At the slam of a door, Nola peeked through narrowed eyes and the bars of her cell. A man entered. Keeping still, Nola took in the decorated chest, the rimless glasses, the steeled Asian face. There was a snap to his razor-pressed uniform. But it was the hair—not a crew cut but worn long and jelled back—which unsettled her. This man had achieved individuality within the system and the uniform. The idiosyncratic type could also be an egomaniac.

He stopped outside her cell. Two soldiers stood at attention behind him. “I’d like to have a chat,” he said in accent-free English, but his exaggerated inflections suggested a James Bond complex.

A siren blared in Nola's head. Her fate was in this man’s hands, and hope was as elusive as catching a falling meteor. She rose from her cot, and for a moment, the bare walls swam.

She hesitated before lowering Lulu into the basket—she hated to disturb the baby’s sleep—but then carried her out, limping.

“Your name,” the man stated, not asked. The expression on his knotted brow was of someone ready to sink an armada.

If she allowed her weakness to show, he’d pounce on it. Without asking for his permission, she took the only chair by the desk. “Nola Sands.”

“Are you the famous singer?”

She nodded.

“What were you doing spying here?”

“I was escaping China, not spying.” She heard her voice, charged with tears, flip into a bravery she didn’t feel. “You’ve read the papers.”

“Looks like you cut a deal with the Chinese. They’ve sent you here.”

“To spy at a godforsaken airstrip? A nuclear plant would be a better destination.”

“The airstrip could have been just your first stop.”

“I’m traveling with a baby, for Heaven’s sake.”

“Who’s helped you?”

She smiled. “Your English is excellent.”

“We have ways to get information out of you,” he said.

Her insides rumbled. She touched her throbbing knee; it must be tended to soon.

“How did you get to that airport?” he asked.

The question confused her. “How does anyone get to an airport?”

“Our Coast Guard didn’t spot your boat.”

Nola swallowed. Who would have believed she had flown in on that ancient plane? Even this man thought she had arrived by sea. “I’d like you to help me get to the Philippines,” she said.

“That’s out of the question. We’ll have to send you back.”

“Back?”

“To China. You’re their guest, not ours.”

Her brain saw colors, not thoughts.

He tapped his pen on the desk. It occurred to Nola that he enjoyed this exchange in the quiet hours of the night. Perhaps he liked showing off his English—and his power—to a celebrity.