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look surprised, little lady.”
    Yasmin didn’t bother explaining. She didn’t want to provide information that might help these men or their handlers in the future. Their affected accents had been good, but she had doubted from the first that any of them were Pakistanis. Neither they nor the aircraft cabin smelled of cigarettes. She had never met a Pakistani agent who did not smoke. She had also noted the bulge of wallets in their pants. Pakistanis typically carried folded currency. They were not big on credit cards. These were mercenaries. Working for the highest bidder.
    “She’s got a good poker face, I’ll give her that,” the African American said.
    “But a looker,” said another.
    “Yeah, well, that’s all you’re gonna do,” the African American said.
    “I know. I’m just saying.”
    Yasmin was instantly tired of their locker-room banter. She had heard it in the barracks as a young girl; a world and a decade away, there was nothing different in their looks and remarks. It was pathetic.
    “What is going on?” she asked. She did not expect them to tell her much. But any information was more than she had now.
    “It’s a classic good news, bad news situation,” the man beside her said. “Do you understand that expression?”
    She nodded.
    “The good news, as you’ve probably figured out, is that we’re not taking you to Islamabad.”
    “Where, then?”
    “That’s a secret, I’m afraid. But that’s also good news. You won’t be cooped up here for the better part of a day. We’ll have wheels down in—”
    “Two hours or less,” she said. “In New York, I think.”
    The men fell silent. The Asiatic man confirmed her guess with his look of open admiration.
    “What makes you say that?” he asked.
    “That’s a secret, I’m afraid,” she replied.
    A jet such as this one had a ceiling of 13,000 meters. They were leveling off at around 2,000 meters. That suggested a very short flight. There would be nothing in a Canadian city that Quebec would not provide, so she guessed they were headed to America. Only New York made sense within a two-hour radius.
    “Who are you people?” she asked.
    “Sorry. That, too, is need to know only,” the Asiatic man said.
    “Do you, in fact, have my daughter?”
    “We do,” the Asiatic man went on. “We needed a way to get your attention.”
    “For what?”
    “That’s the bad news,” he said, but he did not elaborate.
    She wanted to ask about Kamilah, how she was, when she might see her or even talk to her, but she doubted they would tell her anything. Information was power, and their body language told her that her little display had set them on guard. That was exactly what she wanted. A man on defense was easier to provoke.
    Yasmin regarded the African American. “What is your code name?” she asked.
    He just smirked.
    “Dr. Fed? FBI-Zee?”
    The man’s expression soured, and he moved forward suddenly, as though he intended to strike her. The Asiatic man held up a hand, palm out. The other man hesitated, then settled back into his seat.
    The leader turned to her. “Don’t talk.”
    “Why?” she asked.
    “Because I’ll have them cut off your daughter’s finger and show it to you on a live feed,” he said and held up a phone.
    It was a Tac-Sat Elite. She was right. He was FBI.
    “Let me talk to her,” she said, pressing—not because she expected him to oblige, but because he would feel in control again if she asked.
    “Maybe ... when you show us you can behave,” he said as he slipped the phone back inside his jacket.
    Feigning obedience, the woman sat back. Her hands were still cuffed behind her, and she had to roll toward the window, keeping them as far to the right as she could, in order to sit comfortably. Even that was painful, however; they had not treated her gently back at the terminal, especially the two agents who had been unmasked. She had pulled every muscle in her back and shoulders trying to escape.
    Yasmin contemplated