“Prego.”

“I want to talk to the victim’s wife,” she said and downed the water, then wiped her face with her sleeve. Did it ever cool off here?

They went to the front of the camp, where—as she’d seen before—buses waited in line to discharge more refugees. They walked through the gate, and an armed soldier led them to a large trailer on which was a sign that read: Direttore.

Inside the cluttered office, which was—thank you—air-conditioned, a tired-looking brunette sat behind a desk, piled high with papers. She directed them to a door in the back. Sachs knocked and identified herself. She heard, “Come in.”

She and Ercole entered and nodded to Rania Tasso. She was sitting with a dark-complexioned woman and an adorable child, a girl of about two years old. As the woman glanced at Ercole, her eyes widened and she quickly grabbed a cloth that rested on a chair beside her and covered her head.

Rania said, “This is Fatima Jabril.” She added, “She’s comfortable being uncovered before kaafir women, like me and you, but not before men.”

“Should I leave?” Ercole asked.

“No,” Rania said. “You can stay.”

Sachs’s impression from this exchange was that Rania was respectful of others’ customs and beliefs but also insistent that they accept the protocols of their new home.

“Sit, please.”

Fatima was attractive, with a long, narrow face—swollen and marred by a small bandage—and close-set dark eyes. She wore a long-sleeve, high-necked tunic and jeans, though her nails were polished bright red and she wore modest makeup. Her attention kept returning to her daughter and her eyes, otherwise piercing, softened when she looked at the girl. She asked something urgently in Arabic. Rania said to Sachs and Ercole, “She speaks some English but Arabic is better. She is, of course, worried about her husband. Have you learned anything?”

“No,” Sachs said. “But since the kidnapping was successful, we don’t think the man has hurt him, yet. Khaled is his name, right?”

“Yes.” From Fatima herself.

Rania asked, “You say not killed him yet?”

“Correct.”

Rania considered this, then translated for Fatima

Fatima’s reaction was both dismay…and anger. Fury. The woman was slim but not small and Sachs imagined that she’d given the Composer a good fright.

The director turned to Sachs and said, “I know you will want to ask Fatima some questions. But one thing I must tell you first. I have just learned something about Malek Dadi’s killing, the refugee who was knifed to death? From what they tell me, this Composer was not responsible for his murder.”

“No?”

“Several men reported—separately—that they saw the Composer in the bushes. What do you say? Staking out?”

“Yes.”

“The Composer was staking out the informal gate in the east fence. As soon as Dadi slipped outside, he ran forward. He was holding what might have been a black mask in his hand—the sort he used today on Khaled. But suddenly several other men from the camp hurried after Dadi and jumped on him, to rob him, it seems. He fought back and one of the men slashed him in the throat and took his money. The American, the Composer, actually tried to save him.”