That evening, Alexander and Tom left the hotel and went out to find something to eat in N’Djamena. Alexander had wanted to stay in the same hotel Isobel had been in when she was last seen, but Tom had clipped out short phrases about security and risks and then dictatorially chosen another hotel, and there were only a certain number of battles Alexander could bring himself to fight, so he’d given in.

Lutz had reported all the information he had to Tom and already moved on. To Iraq or Syria or somewhere equally as hospitable, doubtless.

They sat down and picked up the menus. There were kids everywhere, gaunt children who silently slipped around the tables and watched the guests—wealthy Chadians and foreigners—with cautious eyes. They came up to the diners, begged and offered things as soon as the waitstaff disappeared and the guards looked away.

Fruit, shoe polish. Massages.

A small, scrawny boy approached their table, but he was immediately chased away. He gave Alexander a beseeching look but disappeared under the blows of a waiter.

They ordered. Alexander took what Tom told him to without protest.

“Not a good idea to get sick right now,” Tom said curtly, ordering unopened bottles of water instead of a jug. “And avoid the ice.”

Alexander’s fingers drummed impatiently on the tablecloth. He didn’t want to sit in a restaurant and make small talk about the local food. He wanted to do something. The scrawny boy snuck up to them again. He was thin, and his clothes hung like rags around him. His gaze didn’t move from Alexander.

“Monsieur?” he whispered in French.

Tom shook his head warningly as he tore off a bit of bread, put it in his mouth, and chewed it briefly and efficiently.

“Don’t give him anything; they won’t leave us alone.”

Alexander demonstratively took a coin from his pocket and gave it to the boy. Tom rolled his eyes and reached for his beer. “Suit yourself.”

The boy took the coin but stayed by the table. He moved his lips. He pulled at Alexander’s hand. “Le docteur,” he said.

Alexander studied the boy more closely, feeling something prickle at the back of his neck. “What?”

“Monsieur,” he repeated, glancing around with a frightened look. The waiter was approaching with heavy steps. “You have been asking questions, yes? You’re looking for Doctor Isobel.” His head darted back and forth, then his thin throat worked. “I saw her,” he whispered almost inaudibly.

Tom took a swig from his beer and glared at the child. The waiter had almost reached them.

The boy stayed put with a defiant expression. Every now and then his eyes flicked to the plates of food at the table. When had he last eaten?

“What’s your name?” Alexander asked as he handed the child a piece of the garlic-scented bread they had been served with the stew. Firmly he waved the approaching waiter away.

The boy took the bread and it disappeared into a pocket.

“Marius,” he said, almost inaudibly.

Alexander sat up straight. Could it be?

“I know who you are. You’re her friend, aren’t you?”

The boy nodded. “Oui, from the hospital.”

“Tom, I know who this boy is,” Alexander said. “Isobel talked about him a few times.”

Tom turned to Marius with a deeply skeptical look.

“What did you see?” he asked in French, studying the child.

“I saw them take Docteur Isobel. Where the road is narrow. In a car. Many men with guns. I was there, on my way to the hospital. She screamed.”

Tom gave Alexander a warning look, and Alexander had to use all his might to sit still and keep quiet. No good would come of him showing his anger, his powerlessness. Tom looked at Marius again, still suspicious. The man was born a sceptic.

“Do you know who they are? Which clan they are from?”

“Oui, monsieur. I know the village.”

“Okay,” Tom decided. “Let’s take him to the hotel and see if he can point it out on the map.”

“So. We have an eyewitness who confirms she was taken,” Tom said after Marius showed them where he had seen Isobel. They were talking with low voices. Marius was asleep on the couch in Alexander’s locked room; Tom had refused to let the boy go.

“That’s if we can trust the kid. We can’t dismiss the idea that someone might have sent him to give us false information.”

“Is that really likely?”

“No. But we can’t take any risks.”

“What should we do with him?”

Tom shrugged. “I can’t let him go now.”

“You mean we are kidnapping him?”

“Call it what you want,” he replied without looking up from the map of Chad.

“So. We know where she’s probably being held, and by whom. What we don’t know is why—whether it’s money or politics. Or both. What we should do now is go home, tell the police a Swedish citizen has been taken, and let them and the authorities take over. But I’m guessing that’s not what you want.”

Alexander didn’t even bother replying. He wasn’t leaving Chad without Isobel; it was that simple.

“If we’re going to rescue her, there’ll be a price to pay,” Tom continued. “People and money. And it’s still uncertain. We only have a street kid’s word for it.”

“He seems trustworthy.”

“Yeah.”

“In concrete terms, what do you need?”

“I need to get eyes on that desert village the kid pointed out. Verify that she’s actually there. Put together a rescue team. A scout and a sniper, six men for the actual rescue, eight in total. Weapons. Two or three cars.” Tom frowned, concentrating. “A helicopter, I think. For me.”

“Can that be arranged down here?”

“Anything can be arranged. It’s all about money.”

Alexander smiled grimly. “I have money. Do it.”

Tom turned his wrist and looked at his watch.

“I’ll get the ball rolling. Keep an eye on the kid.

Tom disappeared, and Alexander remained sitting as night fell over N’Djamena and the ridiculously expensive hotel.

“I made a few calls,” Tom said when they met for lunch the next day. They could hear the muezzin between the buildings; Alexander hadn’t gotten much sleep, but Marius had slept soundly for twelve hours on the couch, eaten all the food he’d been given, and then sat down in front of the TV with the remote control.

“They’re on their way, from various parts of Africa. They have weapons and vehicles, and all the other equipment we need.”

“Mercenaries?”

Tom shrugged. “They’re not nice guys, but they’ll do what they need to as long as they get paid. So now you and I need to go and buy some bags. Tomorrow we go to the bank and empty it of dollars and euros.”

“What happens next?” Alexander asked when they left the bank the following day. Each carried a black leather bag full of notes. Two of Tom’s mercenaries who had arrived the previous day—silent, serious men—kept them company. “It’s virtually a death sentence to take out lots of money in this country; we need guards,” Tom had explained laconically.

“We get moving,” he answered now.

They went quickly to the hotel and put the bags on the table in Tom’s room.

“So what do we do now, then?” Alexander asked impatiently as Tom closed the curtains and secured the locks.

Everything was moving so goddamn slowly.

Isobel had been missing for six days now, but they hadn’t heard a word from her kidnappers. Was she even alive? Could she have died without his sensing it? He refused to believe it, clung to what Tom had once said: Regardless of who the kidnappers were, she was worth money to them.

But Tom shook his head firmly as he emptied his pockets onto the table. He spread out money, electronics, and pieces of paper, then started to sort through them.

“From now on, there is no we. I can’t have a civilian getting in the way.”

So, that’s the way the wind blows.

“Fine,” said Alexander. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned one shoulder against the wall as Tom gathered his things, folded maps, and began to pack his equipment into a bag.

“I need to find an FOB. Somewhere we can meet. Test the weapons, practice, plan.”

Alexander nodded. A Forward Operations Base. It sounded logical. “Excellent. Out in the desert, maybe?” he said agreeably.

Tom peered suspiciously at him.

“I need to learn the helicopter. There’ll be a load of tactical talk. Pretty tough.”

“Sounds great.”

Tom jerked shut the zipper on his bag.

“It’ll be two, maybe three days out in the desert. Worst conditions imaginable. We’ll sleep under the cars. Eat sand and drink dirty water. Wait.”

“I see.”

Tom sighed deeply. He squashed an insect on his neck. “You’re going to come, aren’t you.”

“Yup.”

“Damn, you’re annoying.”

“Not at all. I’m an asset.”

“But can you keep your cool? Knowing that she’s suffering while we have to train and plan? That they might be torturing her, that it might end with us just finding her dead, raped body? That the only thing you might have to do is to identify what little is left of her?”

Alexander knew that Tom’s words were deliberately brutal. He steeled himself. Don’t think about it.

“I can manage,” he said curtly.

“You were a parachute ranger?”

“Squad leader. Damn good.”

“You can go with the scouts, then. We’ll get you a weapon.”

“Fine. What are you going to do with the boy, Marius?”

“He’s with us until it’s over. Period. I don’t trust anyone. That’s the only way to survive here. The kid is coming with us, and I’ll keep an eye on him until it’s too late for him to warn anyone. He can leave then. He’s a street kid, so no one is looking for him. I’m going to meet the others. They’re at the entrance now. Is her mother alive?”

“Yes.”

“What was her maiden name?”

“Blanche Pelletier.”

“French?”

“Yes.”

“And Alexander?” Tom gave him another of his black looks.

“Yeah?”

“Answer your goddamn phone sometime,” he hissed, and pulled the door shut behind him.

Alexander hadn’t even heard it ring, but he had missed calls from Leila, David, and Natalia.

He called Leila first, but she knew even less than he did. As soon as he hung up, it rang again. David Hammar.

“Your sister is worried,” he said brusquely when Alexander answered, and then Natalia was on the line.

“David is hiding something from me, so I guess it’s serious, whatever you’re doing. Do you want to know just how little I like being treated like an idiot?”

“Sorry. But it’s bad. Isobel is gone.”

“Are you really in Africa? With Tom Lexington?”

“Yeah,” he answered, and he knew his sister was much too sharp not to see how badly it might end. “Natalia?” He swallowed. “If … if it doesn’t go well for me, but she’s okay … will you tell Isobel that … you know.”

“Alexander, you have to tell her that kind of thing yourself.”

“She’s been kidnapped, for God’s sake.”

But Natalia knew him too well, wasn’t put off by his outburst. “I heard that. You should write it down or something. You can’t just leave and maybe die and not say how you feel in your own words. You know that, right?”

“I don’t plan to die.”

“Well, no one does.”

“You know my friend Romeo Rozzi? If I send you his number, can you call him and tell him?”

“Sure. Peter is here too. Wait.”

And before Alexander had time to say he didn’t want to speak to Peter, his brother was on the line.

“I just heard. How are you?”

The last thing Alexander expected was for it to feel good to hear Peter’s voice. His big brother. He could just see them, his siblings and David, together, worried for his sake.

It might be the most ironic thing he had ever experienced. To realize how much they meant to him only when he was facing the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. He was relatively certain he would survive—it wasn’t a case of being worried for his own sake—and he figured that the others knew that.

“Okay,” he said.

Aside from the fact I’m headed off to fight in the desert and might have lost the only woman I ever loved.

“Is there anything I can do?”

“We’re going to need to fly out as soon as we’ve got her. A medically equipped plane would be good.”

“I’ll arrange it. You have my word.”

And Alexander knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if Peter promised something, he would keep his promise. “I’ll send a message with all the details I can.”

“I’ll get it all ready,” said Peter, and then there was silence. “I love you,” he added. The words were chopped and sounded strange coming from his mouth. “I want you to know. That I do.”

Alexander’s throat tightened.

If he managed not to mess up too much, Tom and the others would cover his ass. It wasn’t fear for his own life that had him at the end of his rope, that made this phone call sound like a farewell. He knew what the photo of Isobel meant, knew why Tom had asked him for a black-and-white image. Simply put, it was easier to identify a dead or tortured body in that way. Easier to see past the beaten tissue and the red, blue, and green swelling using a photo in gray scale.

The risk that they would fail was, in other words, looming.

And if Isobel died down here … If he lost her …

“I have to go,” he said, hanging up. He couldn’t bear to listen to his siblings’ caring voices any longer. He took a shaky breath. Ran his hand over his face. Felt sweat, sand, and stubble.

If Isobel died … then he wouldn’t go home, it was that simple.

“Alexander?” He heard Tom’s voice on the other side of the door. How long had he been standing there, knocking?

Alexander opened the door and was met by Tom’s searching look. He pulled himself together. He wasn’t going to die, and he wasn’t going to fall apart. He would write a letter to Isobel, send Romeo’s number to Natalia, and tell Peter what he needed to know. He had a plan. “I’m okay. What do we do now?”

Tom smiled, that same grimace Alexander assumed was the closest Tom Lexington ever came to a real smile.

“Now we leave for hell.”