“Australian,” said Brother Peter amiably. Then he turned serious. “I hate to rush things, but we need to get started.”

“Ah. Yes, of course. Well, we’re on your ground. How do you want to do it?” “I don’t want Amira—Jihan—or the boy to be seen with me anywhere near Van. Too many people know me. Too much chance someone will notice and make a connection. As we get west of Agri, it won’t matter.” “You’re saying that she and Karim should stay hidden?”

“I’m using the mission’s panel truck. I’ve made a cubbyhole in back under some blankets and cartons. It won’t be comfortable, but it’s only for a few hours. Can you keep the boy quiet if need be?” he asked Amira.

“I’ll give him a mild sedative,” said Philippe. “He’ll sleep for at least eight hours. Will that be enough?”

“Should be plenty.” “Good. What else?” “What are you driving?” “A tan Land Rover.”

“Go north, back toward Agri. Take it slow, so I can catch up—I’ll leave twenty minutes behind you. If anyone stops you, you’re tourists enjoying a lovely moonlight drive along the lake.”

“All right.”

“Somewhere north of the lake and south of Agri, I’ll blink my headers three times. Pull over, and we’ll make the switch.” He looked at both of them. “Any questions?”

“Why are you called ‘Brother’?” said Amira.

Peter smiled almost bashfully. “Philippe didn’t tell you? I’m with a mission. A service order, actually. Very small.”

“You mean Christian?”

“Yes. I know it’s odd, but we’ve been here since Atatiirk, and they still tolerate us. We’re quiet. We don’t proselytize. We just try to help. Well, then— are we ready?”

“Why not?” said Philippe.

O

With the headlights cutting the night, Van was a dream, Tabriz a distant memory, al-Remal forgotten. The road was familiar, the road was home. She had been in the Land Rover all her life.

Karim slept, having taken a spoonful of sweet red liquid from Philippe’s bag. Philippe kept thinking of things to caution her against. “Remember: call Maurice Cheverny before anything else. And try to be sure no one follows you from Orly—they won’t do anything in the airport itself. If they try something in the city, scream for the police. If the truth comes out, ask for political asylum. It’s the best chance. My God, I almost forgot: here’s money—more than enough to get you to Paris.”

At two o’clock in the morning, Brother Peter blinked his signal. Philippe stopped and opened the door. In the cabin light, his face was sickly gray. “Are you all right?”

“What? Yes. A bit worn out. Don’t worry.”