All in all, when the time came to return to Boston, she was more than ready. And then, at the airport, there was one of those small, chance occurrences that change more lives than wars, epidemics, or natural disasters. Jenna’s flight was delayed, and she went to a coffee shop. Sipping her tea, wondering what Karim was doing, she couldn’t help overhearing the two men in the next booth. They apparently were business acquaintances whose paths had crossed here in their travels. After some chat about wives and children, one man—he had a British accent—said, “I must tell you I had a bit of a turn in Rome two days back. I’d taken a client to Checchino dal 1887. We’d just ordered when all hell broke loose. Gunfire all over the place, people diving for the floor—including me, you can be assured.”

“My God. What was it? Mafia?”

“A kidnapping attempt. Some bloody billionaire was in the place with his daughter. Apparently, she was the target. Badir, whatever his name is.” For Jenna, everything else in the restaurant vanished.

“So, what happened?” said the second man. “Why all the shooting?” “Apparently, someone’s bodyguard outside spotted the kidnappers going in, and one thing led to another. Frightening, I can tell you. I’ve never been in a war, but …”

“Anybody hurt?”

“The two kidnappers shot up rather badly. And I believe a policeman and two or three patrons were wounded, including this Badir chap.” Jenna whirled around. “Malik was shot?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Malik Badir—he was wounded?” “Yes, but not too badly, I believe.” “And Laila—is she all right?” “Laila?”

“The girl. The daughter.”

“She wasn’t hurt. Rather shaken, I imagine. You talk as if you know these people.”

“I … I’m an acquaintance of the family. Are you sure he wasn’t badly hurt?” “Well, I don’t have all the details, naturally. It was rather hectic there in the restaurant. Actually, most of what I know comes from Le Monde—I left Rome for Paris that night.”

“It was in Le Monde?” She had to find the paper. Surely, there was an international newsstand in the airport.

The Britisher was rummaging in his attache case. “… may still have a copy. Yes, here it is.” He handed the newspaper to Jenna. “Please keep it, since you have a personal interest in the matter. If I may ask—”

“Thank you,” said Jenna before he could ask anything. “Thank you so much.” In the concourse, she read about the kidnapping attempt. It was as the man had said. Laila was unharmed. Malik had a “painful but not dangerous” wound to his arm.

Her flight was called. As she checked her purse for her ticket, the letter to Malik caught her eye. She had never mailed it. A bookshop had stamps, and the cashier directed her to a mailbox. She dropped the letter into it before second thoughts could take hold.