black men. She stops about a third of the way through.
"That's him," she said. "That's the leader, in the glasses, the one who had the camera."
"You're sure?" Prester asks sharply. "You're absolutely sure?"
She says, "Yes."
Prester and Strick look at one another. Then Strick announces to the voice recorder, "Miss Kelly has identified figure number 31 as the leader of their abductors."
"Who is he?" Veronica asks.
"Please continue," Strick says.
She doesn't. "Who is he?"
Prester and Strick exchange a look. Then Prester says, in a low voice, "His name is Athanase Ntingizawa. He was one of the chief architects of the Rwandan genocide."
Veronica remembers Derek starting with recognition, and saying something like "euthanasia." Athanase.
"Please continue," Strick repeats.
Veronica turns the pages of the photo book. The second half of the binder is populated by Arabic men, but the terrorist who held a panga to her throat is nowhere to be found. She goes through the binder again, slowly, double-checking, before returning it.
"You got them, right?" Veronica asks. "They're all dead?"
Prester shakes his head.
"But - they got away? CNN said -"
"Yeah. I saw. CNN said dozens dead. Which is true. But not Athanase, not the Arabs, none of the senior interahamwe. Just kids with guns. The real bad guys got away to play another day."
Strick is staring angrily at Prester.
Prester shrugs. "Never mind. What do you care? You're going home. I think we're done here, right?"
"Very," Strick says curtly. He snaps his briefcase shut and stands up. "Get some rest, Miss Kelly. We'll explain your options when you're more fully recovered."
By the time it occurs to Veronica to ask what he means by options, or where exactly she is right now, they are already out the door.
Chapter 12
Veronica disconnects her own IV. She knows when the drugs wear off she will start to hurt all over, but she wants to be able to think clearly again. She fights her way back to her feet and shuffles to her window. Her room is on the second floor of a walled and gated hotel complex screened by palm trees. A half-dozen military-drab Land Cruisers and Hummers are parked in its gravel parking lot. Two white soldiers in American uniforms guard the gate. She hears aircraft above, both airplanes and helicopters, a near-constant buzz of aerial traffic.
Irene comes in while she is on her feet.
"Just can't keep you down, can we, hon?" she asks. "Those poor feet of yours need a few more days off, you ask me."
"Later," Veronica says. "Do you have any clothes?"
Irene purses her lips. "Suppose we can track some down."
"Could you? I can't stand hospital robes."
"All right, will do." But she doesn't move. She just looks at Veronica.
"What is it?" Veronica asks.
Irene says, "Don't know if this is the right time. I'm not really trained for this kind of thing. But, listen, hon, we have specialists coming here to take care of you. We have a highly trained trauma counsellor, and another who specializes in counselling victims of sexual abuse. I'm sorry, hon, but I have to know, what did they do to you?"
"To me?" Veronica half-laughs. "Nothing."
Irene looks at her skeptically.
"No, really. They, I think, they raped Susan. The British girl. But me, I mean, they weren't exactly friendly, they put a fucking leash on me, and a machete to my throat, but physically, honest, I got out okay. Just what you see, cuts and bruises and blisters, and I was sick, I've probably lost a lot of weight, but I wasn't, nothing awful happened."
"Sounds pretty awful to me."
"It's over now. I don't want to see any counsellor. I'm fine."
"I'll ask you again when you're sober."
"I'm fine," Veronica repeats. "Could I just get some clothes?"
"I'm on it, hon." Irene leaves quickly.
Veronica ventures into the bathroom. She wants to shower, but the idea of climbing in and turning on the water seems horrendously difficult and complex right now. There are a pair of flower-patterned slippers inside. She decides to try to go for a walk before the drugs wear off.
* * *
The door opens to an exterior walkway that connects the rooms, like a motel. She's glad she's in a decent buttoned-up hospital gown, rather than a cheap backless one. There is a soldier at the end of the walkway, and she freezes in place, afraid she is violating some rule, but he just nods to her stiffly. He looks Latino and about nineteen. A small strip of tall ferns and palm trees grows just outside, and through them she can see some large