He also checked the Rashids in Iraq. The villa on the north road beyond the village of Amara outside Baghdad was, according to American sources, still intact and inhabited by the head of the household, Abdul, aged eighty. There were two or three aging females and five or six young men of the AK-carrying variety and many refugees from the bombing. He was also pleased to see a mention of a thirteen-year-old girl named Sara. So, she was still there. Roper had Rashid brought back to the viewing room.

“What now?” Rashid asked.

“Dr. Rashid, we’re now going to call your wife.”

“I can speak to her?” Rashid had brightened.

“I insist on it. I’m afraid it has to be on speakerphone, and I suggest you tell her everything-which I suspect you haven’t.”

There was the heavily magnified sound of a telephone and a woman’s voice. “Caspar? Is that you?” She was well spoken, a timbre to her voice.

Roper said, “Dr. Molly Rashid?”

“Yes, who is this?” She was unsure, uncertain.

“My name is Major Giles Roper.”

Before he could carry on, she said, “Good heavens, I once met you at a charity lunch for the Great Ormond Street Hospital. You’re that wonderful man with all the medals for dealing with bombs.”

She paused, and Roper carried on for her. “The man in the wheelchair.”

“Yes. What on earth do you want at this time of night?”

“Dr. Rashid, I’m here with your husband.”

Rashid broke in, “It’s true. Back from my trip to Hazar. Listen carefully, Molly, these people may be able to help us get Sara back.”

WHEN HE’D FINISHED TALKING, everything was quiet. The exchange had been full and frank.

Roper said, “What do you think, Dr. Rashid?”

“I’m astonished. I knew more than my husband realized of the great pressures he’s suffered from radical Islamic sources. He, I’m sure, didn’t want me to know about such matters, and I allowed him to think I was ignorant. It’s what wives do. The abduction of Sara finished all that. The lack of any legal means to retrieve her from that dreadful war zone has been very hard.”