Back on the patio, Nola's heart raced with the enormity of what she had seen. Yoram, all six-foot-five inches of him, stationed himself so close she could smell his heady sweat and count the hairs between his knuckles. Glowering at her, he muttered into his sleeve. The insurance company would pay him a bonus if it didn’t have to cough up any of its policy. Nola selected a fig stuffed with an almond from a passing platter. A moment later, she spit it into a napkin. The Dying Rooms. How could the human mind comprehend the existence of such a place? Daniel's words kept screaming in her mind. Eighty percent. A new-age Nazi-style elimination of the unwanted. How was it possible in these times? God. Wasn’t there someone to stop it?

A disoriented bird shrieked above, its sound darting about the garden. For a split second everything in front of Nola spun—the food stations, the people in exotic outfits, the kaleidoscopic décor. If she didn’t eat something, she might faint. But when she tried a crab-stuffed shrimp, it turned to glue in her mouth.

“Wade’s coming,” Yoram said in a flat tone.

Dinner’s spicy aroma steamed the air and clashed with the stench that clung to Nola’s nostrils and was probably fermenting on her skin. Wade would smell it. She stepped back under the branches of a nearby maple tree and scrutinized the party for Kong Ruiji, the Chinese prime minister who had accepted the American gesture of friendship in the form of her Double Happiness concert tour. She must speak with him.

She spotted Leslie, looking sensational in a white evening jacket, pinstriped satin pants and a red bow tie, conferring with an American general. He was probably getting boot-camp training tips, which he would put to good use, torturing her into better and better shape.

Jean-Claude, catching Nola's eye, pulled his oversized penguin-print bow tie as far as its elastic would allow and, grinning like a jack-o’-lantern, snapped it back. Roberta scurried toward her, her eyebrows pinched together under her mop of bangs. Ambassador Ashford, accompanied by several dignitaries, passed by the patio and yodeled, “The queen of the party.” His small entourage raised their glasses. A camera flashed, and its brightness blazed into Nola's head. It hung, pulsating like strobe lights.

She sent a weak smile without making eye contact. Beads of perspiration erupted on her upper lip. She dabbed at them with her napkin, then picked something cheesy from a passing tray and forced it down. Eat. Get your blood sugar up.