The brutal dictator of a third-world country is lonely. He commissions all his ministers to scour the pages of MySpace for a woman to abduct. He has a weakness -- "A weakness!", he repeats emphatically -- for intellectual women with chestnut hair. A candidate is brought to him, and he signs off on the plan, practically slobbering over her page. For the next few weeks, he can think of nothing besides listless post-coital murmurings of Kropotkin and Godwin. His agents abduct her in an ethnic grocery and whisk her overseas to his fortressed fiefdom. She is brought, still drugged, to his bed. He snuggles up beside her. She is no more than a flop of hair on the pillow beside him. He turns her over and recognizes her instantly: a notorious Israeli secret agent, a killing machine. She looks so different without the glasses. He panics. She will kill him before the sun rises: this he knows. His charm kicks in. If there were some story he could tell her, some puzzle, or some tale to keep her mind off killing for another night...