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have cut off the survivors—the families and friends of the victims who die in the attack—from the security of the past, while at the same time showing them the absolute uncertainty of the future. You have effectively isolated them in a present they can no longer recognize. That is the essence of terror.”
    The car stopped at the portico, held up by six fluted Greek columns. Namazi said, “ Chérie , you are unusually quiet. What are you thinking?”
    Annika was considering that it was horribly dangerous letting the Syrian anywhere near here. This was, after all, her sacred space, and truth be told, her grandfather’s, long before her, but she was bound to a wheel that only went forward. She had made a promise to her grandfather to keep moving closer and closer to Namazi. This particular form of intimacy was a vital part of his plan—never mind that she hated it. One did what one had to do—that was how her grandfather had raised her. Doing his bidding was ingrained in her, like the grit of dust in the boards of an old house sitting on the prairie. Long ago she had sacrificed her own life to be part of her grandfather’s plan. And how could she not? He had saved her from a father who had abducted her, abused her both physically and emotionally. That was a debt she would never be able to fully repay, though every day she woke up into a nightmare, trying.
    “I was thinking what a discussion between you and Friedrich Nietzsche would be like,” she said in a perfectly neutral voice.
    “Do you think me a nihilist, then?”
    “All terrorists are, by definition, nihilists.”
    “But, chérie , I love living so much!” Namazi opened the door, but before he could step out, she put a hand on his forearm.
    “No, Iraj.”
    His dark eyes searched her face, so that she felt scorched inside.
    “You don’t want me with you?”
    She kissed him on the lips. “You’re sweet,” she said quietly.
    “I don’t know why you couldn’t have phoned him.”
    “Dr. Karalian was a close friend of my grandfather’s, his longtime chess opponent. Sometimes bad news must be delivered in person. Please wait for me here.”
    He took a deep breath, then nodded. “Very well.”
    She stepped over him and onto the gravel of the driveway. Before she could turn away, he took her hand.
    “Take as much time as you need, chérie .” He kissed the back of her hand and let it go.
    She smiled at him, then faced the clinic’s stone facade. A brisk wind brought the lemon-balsam aroma of frankincense as the pine branches dipped and swayed. She lifted her head to the cliff face, to the ancient monastery. There had been good times here, as well as evil.
    For a moment, time froze, as she stood paralyzed on the wide, basalt steps, crushed by the irony. Then, sounds and colors returned to normal, and she went up the remainder of the steps, into the cool, dim interior, echoing with the footsteps of doctors and nurses. The interior was lush with tropical plants, spotlit with sunlamps. The domed ceiling was encrusted with a mosaic of the luminous night sky and its constellations, depicted as the heroes and creatures of their names: Hercules; Draco, the dragon; Ursa Major and Minor, the bears; Lynx; Leo, the lion; Serpens Caput, the serpent. Overstuffed chairs in small groupings were placed on either side of the circular space, which was dominated by the receptionist’s station made of Lebanese cedar, polished to a high gloss.
    “Good afternoon, Ms. Dementieva,” the receptionist said with a smile. “I’ll ring Dr. Karalian and tell him you’re here.”
    Several moments later, Dr. Karalian appeared, an olive-skinned man of Armenian lineage who, with his black, spade-like beard and thick, curving eyebrows, looked like a traditional depiction of the devil. However, the moment he opened his mouth and spoke, his innate intelligence and gentle charm dispelled this image completely.
    He stepped forward, embracing her hand with both of his. “Annika, how