Lang nodded. “Orwell said that saints should be judged guilty until proven innocent. Novak’s proved who he really is, again and again. A man for all seasons, and a man for all peoples. It has become difficult to imagine the world without him.” Now she looked at him, and her eyes were red-rimmed.

“Talk to me,” Janson said. “Why am I here? Where’s Peter Novak?”

Márta Lang took a deep breath, as if what she had to say was going to be physically painful. “He’s a captive of the Kagama rebels. We need you to set him free. An ‘exfiltration’ is what I gather you people call it. Otherwise, he will die where he is, in Anura.”

Anura. A captive of the Kagama Liberation Front. One more reason—the main reason, no doubt—that they wanted him for the job. Anura. A place he thought about nearly every day and had for the past five years. His own private hell.

“I’m starting to understand,” Janson said, his mouth dry.

“A few days ago, Peter Novak arrived on the island, trying to broker a peace between the rebels and the government. There had been many hopeful signs. The KLF said they regarded Peter Novak as an honest broker, and a meeting place in the Kenna province was agreed upon. A rebel delegation agreed to many things they had flatly rejected in the past. And a lasting accord in Anura—an end to the terror—would be a very great thing. I think you understand that as well as anyone.”

Janson said nothing, but his heart began to pound.