Page 94 of The Presidents Shadow

WE ROAM THE streets of Dubai searching for Maddy. I have no words of inspiration for Margo, for my team, for myself. Anything I might say would be empty, useless. We wander the city, learning it as we go.

The place itself is a mass of contrasts. Emirati men in dark kanduras. Emirati women in colorful abayas. Others, presumably tourists or those on business, are in Ralph Lauren and Armani. While the streets are bustling, they are not nearly as full as I had expected for such a large city.

Around every corner, we look, we search, we call her name. Maddy? Maddy? People sidestep us, annoyed as they try to move about their daily lives with us in their way.

Both Margo and I try to use our powers to look through walls, to transform ourselves into flying creatures, to jump from street to building to park to restaurant. Anyplace. Anywhere.

The rest of the team check in with their contacts in the area, meet with people who might know something, and, of course, walk the streets themselves.

With a touch of hope, we visit the vast Dubai Mall, full of luxury retail stores, movie theaters, and high-end restaurants. The day grows darker, but the weather remains stiflingly hot.

“A little bit of food would help,” says Margo. “It’s been quite a while since we’ve eaten.”

“Energy,” Hawkeye says. “We need food for energy.”

Like all of us, he does not want to put his needs above the focus on our mission. But he and Margo are correct. We need sustenance if we are to succeed.

When we do agree to fuel up, we find, ironically, ridiculously, that we are standing outside a restaurant called Somewhere.

Yes, of course Maddy is somewhere. The thought is both comforting and infuriating.

We order, and dishes with unexpected combinations of ingredients arrive.

Chinese-style dumplings with Mexican flavors.

Barbecued Greek-style grilled chicken breasts with a Canadian maple-flavored sauce.

Lovely though the food might be, and hungry as we all are, we are mostly interested in hydrating ourselves with seltzer water and chai tea.

Our waiter, a sweet-looking young woman who wears a burgundy hijab covering her hair, her neck, and much of her chin, delivers a second pot of tea along with a third bottle of sparkling water.

The young woman finishes her delivery and walks away. Tapper tells us that she has dropped a small piece of paper on his lap. The paper is folded into a neat triangle.

“The check?” asks Margo.

Tapper hands me the paper and I unfold it. A short handwritten message, in pencil.

S OUK A L B AHAR. ASAP. S TORE OF CARPETS.

I pass the note around to the others.

I consult my handheld device. In fact, we all do. The location of Souk Al Bahar is a short distance across the nearby river. Our devices will guide us there.

“Do you think…?” Margo asks. Then she adds, “I’m afraid to even say her name.”

On this day of awful luck, I understand Margo’s superstition and fear.

I tell the others that they should stay at the restaurant while Margo and I follow the directive to visit the carpet vendor.

I try to find words of hope and help.

“Restore your strength. Conquer your thirst. Monitor us on your devices. Join us if you sense trouble.”

Then Margo and I are on our way.