There had followed a field day of speculation about the mystery of her disappearance. There were quotations from Malik and from Ali, from her father, even from Farid. The event commanded the same kind of attention that, a few years earlier, the disappearance of one of the Rockefellers in New Guinea had occasioned.

She was glad, for once, that she came from a culture that officially frowned on photography. The news stories carried over and over again the same wedding portrait, partly in profile and not a very good likeness. Of Karim, there was only a baby photo. Not that it mattered: she was in a place where no reporter could have reached her; moreover, any reporter who did, could never have recognized her.

The place was a château in Senlis. It was a recovery house for women who had had cosmetic surgery and could afford absolute secrecy, and during the first week of her stay there—the time when her wedding picture was on every news- cast—Amira looked worse than she had after Ali’s beating.

The surgeon had explained that what was needed was not a complete change of her looks, even if that were possible. For one thing, she was presumed to be dead. For another—and more important—recognition depended on only two or three key features.

Her nose needed repair anyway, after Ali had flattened it. The surgeon would also rearrange the cast of her eyes slightly, and she would wear contact lenses that changed the color from light brown to a deep green. He would also remove the scar from her forehead.

It sounded simple and rather delicate; it left her looking temporarily like the victim of an airplane crash. After a week, though, as the swelling sub- sided and the bruises cleared, she could see the face of a new woman emerging, familiar yet different.

Two weeks later, the surgeon himself took photographs. Two days after that, she had a French passport bearing her new likeness and her new name: Jenna Sorrel. Karim kept his first name—it was Jenna’s wish, against the surgeon’s advice. That was the only part of the matter that was overtly discussed. Philippe was mentioned only indirectly, as a fine man and a wonderful friend. One month from the day she entered France, Amira—Jenna—left from Le Havre as a passenger on a freighter bound for New Orleans. The mode of transportation represented a last bit of caution: someone—probably Philippe—had decided that it offered the least likelihood of scrutiny.