The seat next to Hashim freed when a nurse escorted the young woman with bruises on her face sitting next to him out of the waiting room into the inner corridors of the ER.

Catherine picked up a magazine on one of the tables as she made her way to the empty chair and sat next to Hashim.

She looked down at the magazine and saw it was National Geographic’s feature cover story on Islam.

The cover photo drew Hashim’s attention.

“Would you like to read it?” she asked.

“No, thank you,” he answered.

She nodded and flipped through the magazine. But out of the corner of her eye she saw Hashim’s hands. They were rubbing each other. She was struck with how sensitive they were. She saw Hashim’s awareness of her attention on him and he moved to stand. She reached out to him. Hashim froze.

“I’m not here to harm you,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“The CIA knows you were at the hotel. It’s a matter of time before they tell the FBI and they track you here.”

His eyes darted around the room. She could see he was looking for the quickest way out.

“I know you have no reason to trust me, but I can take you to a safe place.”

A nurse’s voice called, “Mister Sandor. Mister Nicolas Sandor.”

Hashim stared at the nurse, who saw his attention and approached him, asking if he was Mr. Sandor.

Catherine whispered, “If you go in there they will find you.”

Overhearing that the nurse said, “Is everything all right?”

Hashim looked to Catherine.

“Would you like to come with me, sir?” the nurse asked.

Hashim hesitated.

The next move was up to him.

“Sir. Would you like to come with me?”

His voice wavered. “I’m feeling better, now.”

Confused, the nurse shrugged and said, “Whatever you think best.”

He turned to Catherine and said, “You can take me home.”

“Well. We’re here if you need us,” the nurse said.

She looked at her patient chart and called another name as she moved away.

“Who are you? And why are you doing this?” Hashim whispered.

“My name is Catherine Book. And, all I know, is that it’s what God wants me to do.”

She saw something in his eyes she never expected from one who’d been so ruthless and violent—vulnerability and surrender.

A short time later, FBI agents swooped into the ER.

Vickers had sent artists’ renderings of Hashim to the Bureau. Renderings that included all possible manifestations of how he might look. Renderings that had him with a full beard, clean-shaven, heavier than they’d known him to be, and thinner. He also sent them the only thing he had. The drawing of the flowers.