I place my fingers against her temple. The skin burns me, but then my fingers are icy cold, so what? I turn to Fox and whisper, “How does she look to you?”

He glances to the side. “Not good.”

I swear and sit back against the cloth cushions. A soft thump occurs somewhere behind me, so at least Digby’s still alive. I wonder if he went in willingly, or if Fox had to force him there by gunpoint or moral persuasion. Outside, the sun bathes the landscape in the golden glow of late afternoon, except it’s almost ten o’clock at night. According to plan, we should be skirting around Riga by now, heading to some remote location on the coast where a small boat will be waiting to take us to safety.

“Who’s in the boat?” I asked earlier, and Fox shook his head. The less I know, the better, remember? In case we’re caught. In case I—a mere amateur at enduring physical discomfort—spill all the beans under interrogation. At all costs, we must protect the small, covert network that directs our affairs—the secrets of which repose in the feverish head of the woman in the front seat.

I place my hand on Claire’s warm, silky head. She’s only three years old, this niece of mine. Her brothers sit next to me—Jack dozing off against the back of the seat, Kip staring out the window, arms crossed. I can’t see his expression, but I know he understands what’s going on. He’s no innocent, this fellow. He’s still wearing his school uniform, because Fox had no way of supplying changes of clothing for everybody. The contents of the dead drop would have been limited to passports and papers and the elements of his own current disguise. And the gun, of course. Fox is relying on speed and surprise, and the KGB identification of the driver of this car, God rest whatever soul he possessed.

It will be all right, I tell myself. In a matter of hours, we’ll be safe on that boat, and Iris will have all the doctors and medicines and rest she needs.

Fox will take care of us. Fox takes care of everybody. There he is now, driving this car confidently along the highway, as if he knows every road in Latvia like the pattern of lines on the palm of his hand. And I expect he does. I expect he memorized that map before he even left New York.