ou can’t send me away!” I frantically paced the carpet. Natalie had tactfully withdrawn, leaving the three of us alone to hash over her offer.

“I know it’s earlier than we planned, but you’ll be leaving for college next year anyway,” my dad pointed out, still seated at the table with Benson. “There are people who would kill to get into that school.”

I halted in my tracks. “My tutors say my grades are good enough to get me into a really good college… next year.”

“Grades aren’t always enough,” he said. “Right now, the only extra-curriculars you can list on a college application are street fighting and instigating international incidents. Don’t you think you could use the clout being a Harrington graduate will give you?”

“But look what I’d have to do for it! Those people aren’t like us. The minute I don’t know which fork to use, they’ll skin me alive!” I flailed about for excuses, and from the looks on their faces, they both knew it.

“I think you would really benefit from a year spent with your peers,” Dad said, overriding my protests.

He looked at Benson, and though no words were exchanged, they did that thing where they packed an entire conversation into a single glance. Sometimes it made me want to scream.

Benson picked up his cue. “What your dad is trying to say is maybe what we’ve been teaching you isn’t the most useful of skills for a teenage girl. You need to spend time with girls your own age who are interested in… whatever they’re interested in.” He loved and respected women, but made no secret of the fact he considered us a separate species.

Being raised in hostile foreign lands by a diplomat and his commando sidekick wasn’t exactly normal, but I was turning out okay. Thanks to years of tagging around after Benson I might know more than the average girl about combat sports like jiu-jitsu and kickboxing, or be able to assemble an AR-15 assault rifle blindfolded, but there was nothing wrong with that. And I chose my clothes more for modesty and freedom of movement than to adhere to the latest trends because you never knew when you’d have to fight your way out of a popular uprising or a military coup. I’d like to see Hayden Frasier do that while tottering around in stilettos or lugging a purse the size of carry-on luggage.

“The timing couldn’t be better,” my dad said, warming to the idea. “The school year is just about to start, and you’d be going in as a senior. Sounds pretty good to me.”

“Then you go to Harrington,” I huffed. “I’m staying here.” Pakistan was my home, and these two men were my family. I wanted the extra year I’d been promised.

Once again they did the silent mind meld thing, and some sort of decision must have been reached because Benson nodded.

“There’s something else you should know,” Benson said, facing me squarely. “The cost of your fight in the marketplace has just been named. One of our friendlies tells us you’re now on a list of approved targets.”

I propped a supporting hand on the back of his chair to keep my knees from buckling. “I’ve been marked for death?”

“It’s not as dramatic as all that,” he said matter-of-factly. “It’s not like they’ll be popping up in the loo. But you can be sure there’s some bloody Terry out there hoping to make his bones by slitting your throat.”

I’d lost count of how many times I’d attended receptions just like the one we were hosting for a local artist, but this night held a measure of desperation as I clung tightly to every detail. The insistent thrum of guitars, the high-pitched laughter of people determined to forget their troubles, and the hearty clink of crystal as if a toast to happiness guaranteed a bright future. The country was changing, and once I stepped into my new life in America, I would be changed, too.

I retreated to a corner facing a colorful painting of three Arab women in traditional dress, barely noticing how the artist daringly made his subjects look like runway models. I’d spent the last three days coming to grips with how quickly my fate had been sealed, and how fast the time had slipped away until there were mere hours to go before it would be time to say goodbye.

Benson, in a black suit and tie that made him look like the world’s largest undertaker, appeared at my elbow. “I don’t know much about art, but even I know that would look better painted on velvet.” When I didn’t needle him back about his taste being all in his mouth, he said, “Cheer up, darlin’ girl, or you’ll have me weepin’ in my beer.”

He might weep, but there were no tears left in me. If I cried one more time, I would shrivel up and blow away.

“I’m afraid,” I admitted for the first time, even to myself.

“What?” he roared. “Of a princess with an unlimited credit card?”

“No,” I said, though that wasn’t completely true.

As the daughter of an American diplomat, my life in Karachi had value and meaning, but who would I be in Connecticut, a place as foreign to me as the moon? I would be abandoning voiceless girls like Farida, and for what? To obsess over whether I had the same jeans as the latest celebrity? Here I worked at bridging the gap of two unlikely allies, even if it was simply having a casual conversation with a local student over a cup of tea. There I would be forced to bow to the culture of conformity because fighting it would bring more loneliness and isolation.

“I’m afraid,” I said at last, “of forgetting who I am.”

“Who you are,” he said, after contemplating the painting in front of us for several more moments, “is someone who will always choose to do what is right rather than what is easy. I should know. There wasn’t a gray hair on my head before I met you.” He grinned, rubbing his hand over his prickly scalp for emphasis.

I sighed. “But am I ready?”

Benson put his arm around me, and I rested my head on his shoulder.

“How many recruits do you reckon I’ve trained as your dad’s security chief? Two hundred? Three hundred? And I’ll tell you what: no matter what I do, no matter how well prepared they are to go into the field, when the bullets start flying they either duck and run for cover, or they stand and fight. There’s nothing I can do to change who they are.”

I squinted up at him in confusion. “And…?”

“And nothing,” he said. “You’ve already been tested by those men in the marketplace. You know who you are, and nobody is going to change that—least of all some snot-nosed ankle biters barely out of nappies. Are we clear?”

He thought that settled matters, so he led me to the next painting, where he insisted the addition of a few dogs playing poker would be the only thing that could save it from the garbage heap.

“How much am I worth anyway?” I asked. At his raised brow, I added, “The marked for death list. What’s the price on my head?”

He cleared his throat and tugged at his tie. “Er, two goats and a chicken.”

“That’s it?” I was worth at least two camels and a mule.

It appeared my options had been whittled down to one of two choices: go to one of the most elite schools in America, or stay in Karachi where my life could be traded for a large family meal.

My dad eased himself away from a nearby group and joined us. “Up for a game?” he asked me.

There were at least fifty guests still milling about the embassy. “What about the party?”

He smiled. “For once I’m going to pull rank and do what I want to do. Right now, I’d like to play chess with my daughter.”

Benson squeezed my hand in farewell. He knew I couldn’t say no to a match with my dad.

“Don’t worry about a thing,” he said to my dad. “I’ll toss these freeloading blighters out soon enough.”

“Guests, Benson, they are our guests,” my dad said with an exasperated sigh.

“To-may-to, to-mah-to,” Benson mumbled as he strolled away.

A few minutes later, Dad and I met in the family room of our private quarters, both of us having changed into T-shirts and shorts. The alabaster chess set had been my mom’s wedding gift to her new husband, and sat ever ready on a small, round table with two leather armchairs stationed nearby.

He’d been a minor chess champ back in the day and still played a wicked game. We’d been playing together since I was old enough to understand the rules, but I didn’t win my first match until I was twelve. After that, my record of wins steadily grew to the point where now we were evenly matched. It wasn’t really the competition that drew us back to the board week after week, year after year. Here was where we talked. Sometimes I was pissed at him for being so preoccupied I needed an appointment to get his attention. Other times he was annoyed because I happened to bend a few unimportant embassy rules. Occasionally we were happily in sync, and he would tell stories about my mother that kept me hanging on his every word, trying to imagine the black and white photo on his desk coming to life.

In one of Benson’s more brilliant moments, he dubbed it chess therapy. And we were both painfully aware tonight was our final session.

“Natalie Abramowitz called me today,” my dad said, opening the game and the conversation. He was playing white tonight.

After we’d accepted her offer, Natalie hadn’t even bothered to spend the night before hopping the next plane back to Washington. I countered the move and waited for him to continue.

“I’m afraid it’s gotten a bit more complicated than we expected,” he said, putting a second pawn into play.

“Doesn’t it always,” I muttered, sending one of my own pawns into battle.

He pretended not to hear me. “Hayden Frasier has a history of slipping away from her bodyguards.” He tapped a finger on one of his knights, deliberating. “Natalie said it would be best if Hayden didn’t know why you were there.” He committed to his charger and sent it into the field.

“Won’t she wonder why I’m following her around?” The word “stalker” came to mind, but Dad hated sarcasm. It came from years of having to watch every word and nuance so a sarcastic retort didn’t result in World War III.

“Not if you two are friends.” He frowned as I marched a rook toward his front lines.

“Yeah, ‘cause we have so much in common,” I said, unable to resist.

He looked up from the board. “Why do you think I reach out to all the local players when we arrive at a new posting? Think about it.”

I scowled, and decided he deserved an all-out attack. I unleashed my bishop. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Easy?” He let out a laugh. “No. But it’s time to decide what kind of life you want. Do you want it to be big and exciting and worthwhile? Here’s your chance.”

“And you think Harrington’s going to do that for me?” I took down one of his pawns.

“No, you’re going to do that for you. You’re my smart, strong-willed daughter who understands that sometimes the best opportunities are the ones you never see coming.” He moved his bishop into an offensive position.

We played in silence for a while as I pondered his words. Finally I asked, “You don’t really think Hayden Frasier is in any danger, do you?”

His hand hovered over the board as he considered my question. “I wouldn’t let you go if I thought you’d come to harm.” He set his queen down in front of my king. “Check.”

“You didn’t exactly answer my question,” I pointed out, slipping out of the trap.

“I’m an ambassador. I don’t have to directly answer any questions,” he smiled, feigning a superior air.

I almost fumbled the rook in my hand. “Dad, are you being sarcastic?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he joked, neglecting to protect his king’s flank.

“Fine,” I said. “Checkmate.”