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pulling away from the Saudis. Bruce Holtz was the owner of Central Asian Information Networks—or CAIN, for short—the spies-for-hire firm that Mark had been working with for the past seven months. “
He
brought the boy to the orphanage. Yesterday. He just dumped him at the front desk.”
    “Why?”
    “You tell me.”
    “Ah…”
    “What’s that noise?”
    “I have the boy. He’s crying—”
    “Why didn’t you call me?”
    “I was going to—”
    “I told you to call me as soon as you—”
    “Two minutes, that’s how long I’ve had him. Two minutes. And you know, I’m trying to be nice to him, but he’s upset and… Daria, I don’t like this. I really don’t like this.”
    Mark explained how he’d taken the child away from the Saudis. At gunpoint. He had to speak loudly so that he could be heard over the boy’s crying. “Wasn’t a good scene. And, you know, maybe the reason the kid only speaks Arabic is because he’s a Saudi. Maybe those guys really were here to take him back to his family.”
    “Is he OK?”
    “He’s not happy, but he doesn’t seem hurt. He’s right next to me. I’m looking at him now.” Mark glanced at the childsitting next to him. He was a bit pudgy, in a baby-fat sort of way, with cheeks that were healthy and full. His baby teeth were straight and white and he had a cute round nose. Though scared and confused at the moment, he appeared well cared for. Mark tried to muster a friendly smile, but the boy was looking down at his clenched fists as he cried. “We’re headed back toward Bishkek.”
    “You have him in the front seat?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Is he wearing a seat belt?”
    “Ah, no.”
    “He should be in the back seat at least.”
    Daria sounded flustered.
    “You know, I’m kind of trying to prioritize what I worry about right now.”
    “If you get in an accident—”
    “I’m not gonna get in an accident. Talk to me about Holtz.”
    “When I asked Nazira how the boy—”
    “Does he have a name?”
    “Muhammad.”
    “Great, that should help us identify him.”
    Muhammad was the most popular boys’ name in the world.
    “When I asked Nazira how Muhammad came to the orphanage, she told me a big American dropped him off yesterday. She said he was wearing a belt buckle in the shape of a football helmet. And that he had a goatee. And—”
    “OK, that’s Holtz.”
    “One of us has to call him.”
    “Maybe I should handle it,” said Mark. Before starting her orphanage project, Daria had worked briefly for Holtz, and it hadn’t gone well. “I’m kind of headed his way anyway.”
    CAIN’s headquarters was located at Manas, a major US air base just north of Bishkek.
    “I don’t want Holtz anywhere near Muhammad.”
    “Then hustle back to Bishkek, and you take Muhammad while I meet with Holtz. Besides, the boy needs someone who can understand him and I’m not doing so well on that front.”
    Daria wasn’t fluent in Arabic, but Mark was certain she could do better than he was managing to do. He glanced at Muhammad again, who was now twisting his shirt up into his fists.
    Mark didn’t connect with kids the way Daria did. He had no experience with them and had no idea how to put them at ease. But he wanted
someone
to put Muhammad at ease. No little kid should be scared; no little kid should have to get shuffled from an orphanage to a cynical middle-aged spy with a beat-up car, a two-day beard, and a gun.
    “All right,” said Daria. “I’m already halfway there, probably just a little bit behind you. Meet at our place?”
    “I’ll be there.”

6
    Kyrgyzstan

    Muhammad started crying when he was handed off to Daria, but Mark was pretty sure the boy would warm up to her. Either way, he figured Daria was the child’s best option at this point. After making the transfer, he drove to the White House because he’d been told Bruce Holtz would be there.
    The White House in downtown Bishkek was similar to the White House in Washington, DC, in that it