For the dozenth time, he went over it all from the beginning. His spies in Ali’s entourage had informed him of his sister Amira’s escape almost as soon as it occurred. He probably learned of it, he reflected with some satisfaction, before Ali himself did. He had learned about the search, as well, the dead end in Teheran. Then, yesterday afternoon, word had come that Philippe was involved, and the trail led to Turkey. But even then, he had expected something, a dash to Ankara or Istanbul, a private jet to—where? Rio?

Nonsense. Philippe might be a romantic, but he was no idiot. He would bring Amira to France, fight—if he had to—on home ground, where he had friends and power. Resources. Besides, this was no mere affair of the heart, of that Malik was sure. Amira was running not to someone, but from someone. Malik had long had his suspicions, his spies’ reports of Ali’s idiosyncrasies. What had happened only confirmed his thoughts—and fueled his anger.

All in all, he had assumed that Amira and Philippe would be in France at any moment, and that sooner or later, she would contact him. He was her brother; he was powerful; he could protect her.

But now this. Death in some godforsaken mountain gorge in Turkey. It made no sense at all.

“Amira,” he said aloud, “Little Sister”—and in that moment, felt again the odd reassurance he had experienced when the news article was first brought to him an hour ago. He couldn’t explain it: it was mystical, religious perhaps, or maybe genetic—blood thicker than water. It was the certainty that Amira was alive. He knew it. If she weren’t, he would know that, too.

He summoned an aide and gave orders.

Twelve hours later, he stood on a bare mountainside in Anatolia. With him were two bodyguards, a translator, a colonel in the Turkish army, and the local headman of the remote area where the car—and Philippe—had been found. Two hundred yards below, by the fast waters of a narrow river, a pair of soldiers stood desultory guard over the smashed remains of the Land Rover.

The leathery headman, who might be any age from forty to seventy, looked like a cross between a goatherd and a bandit. Probably, thought Malik, that was exactly what he was. The man’s counsel was simple: Malik’s request was a waste of time. If Amira and her son had been in the car, they might have been killed and swept downriver; no one could have survived such a crash. Even if, through some miracle, they survived, they could not have gone far in these mountains; his men or the army would have found them, or their remains, by now—unless, of course, wolves or a bear had done so first. Either way, Malik was looking for something that was not there.

“Where, then, should I look?”