A man who did not look glad to see them. He had flattened himself against the wall cell, trembling with fright. As the beam of light illuminated him, he dropped to the ground, crouching in the corner, a terrified animal hoping to make himself disappear.

“Peter Novak?” Janson asked softly.

The man buried his face in his arms, like the child who believes that when he cannot see, he cannot be seen.

Suddenly, Janson understood: What did he look like, with his black face paint and combat garb, his boots tracking blood? Like a savior—or an assailant?

Katsaris’s flashlight settled on the cowering man, and Janson could make out the incongruously elegant broadcloth shirt, stiff not with a French launderer’s starch, but with grime and dried blood.

Janson took a deep breath and now spoke words he had once merely fantasized he would be able to say.

“Mr. Novak, my name is Paul Janson. You saved my life once. I’m here to return the favor.”

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

For a few long seconds, the man remained motionless. Then he raised his face and, still crouched, looked straight into the light; Katsaris quickly redirected the beam, so as not to dazzle him.

It was Janson who was dazzled.

A few feet away from him was the countenance that had adorned countless magazines and newspapers. A countenance that was as beloved as the pope’s—in this secular age, perhaps even more so. The thick shock of hair, flopping over his forehead, still more black than gray. The high, nearly Asiatic cheekbones. Peter Novak. Winner of last year’s Nobel Peace Prize. A humanitarian like none the world had ever known.

The very familiarity of his visage made Novak’s condition all the more shocking. The hollows beneath his eyes were dark, almost purple; a once-resolute gaze was now filled with terror. As the man shakily brought himself to his feet, Janson could see the small tremors that convulsed his body. Novak’s hands shook; even his dark eyebrows quivered.