“This is a terrible, terrible mistake,” Moustache Pete said. “I do not understand why you would think that we are—”

“Shut up!” yelled Laura. “One more peep out of either of you and I’ll pull off in some farmer’s field and shoot the both of you!”

Jack glanced back at the Russians before looking at Laura. “Honey, I love you, but please settle down,” he said, affectionately squeezing her shoulder as she drove. “For my purposes, it would not hurt if these men decided to cooperate now and give us the names of other al-Qaeda agents that they are involved with.”

“Let the Americans talk to them,” she said. “I don’t need to hear them yap.”

“They could have information valuable to Canada,” Jack replied. “Other lives could be at stake here.” He looked at the Russians and said, “I know you will tell everything eventually. It is inevitable,” he shrugged.

Laura shook her head silently and stared ahead in anger.

Jack eyeballed Moustache Pete and said, “How about it? With your military background, surely you know that, in time, you will be broken. The longer it takes, the more painful it will be. Why not make it easier on yourselves? You have no people to ever rescue you ... or even a country to go to.”

“You are wrong,” said Moustache Pete. “We are not terrorists. I swear on my mother’s grave.”

“You are foolish not to cooperate,” said Jack, “unless of course, you are a masochist and enjoy pain. The two Arabs you met at the Al Medina restaurant in Havana? Well, one of them has been under watch for years. He is very high up in al-Qaeda. A financer, I am told. As you have now probably figured out, he is only allowed to operate so that we can identify people such as yourselves. Do you deny meeting him there?”

“No, I do not deny that, but—”

“Your interest in navigational charts ....” Jack said, letting out a laugh before continuing, “You really are poorly trained. I was even in the West Marine store with you a little while ago when you were asking about Seattle and inquiring about navigational charts for Puget Sound. You should remember my face. Believe me, the Americans were not amused by that.”

Moustache Pete tipped his head back, briefly closing his eyes while shaking his head.

“Vietnam is the only country that refuses to cooperate. Tell us who you met there, it might go well for you. You were in the military. You know what is in store for you if you do not cooperate.”

The tears rolled down Fat Man’s chubby cheeks as he pleaded, “We are not terrorists ... please.” He looked at his friend and spoke rapidly in Russian, but stopped when Jack leaned over and backhanded him across the face.

“Either speak English or shut the fuck up!” Jack yelled.

“Sir,” said Moustache Pete. “Believe me when I tell you that I did not know that the gentlemen we met in Havana were—”

“Gentlemen!” yelled Laura. “You call cowardly killers gentlemen!” She glanced at Jack and said, “That’s it, I’m looking for a place to pull over. The other side of the tunnel ... past Deas Island ... there’s some bush along River Road.”

“It was simply a figure of speech,” said Moustache Pete quickly. “Personally, I did not care for either one of them.”

“Yeah, right,” Laura replied.

“You are a police officer,” pleaded Moustache Pete, before taking a sideways glance at the Fat Man. “We have some information that is very valuable to the police. You can check it out. We are smugglers ... not terrorists. If you let us explain—just stop and talk to us for fifteen minutes ... we can prove it.”

“They’re looking for a chance to escape,” said Laura, speeding up. “Watch ’em.”

“We are handcuffed!” cried Moustache Pete. “We can’t escape. You are a police officer ... you may even know of the crime that we wish to tell you about.”

“What? Somebody importing vodka illegally?” said Jack, contemptuously.

“No! Someone ... a little girl ... she is in great danger,” said Moustache Pete. “Promise to let us go and we will tell you how to find her. It will save her life.”

Laura lowered her head so that her eyes could not be seen in the rearview mirror and stared ahead without speaking.

Moustache Pete turned to Jack, but he had turned his back to him and also sat quietly staring out over the hood of the car.

Please,” said Moustache Pete. “Do not treat what I say with indifference. I am not lying. This little girl ... we have heard that she had a sister who was murdered by the same man. If it is not true, then you can give us to the Americans. But you will see that it is true. Please ...”

Jack and Laura discovered that they were now at the most difficult part of their charade. Something they hadn’t expected just happened.

They knew that if seen, the tears in their eyes might give everything away.

“I hate this time of year,” said Dúc, starting the engine as Bien got in the car beside him. “It is barely four o’clock and it is getting dark already,” he said, while turning on the windshield wipers.

“I have something I want you to look at,” said Bien, handing Dúc a folded piece of paper.

“What is it?” asked Dúc.

“Look ... and you will understand.”

Dúc unfolded the paper and looked. He gasped when he looked at the black and white photograph of Hang holding Linh’s hand. His hands shook as he turned to look at Bien, but froze when he felt the serrated blade of the knife slice a jagged line under his chin, before stopping with the point pressing into this throat.

“These are my daughters!” yelled Bien. “Look at them! Look closely at their beautiful faces! Look at how old they are! Look at their eyes—so full of life!”

Dúc looked down at the photograph as droplets of blood from his chin dripped onto the picture. He was still in shock when Bien repositioned the knife so that the tip was directed upwards under the bottom side of his rib cage.

Pops had just arrived home from work and was hanging his jacket in the closet when he heard the knock at his back door. He hesitated, but heard Dúc’s voice and opened the door.

Dúc’s wide eyes and pasty-white face stared up at him. Another Vietnamese man stood behind him. Why is Dúc clutching his throat? Blood is seeping through his fingers!

Pops moved to close the door but he was too late. Bien propelled Dúc forward, smashing him against the door and stepping inside the foyer behind him.

“My daughter!” yelled Bien. “Take me to her now or I will slash his throat and yours right after!”

“Your daughter?” Pops replied.

“Linh!” yelled Bien. “Linh!” he yelled again.

“She cannot hear you,” said Dúc, nervously. “I told you, he has a room in the basement. I am sure she is okay,” he added, looking nervously at Pops for confirmation.

“Take me to her, or I will kill you now and find her myself!” said Bien.

Pops stepped back and said, “Okay, okay.” He pointed to the stairs leading to the basement and said, “She’s down there.”

“No,” said Bien. “First ... Dúc, you hold the back of his shirt as he walks. I will hold you. If you let go of him, you will die first!”

Pops slowly led the way into the basement and opened the hidden door.

“Linh!” yelled Bien. Her screams and the sound of her sobs answered in a hysterical response.

“See? She’s in there, waiting for you,” said Pops. “Go and see her,” he said, gesturing to the passageway entrance.

Bien started crying, but shook his head. “You go first,” he said.

The sound of Linh crying and screaming now howled out of the passageway like a megaphone.

“I didn’t hear you,” said Pops. “Go to her. She needs you!”

“No!” screamed Bien. “You go first!” he yelled so there could be no doubt that Pops heard him.

Pops nodded and Bien watched as he struggled through the opening.

Bien clung on to Dúc and shoved him through the passageway ahead of him.

Seconds later, Bien’s mouth dropped open in shock at the sight of his naked daughter standing in chains.