In the past eighteen months, the National Democratic Party had taken power, with the charismatic Adama Demel assuming the presidency, and huge steps had already been made to restore Fourni to its proper place as a world center of trade, arts, and freedom. But the country had a long hard road ahead of it, and tensions were high with bordering nations; so it was definitely not the time for a symbol of some superpower to go sticking his nose in. That was why Iron Man had refused Saoirse’s request in the first place, but now he felt a little different about things, which was why he dropped in on Adama Demel before making a move on what had been the Port Verdé Girls Home.

  The president of Fourni, who occupied two small rooms in the massive presidential palace and had turned the rest over to the poor, awoke that night to find the American Iron Man standing at the foot of his bed.

  Iron Man spoke in unaccented but flawed Fournese, saying, “Do not be made of alarms. I have not come here to place you in a harem.”

  Demel reached to his nightstand for his glasses to make sure he was seeing what he thought he was seeing. Having confirmed that, he said in English, “I think English, don’t you, Mr. Stark? Your translator needs a little tweaking.”

  Tony opened his faceplate. “I appreciate it, Mr. President. We would save ourselves a lot of confusion.”

  Demel turned on his bedside light and sat up calmly in bed. If it had occurred to him that this armored figure could blow up the entire palace if he felt like it, it didn’t show on his face.

  “And what can I do for the famous Iron Man?” he asked.

  Tony ordered the suit to sit in midair, because if he sat on the room’s wicker chair, it would collapse into splinters.

  “I need a visa,” he said. “And I thought if I explained the situation to you directly, it could save months of misunderstandings and media hysteria.”

  Adama Demel smiled. “Actually, you are already in the country, Mr. Stark. But if I ignore that technicality, then a visa for how long?”

  “Maybe ten minutes. Half an hour, tops.”

  “And for what purpose?”

  Tony went through the whole thing: how Liz Tory had come with the Red Cross and helped build the Port Verdé Girls Home and how she was now a prisoner there.

  “And what I thought is, I would drop in and airlift the girl to safety. And in return, Stark Industries would commit—”

  Demel’s eyes hardened and he raised a hand. “No, Mr. Stark. My country will accept nothing in exchange for the safety of a girl. Here in Fourni we were building temples and writing philosophy while the Greeks were scrabbling around in the mud. Our most famous philosopher, Mother Abba, once said, ‘Every daughter is mother of the earth.’”

  “Cool,” said Tony, which seemed lame even to him, but Demel approved.

  “Yes, cool. It is cool. Exactly so. Now go, Mr. Stark. Retrieve this daughter of Ireland. I will be generous. You have one hour if you can promise me that not a soul will be injured.”

  “You have my word,” said Tony.

  “Excellent, then this never happened unless it needs to have happened, if you see what I mean.”

  “I think I do,” said Tony, closing his faceplate.

  “Then fly, Mr. Stark. I have a meeting with the UK ambassador at first light and I need my eight hours.”

  Tony was gone before Demel’s head hit the pillow.

  “Cool?” said Saoirse Tory in his ear. “I can’t believe President Demel quoted Mother Abba and you said cool.”

  Tony flew low and fast through the winding ramshackle streets of Port Verdé, the Atlantic Ocean twinkling in the starlight off his port side.

  “Mother Abba? Didn’t she do ‘Dancing Queen’?”

  “Stop opening your mouth, boss,” said Saoirse. “It’s letting you down.”

  On Tony’s heads-up display, the girls home pulsed softly less than three miles southeast on the fringe of the city.

  “I am doing this for you, Saoirse,” he reminded the girl who was again operating as his onboard AI, for this mission only. “You could be nice to me.”

  “You’re buying off your conscience. And you attempted to buy off President Demel. That was such a cringe fest. I told you it wouldn’t work.”

  “It’s worked on a lotta presidents before now,” said Tony, though he would have to admit if pressed that Demel’s expression had made him feel like a bit of a sleaze.

  “Coming up on the home now,” said Saoirse, suddenly all business. “Adjusting height to fifty yards and powering back to minimum thrusters. Do you want to penguin in?”

  “Not tonight,” said Tony. “I’m going to swoop. Much more dramatic. Give me full manual.”

  “Full manual. Roger that, if you’re certain.”

  “I am certain,” confirmed Tony. “And can you run a full range of scans? Just to make sure there aren’t some terrorists hiding under tarps, or anything like that.”

  Saoirse groaned. “Wow, that’s only the tenth time you’ve brought that up this trip. When are you going to let it go?”

  “Never,” said Tony. “Never, ever, ever. That’s blackmail gold right there.”

  “Full thermal,” said Saoirse through gritted teeth. “We have three dozen warm humanoids. Several blades, and I have recognition on one AK-47 assault rifle. No bullets or firing pin.”

  “That’s how I like my assault rifles,” said Tony. “Going in. Stand by to be deliriously happy and in my emotional debt for the rest of your life.”

  “Thanks, boss,” said Saoirse, and she meant it.

  Things did not go exactly as planned. The initial “shock and awe” part worked out well, but then things took an unexpected turn.

  Tony swooped in, lights blazing and thrusters roaring, and landed in the small yard behind the building, sending guinea fowls gobbling for cover and raising spirals of dust in the air. The effect of his arrival was instant: boys streamed from the doors and windows of the modest building, armed with clubs and knives. With the customary fearlessness of youth they attacked Iron Man, raining down bonging blows on his armor.

  “Come on, boys,” said Tony through his speakers. “You might as well be ants attacking a rhino. Seriously, you’re embarrassing yourselves.”

  That was what he thought he had said, but because he was using his bug-ridden translator, what he actually said was, “Wonderful, rhinoceros. It is seriously the ants who are coming.”

  Which made the boys fall back and wonder if perhaps this was Iron Man’s stupid cousin who was attacking them.

  “I don’t think you said what you think you said,” said Saoirse. “This translator is so bad. You should try my app.”

  “You mean bad like dope?” said Tony hopefully.

  “I definitely mean dope. We agree on that.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Words don’t mean anything to these youngsters. Tasteless though it is, I have to throw a scare into the leader. Now which one do you think that is?”

  From her new bedroom in the Dublin house where the Conroy’s were fostering her, Saoirse cycled through Iron Man’s cameras. “I would think it’s the guy pointing the AK-47 at you.”

  Tony spotted him. “No bullets, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay. Let’s give this guy a glimpse of hell.”

  “You are such a drama queen, boss.”

  Tony set the eye-socket lights to glow red and added a few filters to his voice box until he sounded like a cross between a lion and an orc. Then he advanced on the armed boy, speaking rapidly.

  Though the boys could never distinguish individual words with all the feedback and reverb, what Tony was actually doing was singing Abba’s “Dancing Queen,” because it was in his head. Only Saoirse could hear the unfiltered version.

  “Seriously?” she said. “I am trying to work here.”

  “Friday night and the lights are low,” growled Tony. “Looking out for a place to go.”

  As he said this, Iron Man advanced rapidly on the gang leader, who seemed to grow smaller as Tony approached.

  “I shoot,” cried the boy, waving an assault rifle that he was barely able to lift. “I shoot.”

  Iron Man roared in anger (“You are the dancing queen, young and sweet, only seventeen”) and crushed the AK’s barrel with the fingers of his gauntlet. Then, for good measure, he put a blast from his palm repulsor into the earth at the boy’s shoeless feet. The boy was not harmed, unless you count scorched leg hairs, but the defiance drained from his face.

  “There’s Liz,” said Saoirse in Tony’s ear. “Grab her and go.”

  “Just a second,” said Tony. “I’m just gonna fly this guy up a thousand feet and pretend to drop him.”

  “What do you think you are doing?” came a strident voice that was very similar to Saoirse’s but even bossier, if such a level of bossiness was even possible.

  Tony looked over the terrified boy’s shoulder and saw a taller version of Saoirse, red hair pulled back in a severe bun, dressed much the same as the others in earth-toned T-shirt and pants.

  “Liz?” he asked, switching off his translator. “Liz Tory. Finally. Grab hold of the grips on my back. We are outta here. No need for thanks yet.”

  If Tony was expecting sobbing gratitude, then he was to be disappointed. If anything, Liz Tory seemed more furious than her kidnappers had been.

  “I asked you, what in heaven’s name do you think you are doing? That poor boy is scared witless.”

  Tony patted the boy’s head. “I think you mean that poor kidnapper is scared witless.”

  “Kidnapper?” said Liz, incredulous. “Ahmed a kidnapper? Who told you that?”

  Saoirse whispered in Tony’s ear. “She’s really angry. You might have made a mistake.”

  “Me?” said Tony. “I might have made a mistake?”

  “Is Saoirse in there?” said Liz. “This has her blundering style written all over it. Sending in her mechanical goon.”

  “Hey,” said Tony. “Iron Man has feelings, too. I’m no one’s goon.”

  “Just grab her,” said Saoirse. “We can explain later.”

  Tony took one step forward and Liz raised her fist. “Don’t touch me, Iron Man. You leave us alone. We’re doing just fine without you.”

  Doing just fine? thought Tony. That doesn’t sound like the terrified babbling of a kidnap victim. And I should know; I’ve done my share of terrified babbling.

  Now that he looked around him, the small compound did not seem like the hideout of a desperate gang. The garden was well tended, and the interior walls had been freshly painted. There was even a mural of happy children holding hands.

  “Okay, Saoirse,” he said, “I’m thinking you two need to have a face to face.” Before Saoirse could object, he projected her webcam image onto the perimeter wall.

  Saoirse, the heretofore toughest kid in the universe, immediately welled up.

  “Liz! You’re okay. You’re alive. It’s so good to see you.”

  Liz also dropped the Tory attitude. “You too, Sis. How’s Granddad?”

  That was the waterworks question, and Saoirse broke down sobbing. “He’s gone, Liz. Over a year now. In his sleep. He made me promise to get you out.”

  Tony sat on the ground and was joined by three dozen children, who watched the video call as though it were a movie.

  “Oh no,” said Liz. “Poor Granddad. And poor you, you’re all alone.” Then she frowned. “Get me out? What do you mean, get me out? My work is here.”

  “It’s okay, Liz,” said Saoirse, wiping her cheeks. “I’m not alone. I have Diavolo and Shiv. And the goon is mine, too. You don’t need to be afraid of these boys now.”

  Liz snorted. “Afraid of these boys? They should be scared of me, if their chores aren’t done.”

  “But they kidnapped you, right? Threw out the girls?”

  “No. They protect the girls. We all protect each other.”

  “But the orphanage director said the home was overrun by a street gang and they kept you on as a hostage.”

  “Ha!” crowed Liz. “The director? Serge? That lying fraud was skimming all the money you sent. The entire staff was on the take. And worse, they were forcing the girls to work for a local sweatshop. So we staged a coup and brought in the orphans’ siblings. Now we look after each other and I am their nurse.”

  “But the aid office?”

  “Serge is still lying to them and taking their money. Port Verdé doesn’t have Internet—it barely has electricity most days—so I couldn’t get word out. I sent letters, but Serge must have intercepted them. That guy pays off everybody.”

  Saoirse persisted with her one-track message. “You have to come home, Liz.”

  “This is home now,” said Liz Tory. “These kids need me.”

  “You’re barely more than a kid yourself.”

  “I’m twenty, which is middle-aged here. I need one more year; let’s agree to that. President Demel is making great strides. Ahmed and I can hold this place together for one more year with your help.”

  “I’ve been sending the funds from the app,” said Saoirse. “Every month. The director said the kidnappers would kill you if I didn’t.”

  Liz shrieked with anger. “Saoirse! You are so gullible.”

  “I’ve told her that,” said Tony. “She falls for every sob story.”

  “The director keeps all the money,” explained Liz. “The orphanage doesn’t see a penny. We need medical supplies and cash in small packages.”

  “Mr. Stark could do that,” said Saoirse’s big head on the wall. “He owes me big time. I’m gonna revolutionize his company.”

  “Sure,” said Tony. “I owe Saoirse so much because of all the favors she’s done for me. I am so deep in the debt hole it’s not even funny.”

  “I need small packages,” Liz repeated, ignoring the rampant sarcasm. “If clunky bum here is spotted flying in, the game will be up. Serge will send his men to investigate. For now, Serge needs to think no one is onto him and his money is safe.”

  “Clunky bum?” said Tony. “No fair. This suit is sleek and streamlined.”

  And it occurred to him not for the first time that Irish people were very good at finding a person’s weak spots.

  “There must be another way of flying aid in?” said Saoirse, and both sisters fixed Tony with their green-eyed gazes.

  “Wow,” said Tony. “Pressure. Irish eyes ain’t smiling so much as shooting death rays.”

  “Come on, clunky,” said Liz, rapping his helmet, much to the amusement of the orphans. “Anyone in there? You must have some toys laying about.”

  “Toys…” said Tony, and at the mere sound of the word, he was transported back through the decades to his father’s office. That afternoon all those years before, when Annabel the secretary had been so teed-off with him for taking her daughter, Cissy—no, Cecilia—to see the dolphin.

  Inside the helmet Tony closed his eyes and remembered their visit to the beach. He could feel the warm wind off the Pacific; he could hear the squeals floating down from the Ferris wheel.

  My hair. My god, it was magnificent.

  Then Howard Stark entered the flashback and Tony felt his stomach lurch and sink.

  Why wouldn’t you ever listen, Dad?

  Tony Stark was smart enough to know that the reason he’d pursued Stark Industries’ weapons program so vigorously was because of his parents’ untimely deaths and because of the promise his dad had extracted from him.

  “I promise, Dad,” he’d said. “No toys, just weapons.”

  And right then, Tony had stopped being a boy.

  Now Tony was more certain than ever that he must do more than rid the world of the weapons created by Stark Industries; he must continue to be an active force for peace.

  It is not enough

  To fill the hole.

  But climb the hill

  To win your soul.

  And with his resolve stronger than ever, Tony Stark felt a little lighter, as if the power of determination had lifted a weight from his shoulders.

  He opened his eyes and saw that the Tory sisters were still skewering him with their emerald eyeballs. The orphans were regarding him with some interest, as though he were a space robot—all except Ahmed, who was trying to straighten the barrel of his AK.

  “Well, boss?” said the big-headed projection of Saoirse. “Do you have anything that can get medicines in here without alerting Serge?”

  Tony blinked a command and raised the Iron Man faceplate. He was almost immediately bitten by a mosquito, but he ignored it because the suit would jab him with antihistamine to prevent swelling.

  He took a deep breath of sweet night air and said, “Yeah, I got something. A swarm of somethings, actually. Tiny little suckers. They’ll fly in here right under this Serge guy’s nose and he won’t know a thing about it.”

  On the wall, Saoirse’s image nodded in appreciation. “I think I know where you’re going, boss.”

  “And I know where you’re going. Trinity College, to get an actual doctorate.”

  Saoirse groaned. “Come on. We talked about this. Those guys are so last century. They wouldn’t know a pentaquark if it bit them on the nose.”

  “Nevertheless, I only employ qualified people. So if you want to work for me, then you’d better hit the books.”

  Saoirse’s face shifted through several expressions, which made it look like she was trying to blow up an invisible balloon. She eventually settled on grudging acceptance, which is very close in appearance to long-term constipation.

  “Okay, boss,” she said. “I’ll do a doctorate. Two, at most. Shouldn’t take more than a year.”

  “By which time Liz will be home,” said Tony. “So double celebration.”

  Liz used the mention of her name to introduce herself into the conversation.