“Call the ambassador,” she cried out. The air was thin. Should she have told Wade about her visit to Ashford’s office? It wasn’t important. Not now. Lulu. Her brain clouded. Too late to think about shoulds and should nots.

She pushed her legs to stand up, to obey her. Could Lulu be stashed away somewhere in the suite? Nola rifled the triple rows of clothing racks, pulling at the hangers, then turned over cartons and spilled dozens of shoes on the floor. She tore behind sofas and under beds. In the bathroom, she rooted in the cabinet under the sink. Another bathroom, more cabinets. Lulu could fit into a drawer. The kitchen. The living room with its curios and buffet. In the second bedroom kitchenette, she crouched in front of the small refrigerator and fumbled with its key. Lulu. Lulu.

A strong hand pulled her up, and she glanced up to see pity written on Yoram’s face. He was capable of human emotions after all. The suite was filling up with people. Wade's business staff streamed up from the downstairs suites. Chinese men and women flowed in from the corridor. Were they hotel staff? Leslie's helpers? The Israeli and an interpreter stationed themselves on either side of her. Who were they to her? All strangers. What did anyone know about her, about her bond with this baby?

“What was she wearing?” Nola yelled to the interpreter, and dashed back to the wardrobe room. “Ask the maid what Lulu was wearing!”

“Pink pajamas with a butterfly print,” the interpreter told her.

Wade was on the phone, but at the sound of her wild voice, his arm stretched toward her, inviting. She fled to her bedroom and slammed the door. Let Ashford tell him that he had no hand in Lulu’s disappearance.

She punched the phone speaker button. “The ambassador’s on the phone with President Corwith and can’t be interrupted,” she heard Christopher tell Wade.

Her eyes remained glued to the empty stroller in the corner. What did this young Christopher know about life? She cried out into the impersonal black box, “My baby, Lulu. She’s disappeared, and somebody knows something about it. Is she there? Did you hear anything? I must find her.”

“Of course she isn’t here, Ms. Sands. Is Lulu her official name?” Christopher’s perfunctory voice brought Nola back to earth.

She shook her head and sniffled. “You know I have no idea what it is—if she has a name. She was wearing pink pajamas with a butterfly print—” Nola collapsed on the bed, wrapped her arms over her chest, her nails digging at her neck. She called out into the speaker phone, “How can I find her? Please. Please put me through to the ambassador.”

“I’m so sorry about all this, Ms. Sands. The ambassador must leave for the opera shortly. He can’t be late. I’m sure he’ll see you there.”