The two men sat in the front, the small man driving. The familiar streets of Jenna’s neighborhood slipped away. There must be something she could do, she thought, but what? She had citizenship papers, a valid passport, but the name on them was Jenna Sorrel.

False documents. That was a crime, but how bad? Would she go to jail? Be deported? To al-Remal? Not that, please not that. It would be a death sentence. And what about Karim? What would happen to him?

Think, Jenna, think. Think, Amira. A lawyer. I need a lawyer. Brad’s company has lawyers. The best. Dozens of them. Call Brad. They allow you a phone call, don’t they? Maybe it can be worked out. Maybe they can at least keep it out of the papers. Because even in al-Remal, people read the New York Times. My husband reads the New York Times.

Oblivious to her desperation, the two men chatted in the front seat, workers doing their job. Jenna noticed a rental sticker on the windshield.

Odd. Do government agencies rent their cars? I suppose they must. But green signs overhead? We’re on the interstate. Logan Airport ¼ Mile. We’re turning.

Suddenly, a terrible suspicion seized her. “Why are we going to the airport? Why?”

The red-haired man turned, a hint of amusement in the cold blue eyes. “We’re Immigration, lady. We work at the airport.”

Oh. Well, of course, it made sense. Only …

The car left the main approach to the terminal, took a service road, passed through a gate—there was some conversation between the small man and a guard—then rolled onto the tarmac and pulled up beside an idling Gulfstream with private markings.

“Everybody out,” the big man shouted over the whine of the engines. “All aboard the pretty bird.” He helped her out of the car and continued to hold her elbow.

The small man moved up on her other side. Jenna felt close to panic. “Wait a minute. I thought we were going to your office. What’s this plane?”

“Going to New York,” said the red-haired man. “Pay a call on the regional director. You’re kind of a big deal, Ms. Badir.”

Jenna didn’t understand. Was this how the law worked in America? She’d been here fifteen years, had been involved in scores of cases in which the police had been called, complaints filed, arrests made. She should know these things. She’d call Brad. Maybe they’d even let her call from the plane. But once inside the sleek jet, Jenna realized that there would be no call, not to anyone.

Something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t just that she was the only passenger. The pilot and copilot—she could see them through the open cockpit door—weren’t Americans. Were they French? Or, no—it couldn’t be.

An older man wearing a steward’s uniform materialized beside her. “Some coffee, madam? Or perhaps a soft drink?”