Impatient, I ask her, “When will that be?”

“Soon,” she tells me. “Very soon-when you’re five.”

Dad and me, just the two of us now, me in my pajamas cozy in my bed, Dad lying on top of the covers, his head propped on his hand while he tells me a story. Sometimes it’s one I already know, like “The Three Little Pigs,” and I chime in with him on the parts I know by heart, like when the Big Bad Wolf says, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll BLOW your house down!” But sometimes he makes up stories right out of his head, and that’s the best thing of all.

They were the last of the good ones, those memories. Very soon after that his dad had gone away to fight a war in a place called Vietnam, and his mom had quit night school and they’d moved to a big city called Chicago, and his mom had gone to work in a store. He’d started school in a strange place, and his mom didn’t smile as much, and she never did become a teacher, his or anyone else’s.

That was the beginning of the gray times. The black times, the terrible times, the times he wouldn’t let himself remember…those had come later.

Dawn came while the moon, now a flat pale ghost, still floated low in the lavender sky, hovering above a bank of clouds that lay on the horizon like cotton batting thrown down to break its fall. The air was cool, and smelled of crushed vegetation and over-ripe fruit. Humidity lay thick on the grass and dripped like raindrops from the trees. A stillness lay over the jungle and fields and mountains alike, as if the world held its breath in expectation of sunrise.

Before it came, however, the trail they’d been following plunged suddenly into dark green shadows, zigzagging downward into a steep ravine. As they descended into the dense jungle growth Sam could hear the rush of water, muffled by the trees, and from somewhere up ahead, voices calling out challenges. Moments later, she, Cory and Tony were ordered, by the usual method-a thrusting rifle barrel-to halt. A new cadre of armed men, also wearing camouflage, appeared to block the path. Those who had brought them from the village hospital melted away into the jungle, all but the leader-the “spokesman,” who instructed them in his usual staccato English to follow the new escort. As they did so, he fell in behind them, stone-faced as always, rifle at the ready, and off they went once more, deeper into the ravine.

A little farther on, around a sharp bend, they halted once more.

“Holy mother,” said Tony.

“Yeah,” said Cory.

“Oh, cool,” said Sam.

Chapter 7

Directly ahead of them, a large, multi-level house had been built close in against the side of the ravine. Supported by stilts and cantilevered decks and constructed mostly of bamboo with a roof of thatch, it appeared almost to be a part of the surrounding vegetation, making it virtually invisible from both above and below.

Tony said in an awed tone, “This reminds me of a tree house I used to have.”

Sam threw him an interested look. “Really?”

“No,” Tony admitted, grinning back at her, “but I sure do wish, don’t you?”

From a balcony jutting off the top level of the house, yet another rifle-bearing guard wearing camouflage waved them on. The path grew steeper and slippery with spray from the numerous small streams cascading down the side of the ravine. Foliage crowded close and obscured the sky overhead, giving the light a greenish quality, as if they were underwater. There was an eerie beauty about the place, a timeless tranquility-like Eden, Sam thought, and she felt a momentary pang, knowing the catastrophe she was about to bring down upon it. What a shame, she thought, that people have to bring their wars into such a paradise.

Wars. Until now, she hadn’t ever thought of what she was doing as fighting a war; she definitely didn’t see herself as any kind of soldier. She’d signed on to help track down terrorists, to stop them from killing innocent people. As far as she was concerned, her job was to put an end to the senseless destruction and havoc of war, not cause it.

But…there was nothing to be done about it. She had a job to do, whatever label anyone chose to put on it. And from the looks of this setup, the amount of security in this place, it was going to be going down soon.

The path crossed the tumbling stream on a bamboo footbridge before coming to an end at a series of bamboo steps leading down to the lowest deck. The light here was dim and the air cool, even though beyond the ravine Sam knew the sun would already be climbing, promising another hot and humid day.

They followed their escort across the deck, through an open doorway and into a large, shadowy room. It was even cooler here, the light so weak it was a moment before Sam’s eyes adjusted enough to see that the room was already occupied. At the far end of the room, a man was seated cross-legged on cushions covered in brightly colored and intricately patterned fabrics. He was wearing a loose robe made of similar material, which again seemed to her vaguely Indonesian in design. His full beard was liberally streaked with gray, his hair clipped short and nearly covered by a cap of a style that was also more Indonesian than Filipino. His features were neither, however; his face was angular and gaunt, his nose prominent, even hawklike, and the eyes that surveyed them from shadowed sockets were Caucasian.

Her breathing quickened, and so did her heartbeat. Here at last was the infamous Fahad al-Rami.

He lifted a long-fingered, graceful hand and gestured to them as he spoke, in perfect British English. “Ah, my American guests. I am certain you must be hungry after your long journey. Refreshments are being prepared for you, but in the meantime, I hope you will join me in a cup of tea.” Framed by the beard, his lips curved in a smile that didn’t show his teeth. “A habit I picked up during my years at Oxford. Please-” he nodded at Cory and extended a hand toward a pile of cushions on his right “-Mr. Pearson, do be seated. It is an honor to meet you face-to-face at last. I have found our e-mail correspondence enjoyable.”

The eyes shifted and the hand moved languidly through the air-like a frond of seaweed, Sam thought, waving with the ocean current-to indicate Tony. “And this, I presume, is your photographer, Mr. Whitehall. First, allow me to apologize for asking my men to appropriate your equipment. I’m sure you can appreciate the necessity for doing so. Your cameras will, of course, be returned to you, with the understanding that you may take photographs only within these walls.

“But first-we must eat. Please-sit.” The hand dipped toward another pile of cushions.

After a quizzical glance over at Cory, who had already seated himself and was presently squirming around trying to figure out what to do with his feet, Tony sank gingerly onto the cushions.

For one horrible moment Sam thought she wouldn’t be able to hold back her laughter as she watched the two men in their jungle boots and cargo pants attempting to make themselves comfortable in a setting reminiscent of a Persian bordello. A favorite expression of her Grandma Betty’s popped into her mind: …As out-of-place as a duck on a doily.

Then al-Rami’s dead dark eyes slid toward and then over her, and any notion she might have had to laugh vanished in an instant. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she became aware of the steady thump of her own heartbeat.

But when al-Rami spoke again, it was to Cory, in a voice as smooth as silk. “As you can see, there will be no need for the services of your…interpreter. In any case, she would no doubt prefer to rest and freshen up in privacy. Quarters have been prepared which I am sure she will find comfortable. My guard will show her to her room. Refreshments will be brought to her there.”

A wave of anger washed over Sam, catching her by surprise and testing her self-control even more sorely than the laughter a moment ago. Loathing clogged her throat like sickness. Her vision shimmered. She was barely aware of Cory’s face swiveling toward her, his eyes reaching out to her, flashes of warning…beacons of calm. Then, through that mind-fogging rage, she saw his lips quirk sideways in a wry little smile. She could hear his voice, mild and amused, inside her head. Ouch, Sam-I know you loved that!

She began to breathe again, but she was still seething. She answered his nod with a sarcastic one of her own as she turned to follow yet another camouflage-wearing, rifle-toting guard from the room. But every fiber of her being, every part of her, from her free-thinking, independent woman’s soul to her strong, red-blooded-American woman’s body to the bare-knuckled tomboy she still was at heart, raged in mute rebellion over being dismissed from the august male presence like a child. No-even worse, a woman.

As she was leaving the room, she lost the battle with her pride and looked back once more at Cory, reaching for him across the vast emptiness of the room…ashamed to admit even to herself that right now she wanted-needed-the reassuring touch of those wise blue eyes. But he wasn’t looking at her, leaning forward to accept a cup from his host as if, she thought, he’d already dismissed her from his mind. A quiver went through her, a manifestation of emotions too intense to contain. She wasn’t even sure she could have named them-resentment…hurt…loneliness-but she knew for sure there wasn’t anything strong or independent or bare-knuckle tomboyish about any of them.

Shake it off, Sammi June.

How many times had her dad said that-before he’d gone away to Iraq and gotten shot down and disappeared from her life for eight years-when she’d been fouled in a soccer game and lay howling and writhing in the grass? And how many times had she pulled herself together and gotten up, sniffling, to wipe away tears and blood and get right back in the game?