A spicy aroma drifted into the room. Sophie’s stomach growled, reminding her of the late hour. “Did you order food?” she asked. Will pointed to the doorway.
Sophie turned, her face breaking into a grin as a lithe figure in a bright red winter coat sailed in the doorway. “Why, Dr. Shah! I didn’t know you delivered.”
“I’m an obstetrician, so of course I deliver. It’s the only way I can get a meal with my husband and best friend these days.” Anjali Shah set down two paper bags of fragrant Chinese takeout on a desk. “Hi, husband.” She gave Will a quick hug and a smile. “Hi, best friend,” she said, blowing Sophie a kiss. “I’m starving. Let’s eat.”
“Any updates from the coalition?” Anjali asked. As RCI’s medical director, Anjali – together with Will and Sophie – formed the executive committee of their aid agency.
“It’s going well.” Sophie piled noodles onto her plate. “We’ve got agreement on our overall strategy, and now we’re documenting the entry plan. Next step is negotiating who’s on the strike team. And, of course, convincing the Soviet government to let us into Parnaas.”
Once it became clear that the Soviets’ intent was to hold as many Orlisians as possible within the borders of Parnaas, every humanitarian agency in the world demanded entry. The Soviet Republic refused, fueling speculation that Parnaas was a modern-day concentration camp. But while it wasn’t a death camp, it became equally apparent as the weeks rolled by that Parnaas was not a traditional refugee camp. The Soviets wanted the refugees alive, isolated from the outside world, and fully under their control.
The huge number of displaced people inside the camp had finally worn the invading nation down. An overture came from the Soviet Republic via diplomatic channels, suggesting that an non-governmental organization (NGO) presence might be tolerated temporarily to keep the refugees alive through the approaching winter. Sophie leaped.
Her proposal was simple: Given the scope of the Orlisian crisis, all NGOs should work together as a coalition. She’d brought together all the major agencies in America via web conference to sell them on her idea.
Within forty-eight hours, every agency in the meeting agreed to the coalition approach, and several smaller ones caught wind and wanted in. They called themselves the Refugee Crisis Coalition. Sixteen development agencies – many with profoundly different mandates – held together by ideals, duct tape, and sheer determination.
It was a groundbreaking, history-making agreement, if it could hold. Sophie got a story with her picture on page three of the New York Times. Six months ago, she would have been ecstatic. Now, she couldn’t care less. All she wanted was to get into Orlisia. In and out again, with Michael Nariovsky-Trent safely beside her.
She should never have let him go in the first place.
Several times since he’d left in late July, Sophie had nearly set out on her own. She’d spent many nights in the Situation Room, drinking coffee, paging through topographical maps, satellite images, and reports, trying to figure out how to get over the border and find him. It was profoundly uncharacteristic of her to contemplate such a plan. She was a strong woman, fearless in many regards. But never reckless.
The futility of it had stopped her. Locating him was a million-to-one shot; convincing him to leave Orlisia seemed even less likely. Not even Sophie’s unannounced arrival in a warzone would be enough for him to abandon his beloved homeland. She knew him too well.
But then he’d vanished – sometime on or around September 10 – and everything had changed. As the days had passed with no contact, she’d become willing to do anything, take any risk, to get into Orlisia with the right resources at her fingertips.
She was just twenty-eight years old and had already achieved so much. In the last ten years, Sophie Swenda had revolutionized the way refugee camps were managed. Jointly created an infant NGO with Will. Created order out of chaos under desperate circumstances time and again. She’d even delivered a baby in a camp in the Democratic Republic of Congo.
Now she needed to save one life. Only one. Surely it wasn’t too much to ask.
“Sophie?” She looked up from her wool-gathering. Anjali and Will had packed up the leftovers. “Let us give you a ride home.”
“You can’t drive me to Brooklyn at this hour. Just take me to the train.” Like most New Yorkers, Sophie couldn’t afford to live in Manhattan, so she rented the upper floor of a ratty duplex in Brooklyn.
“You’re staying with us tonight,” Anjali said.
When Sophie started to protest, Will interrupted. “You can’t help him if you keel over from exhaustion before you get to Orlisia.”
She surrendered silently, following them out of the office and into their car.
“Did you have any luck at Interpol today?” asked Will.