Chapter 3

THE DEAL ROPER HAD MADE WITH JACK SAVAGE HAD been enough to make him sit up and take notice, especially as the payment would be in American dollars. They had known each other well during the Irish troubles, Roper up to his ears in bomb disposal work, Savage chasing gun runners by night in the Irish Sea. When they had discussed Roper’s requirements Roper had told him of Dillon and Billy, of Sara Rashid, and their intention of spiriting her away. Savage couldn’t care less what they were up to, the deal was so good there was no way he was turning it down.

His wife, Rawan, saw things differently. A couple of years ago, Abdul Rashid had used his connections to spirit her parents out of Iraq to Jordan after extremists had burned their houseboat on the river. She owed him one.

When her husband explained what their guests would be doing when they arrived, she made it clear she didn’t approve.

“Listen,” he said. “I’m not turning down a payday like this, and the connection with British intelligence is likely to be worth even more in the future. Just get that through your head.”

“Bastard,” she said, “Money—that’s all you care about. You can sleep on the deck tonight.”

“I’m not missing much. It suits me fine.” He grabbed a couple of rugs, a bottle of scotch and went on deck.

The only major point that Roper had got wrong was that Sara Rashid wouldn’t be running anywhere, because her grandfather had arranged to have her fitted with leg irons after her persistent attempts to escape.

She had been locked in a bedroom for most of each day. For exercise she was given the chance to walk in the gardens and orange groves, but there were guards with her armed with AK assault rifles, and her cousin Hussein, who one day would marry her, was always one of them.

She was treated with due respect by the guards, in fact by all the servants, for her grandfather was not only rich but powerful, his connections with Osama bin Laden and the Army of God well known.

His love for Sara was genuine and very deep, especially since the death of his own wife, one of seventy-two other people killed in a car bombing in downtown Baghdad. The fact that Sara was of mixed race, he could accept, but his son forswearing his religion, that was an abomination.

Sara, mature beyond her years, sat in her room and, with little better to do, improved her Arabic, and contemplated what her grandfather had told her, that they would eventually be forced to join the exodus of middle-class Iraqis from Baghdad. Hazar would be their destination, to join her grandfather’s brother, Jemal, head of the family in that country. They were rich, and the Rashid Bedouins lived in the Empty Quarter, one of the most ferocious deserts in the world. It would be a guarantee of safety.

So, that was the way things would probably work out. Outside now on one of her walks, the wind off the water played with the wonderful silk scarf that framed her face. She was pretty and she knew it. Hussein adored her and she took full advantage of that fact.

“Do you want to return to your room?”

“Not yet. Who is that?” She pointed to a shabby motor launch approaching. As it slowed and drifted into the jetty, she saw that it was a woman at the wheel, dressed in Western style, her hair tied back, wearing a khaki bush shirt and pants and a shoulder holster under her left arm. The woman tossed a line and one of the men caught it and tied up. The launch had an English name—Eagle.

“Hussein, how are you?” she said.

“I’d rather be doing my final year at medical school, but there you are. The war, the war, the bloody war. This is Sara. Sara, this is Rawan Savage.”

She turned to Sara. “I’ve known you were here for some months, but we’ve never had an opportunity to meet. My, you are pretty, aren’t you?” All this was delivered in English.

Sara said, “Were you born in Baghdad?”

“Yes, but to a Druze family.” She turned to face Hussein. “I need to see your uncle right away, Hussein. Can I go up?”

“Of course. He’s in the orange grove.”

“Until I see you again,” she said to Sara, and started up the steps leading through the oranges to where Rashid was seated.

Rashid greeted her courteously, and leaned close to her while she spoke, and when she had finished, he placed his hand on her head in a blessing. She stood up and returned to the boat. He called to Hussein.

“Wait for me here,” Hussein said and mounted the steps. “Uncle?”

“See Sara goes to her room and I’ll send women to help her pack.”

“Pack, Uncle?”

“I’ve prepared for this day for months. It is time for us to go. She’ll need a woman, take Jasmine. We’ll need two Land Rovers, I think, three of the men to assist with security. You’re in charge.”

“But where are we to go?”

“Kuwait. Only four hundred miles by road. The instructions are in the briefcase I’ll give you. My people there will make all arrangements for your onward flight to my brother Jemal in Hazar.”

“But why, Uncle?”

“Rawan brought me disturbing news. That her husband is engaged in a plot with two men from England, named Dillon and Salter, to kidnap Sara and return her to my son in London.”

“This cannot be,” Hussein said.

“I have made what I trust will be a suitable greeting for them. She informs me they arrive later today.”

“Then I’ll deal with them.”

“No—I hope I have taken care of it. Sara is my most precious jewel. You are the only one I can trust. Swear to me you will guard her with your life, always.”

“In the name of Allah, I swear it.”

“Go now, and Allah go with you,” and he turned and went in, content, for Hussein Rashid was no ordinary man. Twenty-three years of age, dark hair but blue eyes, he could have passed as a Western European. He was slim but muscular, and hugely intelligent, and when his anger sparked in the eyes, he changed, became truly frightening, the warrior few people realized he was.

He’d been a medical student at Harvard when the Gulf War started, and had immediately packed his bags to go home, only to be arrested at Logan Airport in Boston. It was six months before lawyers succeeded in obtaining his freedom, and he had gone home to discover that his parents had been killed in a bombing raid three months earlier.

His uncle had kept him sane during the bad time, had provided him with money, set up accounts for him in Paris and London, had provided him with addresses, the right people to see, people who would pass him hand by hand until he reached the camp in the Algerian Desert. There they’d turned him into the man known as the Hammer of God, and it was there that he’d grown the luxuriant long hair and the beard that became his trademark.

He was not a religious fanatic, hardly religious at all, but he’d discovered his true calling there: to be a soldier. They’d taught him everything, and by the time he was done, he was an expert in weaponry, explosives, hand-to-hand fighting, vehicles and the fine art of assassination. His medical training was just a bonus. They even taught him to fly.

He had worked for what some people might call terrorist organizations in such places as Chechnya and Kosovo, but his specialty had been assassination and he had become a master. In the mess that Iraq developed into, he had lived with his uncle, operating as a freelance sniper. His personal score was twenty-seven American and British soldiers and Iraqi politicians. It was all the same to Hussein. And then his uncle had kidnapped Sara and everything changed.

IN LONDON, Roper wished them well and grinned as Dillon and Billy made final preparations for departure.

“Got everything?” he asked.

“Of course,” Billy told him as he zipped up an aircraft bag. “What would we bloody leave, for God’s sake?”

“There’s always your Codex Four.”

“Very funny,” Billy said.

“Never mind, Billy, you’re going off to war, and you know from experience, there’s nothing like a nice war. Try not to get your head blown off.”

“Yes, well, you’ve got Ferguson to think about. What if he phones up and tells you he wants his plane?”

“You mean I could get the sack? I doubt it.” Roper smiled. “I inhabit a wheelchair and I’ve got medals. As for the Gulfstream, didn’t he tell Dillon he was sending it back in case of emergencies?”

“So he did. Mind you, he might think Baghdad a bit of a stretch.”

“We’ll worry about that when we have to. Now get moving. Sergeant Doyle’s waiting with the Land Rover. Try not to screw up.”

“As if we would.”

They left, and ten minutes later Ferguson did come on the line. “How are things going?”

“You mean at the coal face, sir?”

“Is that a reprimand, Roper?”

“Now, would I imply that you weren’t beating your brains out, General, taking care of world affairs?”

“Well, we were up half the night and I’m just about to join the conference again. Anything to report?”

“Not a whisper, sir. It’s as if every terrorist in the land has rolled over and died. The chaps are all polishing their nails.”

“You’re incorrigible, Roper.” A bell sounded faintly. “Must go. I’ll be in touch.”

“Yes, sir, I look forward to it.”

Roper poured a large scotch, lit a cigarette and continued his investigation of the mysterious Professor Khan.

AT FARLEY FIELD, the quartermaster had loaded their supplies and weaponry. Two AKs, a couple of .25 Colts with hollow-point cartridges and ankle holster, titanium waistcoats.

“Nothing left to chance, Sergeant Major.”

“I don’t believe it should be, Mr. Dillon, that’s not the way to operate. Good luck, gentlemen.”

At the top of the steps, Parry, in flying overalls, reached a hand out and a car horn sounded and the Aston came round from the entrance and pulled up, Harry at the wheel. He ran forward, and as Billy turned, he flung his arms round him.

“Take care.”

Dillon said, “I always knew you were a sentimentalist at heart.”

“You think what you like, as long as you bring him back.”

They went up the steps into the Gulfstream. Parry closed the door and joined Lacey in the cockpit. Billy and Dillon settled down, and a few minutes later the Gulfstream took off.

ROPER CAME ONLINE two hours into the flight. “Is everything going all right?”

“Fine. What about you?” Dillon asked.

“Professor Khan is proving more than promising. Dreq Khan is his name, he was a clever young man who took a first degree at home in Pakistan, then earned a scholarship to Oxford. Totally Anglicized now, with apparently an unlimited supply of cash. He started as an assistant lecturer in morality at Leeds University.”

Billy laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t know you could be one of those.”

“Apparently. Left after a year and moved to America, the University of Chicago, then a year later to Berkeley in California.”

Dillon said, “You see, Billy, he couldn’t resist the call of Hollywood.”

“Came back East for a post at the United Nations. Secretary to the International Committee for Racial Harmony.”

“Let me guess,” Dillon said. “After that, he finally made it back to good old England. Londonistan.”

“Right you are, and he’s certainly made his way in politics. The Committee for Socialist Values—that really made his bones in London, got him in good with a lot of well-meaning Socialists. He’s also on the Interfaith Committee at the House of Commons and is sponsored by various Anglican bishops. He’s muted his support for the Army of God ever since three of its members were arrested in Yorkshire for that bomb in a bus station that killed three and injured fourteen. But he insists that those three were a splinter group, that the organization itself is purely spiritual and educational.”

Billy said, “What do you think?”

“I think he’s dangerous as hell, and all those committees just obscure what he really is.”

Roper said, “I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life. But there’s no proof of anything, not even a whisper of terrorist activity. There’s nothing to spark an investigation by the police antiterrorist squad.”

Dillon said, “Except that when Greta raised the question of Professor Khan with that driver and told him she’d killed Abu, he was terrified.”

“And made no attempt to deny it,” Billy said.

“It’s still not enough,” Roper said. “But I’ll keep at it. I heard from Ferguson.”

“What did you hear?” Dillon said.

“Only that he keeps going into conference with the Prime Minister and the great and the good.”

“Has he indicated when he’s coming back?”

“Not exactly. I wouldn’t give it more than a couple of days, so it’s all up to you gentlemen. Keep in touch.”

He clicked off.

AN HOUR OUT OF BAGHDAD, with dawn coming up fast, they descended to thirty thousand feet. There was considerable traffic and Parry came back from the cockpit to fill them in.

“We’re doing night approach, which means the sods on the ground don’t have as good a view—the ragged-arse brigade are good, unfortunately, particularly with handheld missiles. A lot of helicopters get wasted over the city.”

“So what’s the solution?” Billy asked.

“It’s a trick the Yanks resurrected from the Vietnam War. We approach from fifteen thousand, then dive. Pull up only at the last possible moment.”

“That sounds pretty hairy to me,” Billy said.

“But it works. The RAF used it in Kosovo, too, and with larger planes. Now, as to what’s facing you down there, I know you gentlemen have done this once before, so I’ll only say it’s even worse. There’s an old saying: Hell is a city. Well, gentlemen, I doubt whether anywhere in the world could be worse than Baghdad. Take care at all times, and remember—in this town, you can’t even trust your grandmother.”

“The last time we did this,” Dillon said, “we were cared for by a Flight Lieutenant Robson. He was police.”

“Still at it. Squadron leader now. He’s already been on the radio. Everything’s waiting.”

“And we had a safe car, with an RAF police sergeant named Parker. A really good guy. He stood by us in a firefight,” Dillon said. “Do we get him again?”

“Unfortunately not. He was killed by a roadside bomb last month. I’d better join Lacey now.”

“Jesus,” Billy said. “What a bloody place.” As he looked down to the city below, there was an explosion, a mushroom cloud of smoke rising from the damage.

“Never mind, Billy, you’ve seen worse.” Dillon took out his flask, unscrewed the cap and swallowed a generous mouthful of Bushmills.

“No, Dillon, I don’t think I have.” Billy leaned back and closed his eyes for the descent.

IN BAGHDAD, they were received in the mess by Robson himself, as a waiter in a white tunic arranged tea things. Robson said, “So bloody hot in this hellhole. Tea’s just the thing, as they discovered in the days of the Raj. Well, things have certainly been happening to you,” he told Lacey and Parry. “Awarded a second Air Force Cross each. What are you doing? Trying to fight the war on your own?”

“Something like that,” Lacey told him.

As the tea was poured, Robson turned to Dillon and Billy. “I won’t ask what you two have been up to. I don’t know and I don’t want to. Just like last time, the Gulfstream will stand by here ready for an immediate exit at any time. I have a red Security One tag for each of you. It covers everything. You must be hot stuff. Even the station commander doesn’t have one of these.”

Dillon said, “I’m sorry to hear of Sergeant Parker’s death.”

“Most unfortunate. Happens all the time, I’m afraid. You won’t need anything like that this time. A Mr. Jack Savage is picking you up, I understand. We know him well.”

“Is someone taking my name in vain?”

They all turned and saw him standing in the mess doorway, medium height, roughly cut blond hair, a broken nose, a reefer coat over his arm.

“Come in, you old bastard,” Robson said. “And that’s an order, Sergeant Major.”

SOMEONE ONCE SAID that in Baghdad, all the streets seemed to be some sort of market, although many of them seemed to be lucky to have any buildings left at all. And the peasants were still there, their donkeys carrying not just produce from the countryside, but everything from laptops to televisions, the detritus of war.

They moved through narrow streets down toward the river, finally turning into a courtyard outside an old colonial house, with a fountain that still worked. A sign over the door traced out “The River Room” with bulbs. They got out and Savage snapped his fingers for two boys to grab the luggage and take it inside.

“The sign?” Billy asked. “Does it still light up?”

“I’m missing half a dozen bulbs; they’re special but it reminds me of London, the Savoy, the old River Room.”

“Why do you stay?” Dillon asked. “These days it must be the ultimate way of living on the knife edge.”

“That’s what I like about it. You can make money here like nowhere else on earth. Let’s go in.”

They followed. It was shadowy, a floor of Arabic tiles, tables and chairs of cane. Even the bar was cane, with a mirror and what looked like every kind of bottle in the world stacked against it. The bartender, who stood polishing glasses, was big and fat, wearing a white shirt and pants, a scarlet belt of some kind around his middle.

“What’s your pleasure?” Savage asked.

“For Billy, nothing. He doesn’t indulge. I’ll have Bushmills Irish whiskey.”

“Two, Farouk. Takes me back to Northern Ireland in the Troubles. So you’re the great Sean Dillon.”

“And you’re the bad Jack Savage.” Dillon turned to Billy. “He had a lovely racket going. Chasing down gun runners on the one hand, then selling the proceeds to the Provisional IRA on the other.”

“But not while I was in the Royal Marines, not while wearing the badge. That wouldn’t have been honorable.”

“He’s big on honor.” Rawan Savage moved into the room. “I’ll have a large vodka—very large. God, it’s hot in here.” She walked out onto a wooden balcony and they followed.

A couple of minutes later, Farouk was distributing the drinks. “Cheers. To new friends.” Rawan raised her glass and in a way seemed to swallow it whole, but that was only an illusion. She held it out to Farouk. Without saying a word, he turned and went back inside.

The river wasn’t particularly busy. Below them, tied to the jetty, was the motor launch Eagle. Rawan said, “Just up there, a quarter of a mile, is Abdul Rashid’s place. Do you want to have a look?”

“Shut up, Rawan,” Savage told her.

“Yes, sir,” She gave him a mock salute.

“Look, I won’t tell you again,” Savage said. “Drink up or shut up. Take your choice.”

“Is that so?” She turned to Dillon. “Well, I know why you’re here and I don’t admire it.”

“Is that so?” Dillon said.

“Snatching a thirteen-year-old girl from her grandfather.”

“Let’s keep to the facts,” Billy put in. “The said thirteen-year-old girl was snatched from her parents in London in the first place.”

But she didn’t want to listen and charged into the bar, where Farouk stood behind the counter, a strange threatening stillness to him. Customers, four of them, were there, one with an AK on the table close to his hand, another with one slung from his shoulder. The other two had a hand each in a pocket.

A woman slipped through the door, her clothes held tightly around her. She looked terrified and glanced anxiously about her. Rawan said, “Ah, someone bearing ill news. Gentlemen, this is Bibi, one of Sara Rashid’s ladies of the bedchamber. What’s wrong, Bibi? Have they gone without you?”

The woman cried bitterly, flung herself to her knees and a flood of Arabic ensued. Rawan said, “Excellent. Someone seems to have spoiled the party and warned Abdul Rashid. Several hours ago, he dispatched Sara with Hussein Rashid, her intended, in a small convoy to Kuwait by road. Once there, friends will forward them by private plane to Hazar, where the rest of the Rashids thrive. It is all true, Bibi heard it being discussed. You are dead men walking. Hussein will see to it.”

There was a silence. Savage said, “But who told him?”

“Who do you think? I’m sick of you, Jack, have been for a long time. You can rot in hell.”

In the near distance, there was a huge explosion, and everybody instinctively ducked. The sound of the aftershock drifted like a wave. The telephone on the bar sounded.

Farouk picked it up and listened, then held it out to Savage. “Omar, the boy you had watching the Rashid villa. He saw the convoy for Kuwait leave two hours ago.”

“So?”

“Old Rashid had just driven out in his Mercedes, accompanied by two guards. It exploded as it went through the gate.” His face said it all: Because of people like you, who come amongst us and destroy everything you touch.

There must have been something about his expression that gave warning, a twitch, a glint of determination, because Dillon, who had been sitting down, pulled on the ankle holster, yanked out the .25 Colt and shot Farouk between the eyes, the hollow-point cartridge wreaking havoc. In almost the same moment, he pulled out the silenced Walther from his waistband under the jacket and shot the one who was reaching for the AK on a table.

Billy produced his Walther as a third man was trying to get a Browning out of his right-hand pocket and snagged it. Billy shot him instantly and the man was hurled against his companion, who shot him inadvertently in the back.

“Don’t shoot, for God’s sake,” the companion called in as Irish a voice as you could wish for, but as Billy hesitated, the Irishman’s hand swung up to fire, and it was Dillon who finished him off.

“Don’t do that again, Billy. It never pays.”

“Christ, I thought he was Irish.” Billy went down, felt in an inside pocket and produced a passport, brown, with the Gold Harp of Ireland on it and a few papers.

“Bring them with you.” Dillon turned and Rawan said, “Damn you, damn you all and damn this stinking country, Jack.” She ran down the steps to the jetty, untied the line on the Eagle and cast off. Savage clattered down the steps after her and jumped for the Eagle as it drifted out. “Rawan,” he called. “Just listen.”

“Not anymore,” she said and pressed the starter.

It rattled a couple of times and then there was a huge explosion and the boat simply came apart.

Billy was hurled backward over a cane chair. Dillon pulled him up. “Let’s get out of it and fast. The military will be here in no time. We’ll take that Land Rover Savage used to bring us from the airport. Our stuff is still on board.”

They were out in seconds and into the Land Rover, Billy at the wheel, and moved into the main street as two Scimitars came the opposite way. A sizable crowd was already assembling, but the confusion of it helped them to make a rapid exit.

Dillon called Roper, who answered at once. “Just listen,” Dillon said and gave him an account.

“My God, you have been in action. Why does this sort of thing always reach out to touch you, Dillon?”

“Just tell Robson to alert the boys to get us out of here. God knows where to. The mad side of me wants to pursue them to Hazar, but I don’t think the General would approve.”

“No, he damn well wouldn’t,” Ferguson cut in. “Outrageous, finding my plane has been hijacked. Get yourselves back here immediately.”

AT BAGHDAD AIRPORT, they were admitted through a discreet security entrance, and found Lacey and Robson waiting in a Jeep.

“Just follow,” Lacey called to Billy, which he did and found the Gulfstream waiting.

“Off you go,” Robson said. “We prefer to think of you as never having been here.”

They went up the steps and Lacey locked the door. “Thanks a lot, you bastards. The General was not exactly thrilled when he tried to book his personal plane for the flight from Paris and found it elsewhere. What in the hell were you playing at?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” Dillon said. “Trying to win the war.”

DILLON GOT HIS FLASK OUT as they climbed, but it was empty. He waited until they leveled off at forty thousand feet and peered out the window.

“Goodbye to Baghdad, city of romance, intrigue and adventure.”

“Yes, everything you can do without,” Billy said. “I can’t figure it. So the Rawan bird is fed up with Jack and spills her guts to old Rashid—and he responds by having someone arrange to have the launch blown up?”

“He was after the three of us—Savage, you and me. It was just too bad about her.”

“And what about the car bomb?”

“A daily risk. A man like him would have more enemies than he could count.”

Dillon got up and went to the rear of the cockpit, opened the first-aid drawer and helped himself to the half bottle of brandy it contained.

“Purely medicinal,” he told Parry, who had glanced over his shoulder.

“Always is with you.”

When Dillon returned to his seat, he found Billy examining the Irish passport taken from the man he had killed in the bar.

“Terence O’Malley, age forty-two, an address in Bangor, Northern Ireland.”

“A nice place.” Dillon opened the brandy and poured some into a plastic cup. “What else does it tell us?”

“Apparently, he’s a schoolmaster.”

“I’d bet he’s not been that for a long time.”

“IRA?”

“I’d say so. We know many old hands have moved into organized crime. It’s a very small step from what they were doing into the world of the mercenary, Billy. Wild Geese, that’s what they’ve always been called, in Ireland or out of it. If you’ve been a Provo for all those years, it’s difficult to turn your hand to something else when it’s all over. What have you got in there?”

“A monthly rental bill from Dublin, a letter from a man named Tom, a please-come-home letter, signed ‘your loving mother, Rose.’ Address in Bangor. Cash, five one-hundred-dollar bills, American.” He looked up. “What do we do? About his mother, I mean?”

“I’d let it go, Billy. If she knows nothing, then it leaves her hope. Now I’m going to catch a little sleep,” and he dropped his seat.

ON THE ROAD SOUTH from Baghdad to Kuwait, it was a macabre situation, a landscape of burned-out tanks and trucks and civilian vehicles dating back to the original Gulf War. The Highway of Death they had called it, a landscape that also contained the remains of many thousands of refugees. And yet all the way along the highway at suitable intervals, there were gas stations open twenty-four hours, for that was the one thing they weren’t short of, and places you could get coffee and short-order cooking, and the telephones worked.

In the first Land Rover were Hussein’s three henchmen, armed to the teeth, veterans of the streets, men who knew their business, which was proved by the fact that they were still here.

In the rear was Hussein, Sara and Jasmine, another cousin of Sara’s, who was devoted to her. Fifty miles out of Baghdad, the little convoy had pulled up in the car park of a gas station. Hussein received a call on his satellite phone from the man he knew only as the Broker. He had been allocated to him by al-Qaeda for three years now. They spoke on occasion in Arabic, but in English when appropriate, and on those occasions the Broker sounded like an Oxford professor.

Hussein answered at once. “Where are you?” said the voice. Hussein told him. “Good, you were in an impossible situation. Other contacts covered events for me. One of Rashid’s men placed the bomb in the Savage people’s boat.”

“And Rashid himself?”

“It was a local Sunni group who got him. An old score. How has Sara taken it?”

He sounded strangely paternalistic and yet there was a certain concern in his voice.

“I’m just about to tell her, but I’ve further information. The woman who told Rashid of the kidnap attempt said the men involved are called Dillon and Salter. Are they familiar to you?”

“No, but they soon will be. I’ll call you when I know more. Take care of Sara. I’ve made all the arrangements in Kuwait. A Hawk. You’ll enjoy flying that.”

WHEN HUSSEIN RETURNED to the group, they were waiting.

“You could have gone for coffee and a bite to eat,” he said.

“Not in my leg irons, cousin. Must I endure further humiliation?”

And he didn’t hesitate, extracted no false promises. “Forgive me, cousin, so much has happened.” He produced a key and unlocked the chains, dropping them over the seat, then said, “I have grave news from Baghdad.”

His words lingered, his people waited, so used to bad news they knew this must be special, and Hussein put an arm around Sara’s shoulders. “My uncle, Sara’s grandfather, has been taken from us at the villa. It was a car bomb, as he was leaving in his Mercedes.”

Jasmine gave a short wail, then started to sob. One of the men, Hassim, said, “Sunnis?”

“It would appear so.”

“May they rot in hell,” Hamid joined in. “Cursed for a thousand years.”

“Two thousand,” said Khazid.

Sara stood there, saying nothing.“Come,” Hussein said. “We all agree, but we still have a long trip ahead of us. We must eat.”

She nodded, torn in her heart between her feelings for her parents and a stubborn old man who had wronged her terribly yet loved her deeply.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.” She took Hussein’s arm and they walked to the café.

LONDON

DUBLIN

KUWAIT