottom’s rain-soaked streets. Faces come out of the rain—and they’re strange. She jumped at every horn blare, flinched if any passerby came too near her. She walked and walked, crossing the bridge into Georgetown, turning right off M Street past the sturdy brick façade of the Four Seasons, walking uphill past neat town houses with gardens, trim and tiny out front.

It was the hour when, on a clear day with the sun low in the western sky, shadows would stretch out like cats yawning. She entered the gardens of Dumbarton Oaks, her favorite place in Georgetown, perhaps in all of D.C. The weather had turned it into a ghost town. The laden branches dipped and wept beneath the downpour, petals spilled on the ground.

Sadness gripped her, whereas before, on the streets, it was fear. At least she felt safe here, standing beneath the stone portico, gazing out at her beloved garden with its double oval of American hornbeams, a delicious bower in summer’s heat.