The interrogation room was bare and palpably cool—at least fifteen degrees cooler than the corridor. There was something else in evidence, too: the faint but unmistakable scent of Salah’s parfum pénitentiaire. She was tiny—fragile as a soft-boned baby chick and obviously as vulnerable. Not more than five two or five three. She stood, fists clenched, behind a metal table. She had the sort of delicately featured yet hugely plain face that made her look ten years older than her actual age. Her appearance certainly wasn’t helped by the shapeless gray prison shift and dirty tennis shoes with no laces. She looked at Tom with wide-eyed apprehension. Under his relentless gaze, her right hand jerked upward in order to smooth down her uncombed, short, mouse-brown hair. She was largely unsuccessful. An absurd, recalcitrant cowlick completed her hapless and wretched appearance. Her body language read exhausted written in capital letters, but her brown eyes were clear, even—Tom found this surprising—piercing.
