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discourage him. A tall man loomed in the background. Both of them were wrapped head-to-toe in reflective capes, the type worn to deflect light in the desert. They wore wraparound sunglasses, too.
    Their odd attire drew stares from the people around them. A woman in a red puffer jacket crossed herself. Two punks with blue hair called out something in a Slavic language—Croatian, maybe? Caro wasn’t sure. She’d almost made it to the Hertz counter when the squatty man hollered, “English girl! Stop!”
    She had the impression he was speaking to her. But how did he know she was a Briton? Surely the embassy hadn’t sent him. If they had, forget it. She wasn’t letting this freak drive her to the train station. She’d take her chances with a taxi. Then cold air whooshed over her, and suddenly the man was in front of her. He snatched her duffel bag and bolted.
    Dammit. Son of a bitch. Caro choked down a scream. Rule one for a tour guide: Don’t panic. But her icon was inside that bag. As she vaulted down the corridor, her hat flew off, and her hair burst out in every direction. All around her, the airport traffic seemed to blur. She heard shouting and a screech. In a flash, she was behind the man. She grabbed his ears and twisted, hard. He tripped over a suitcase and fell against the tile floor.
    â€œLet go, you bloody lout!” Caro grabbed one end of the bag and yanked hard. The man rolled over and tugged in the opposite direction. He jerked the bag out of her grasp and started to rise. An officer blew a whistle and ran toward the commotion.
    â€œHe snatched my bag,” Caro explained.
    The policeman seized the thief’s arm. Caro found her hat and slipped it over her head, tucking the militant curls inside. With as much dignity as she could muster, she unzipped her fanny pack and showed the policeman her passport.
    He shoved the thief down the aisle. Caro looked for the man who’d yelled and the tall man who’d also been following her, but they’d vanished. She lifted a shaky hand and wiped her eyes, then she started down the crowded hall. Uncle Nigel had always made traveling seem easy. Negotiating with taxi drivers had been a snap because he’d spoken all of the Romance languages, including some Romanian. As soon as Caro had come to live with him, he’d placed one hand on her elbow and steered her through the world.
    Over by the Supertrans window, she saw a man in a brown Harris Tweed jacket with a sign that read Clifford . She took a breath, walked over to him, and introduced herself.
    â€œLovely to meet you,” he said in a loud, nasal voice. “I’m Thurston Hughes, from the embassy.”
    She smiled, then pulled off her gloves. They were black angora, patterned with sequined cats; Uncle Nigel had given them to her last year as a gag gift— Happy Christmas, Love, Dinah , he’d written. He’d always given presents from their felines.
    â€œSo sorry about your uncle.” Mr. Hughes paused. “Was he your only relative?”
    â€œYes.” Her hands shook as she tucked the gloves into her pocket. Be strong , she told herself. Uncle Nigel had always said that tears were for the living. The dead needed an Irish wake with lots of whiskey and laughter. God, she’d miss him.

    â€œYou won’t be taking the train, after all,” Mr. Hughes said. “We weren’t sure if you knew the Cyrillic alphabet. It’s frightfully easy to mix up the platforms. So I’m driving you to Kardzhali.”
    Caro followed him through the glass doors, onto the sidewalk. Taxis and vans were lined up along the curb. Mr. Hughes stopped in front of a black Mercedes with a British Embassy seal on the doors. He helped her into the passenger seat, then scuttled around to the other side of the car. He eased into the leather seat, advising her to buckle her seat belt, and without further ado, started the engine.
    â€œThe ambassador was