CHAPTER 54

I can still feel the hot sticky grime of that Bangkok safehouse on my skin as I sit cross-legged on a creaking old cot, my mind whirling with plots and what-ifs. The cramped room, with its poor light and the distant buzz of a crowded street beyond the door, is both sanctuary and pressure cooker. Tonight, Ruth and I feel forced to lay everything open—our military strategy, to be sure, but the bare, painful reality of our inner lives.

I spread out a frayed map on the squeaky table, its corner creases worn from countless drafts, and point a line of red-spotted points. "Look here," I say to him, my finger trembling just so as I trace a route across the grid, "this is where they last got a report from our informant in the underworld. It may be our window into locating your family."