Snowfall at Willow Lake

Great. He would ask her that. “They’re still at large. But since everything was seized, they have no staff or assets. It’s only a matter of time before they are hunted down.” She paused, then added, “And I hope you’ll include that in your article.”

“Are you kidding? We should make a video to run on the paper’s Web site. You’re great, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Are you worried about retaliation? Attacks? Before the army was disbanded, they were one of the most heavily armed militias in the region. It’s said a number of them have gone into hiding right here in The Netherlands.”

“Cowards who are motivated by greed will always be with us. I’m not going to live in fear because of them.”

He wrote that down—a good sound byte. “You’re very young to hold this position,” he remarked.

“Age has nothing to do with it,” Sophie told him. “It’s dedication and experience, and I have plenty of that.” She knew he could discover her age with a few clicks on his BlackBerry; it was a matter of public record, as were her blood type, passport numbers, rank in class at her law school and the fact that she’d set collegiate records in distance swimming. She decided to end his suspense. “Thirty-nine,” she said. “Divorced. Two kids who live in Avalon, New York.” Summed up like that, so nice and neat, she sounded like a professional, career-minded international lawyer. The nonchalance of her “They live in Avalon, New York” comment did not begin to cover the agony of her shattered family in the aftermath of divorce. And she wasn’t about to go there with him, though she lived with the pain of it every day. She was a mother without kids to raise. Her mothering was carried out by phone, e-mail, text message and IMs. But the things that happened in her absence were legion. She might find that Daisy had turned into a brunette or Max had started drum lessons … She might find that her ex-husband was getting married. That Max was still begging for a dog, and that Daisy was about to start college. Sophie was forever torn between her simultaneous yearning to be involved in their lives and her abject fear that she’d make more of a mess of her kids than she already had.

Brooks was asking her something, and she realized she hadn’t been listening at all. “You have a whole room full of dignitaries here,” she told him, gesturing at the milling guests. “Why me?”

“Because you make good copy,” he told her bluntly. “I write about you, and I’ve got half a chance of getting it placed somewhere other than in the footnotes.”

“And I should help you because …”

“Look,” he said, “this is a big deal, what’s happening here—a sovereign nation was saved from being erased off the map. But we both know John Q. Public doesn’t give a rat’s ass about that. He’s too busy texting his vote for American Idol to worry about the state of some third-world country he’s never heard of.”

“Don’t think writing about me is going to change that.”

“It will if you do something outrageous that’ll play well on YouTube.”

“What, like drive across Europe wearing Depends? I can see you’re completely tuned into the solemnity of the occasion,” she said.

“Seriously,” he said, “how does a nice girl like you wind up toppling warlords and dictators?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

“When people think of world court personnel, they think of seventy-year-old guys in musty robes. Not …” He gave her a meaningful look.

She forced herself not to respond. One of the strictest rules of this job was to increase public perception of the court’s mission. “First of all, you could clarify the trial was through the International Criminal Court, which was created only six years ago, so it’s not some venerable, old institution. And honestly, the only reason I served as a prosecutor is that the lead counsel and his deputy got sick right before the first hearing.” Willem De Groot was an older man who shared her passion for a just cause. Hooked up to a dialysis machine, he had guided her and his staff through the case, week after week.

“So it was a matter of luck meeting opportunity,” Brooks said.

“Bad luck meeting necessity,” she clarified. “I’d give anything if he could be here tonight.”

“You really don’t want to be the star of this, do you? What a waste of looks and talent.”

“You seem preoccupied with my looks.”

“It’s the dress. You had to have known it would affect men this way, even without jewelry. I assume you’re making a statement.”

“I’m opposed to diamonds for obvious reasons. And so many other stones are questionable that it’s simpler to wear none. But pearls! They’re produced by oysters and hunted by happy divers, right? I should take to wearing pearls.”

“You could wear pearls in the video,” he said.

Sophie was about two sips of champagne away from ditching this guy. “You’re obnoxious, Mr. Fordham. And I’m leaving. Everything is about to start.”

“One final question and I’ll leave you alone,” he added.

“Go ahead.”

“Will you let me take you to dinner tomorrow night?”

“That doesn’t sound like leaving me alone.”

“But does it sound … like a plan?”

She hesitated. He probably had a degree from an Ivy League school, a pedigree back to the Mayflower and a brazen sense of entitlement. Still, going to dinner with him meant not eating alone. “I’ll have my assistant call you to arrange things.”

“It’s a dinner date, not an international summit.”

“My assistants are excellent at arranging things,” she assured him. A date with this man might be a diversion. Her romantic past was … undistinguished. Perhaps that was the word for it. Forgettable teenage gropings in high school had given way to slightly more sophisticated dating in college—frat parties and raves. And then there was Greg. They’d married before they even knew who they were. It was like grafting together two incompatible trees—tolerable at first but eventually the differences could not be ignored. Had she loved him? Everyone loved Greg. He was the adorable, charming, indulged youngest of the four Bellamy siblings. How could anyone not love him? This sense that she should love him had sustained the marriage over sixteen years, long enough for her to be absolutely certain the love was gone. Afterward she had walked around shell-shocked for several months.

Only last fall had she dared to stick her toe into the dating pool. The first time a man had asked her out, she had regarded him as if he’d spoken in a dead language. Go out? On a date? What a novel idea.

Thus began the dating phase, which was infinitely preferable to the postdivorce shell-shocked phase. Her first prospect was a diplomatic protection agent who was more interested in showing off his 007 trappings—an alert device hidden in his lapel, a cigarette pack that could dispense cyanide gas—than in discovering who Sophie actually was. Despite her disenchantment, she’d tried to move seamlessly into the sleeping-around phase during which a newly divorced woman indulged her every fantasy. Women who slept around always seemed as though they were having such fun. Yet Sophie found it disappointing and stressful and quickly retreated to the benign safety of casual dating. She told herself she would stay open to the possibility that one day one of the attachés or diplomats or Georgian nationals she was dating would unexpectedly inflame her passions. So far, it hadn’t happened.

She regarded Brooks and wondered if he might be the one to make her drop her natural reserve. To make her remember what it felt like to be held in someone’s arms. Not tonight, she thought.

“You’ll have to excuse me,” she said, and headed for the dais.

She looked around for a place to set down her champagne flute, and approached a passing waiter. He didn’t seem to see her.

“Pardon,” she said.

The man jumped, and a glass fell from his tray, shattering on the marble floor. In the immediate area, people fell silent and turned to stare. At the periphery of the room, the security agents tensed, prepared to take action.

“I’m sorry,” Sophie murmured. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s nothing, madame,” he murmured, his accent very thick. She was about to ask him where he was from when she caught the look in his eyes. It was a glittering, burning fury all out of proportion with a broken glass.

Sophie lifted her eyebrows, wordlessly conveying a warning, the way she might to a key witness. He moved slightly, and the light fell on his face, illuminating ebony skin highlighted by twin rows of shiny scars, a pattern of ritual scarring that looked vaguely familiar to her. He was Umojan, she surmised. Employing him was a nice touch by the caterer, and it explained his inexperience.

The waiter started to move away.

“Pardon me,” Sophie said to him.

He turned back, seeming more agitated than ever.

You’re a waiter, she thought, get over yourself. She held out the champagne glass. “Can you please take this? They’re about to begin.”

He all but snatched it from her and stalked away. Touchy fellow, she thought. We just liberated your country. You ought to be happier about that. She dismissed the incident from her mind. Focus, Sophie, she told herself. You’re about to meet a queen.

Four