Bennett’s time off the sidelines lasted all of six hours—and for five of them nothing happened.

She’d spent the night curled up in the small wicker chair she kept next to the door of her studio, her eyes fixed on the unconscious body of the man who she was increasingly convinced was not a Soviet super-soldier, and her body wired from the mystery and several cups of instant Folgers coffee. It was a long way from the best she’d ever drunk, but it did the job, and no one seemed to notice or care when she liberated the occasional jar from the Haina stores.

The stranger’s sleep had been so deep and still there were a few moments when Bennett thought he might actually be dead. But he’d woken up as the sun rose and the small room started to swelter again after its brief midnight reprieve from the island heat.

‘Do you know where you are?’ Bennett asked as he turned over, pulled himself onto his elbows, and rubbed his eyes at her.

‘No.’ His accent still sounded British, but now Bennett could hear an inflection in it she couldn’t place—like he’d lived in a foreign country for years and it had rubbed off on him.

‘Do you know who you are?’

Another ‘No’.

‘Do you know me?’

His brow furrowed for a moment as he concentrated on her. Then he said, ‘Abey Bennett.’

Bennett wasn’t sure if she should be relieved or worried that the only thing he seemed sure of was who she was. But at least he was calmer now, and agreed to let her take him to Haina for a medical examination and some food.

And that was when she found herself benched again.

As soon as they got out of the car that had taken them to the port the stranger was put in handcuffs by two of the young soldiers who acted as the CIA’s security guards and dragged away. He didn’t struggle.

Bennett went straight to Gibson.

‘He was my walk in,’ she said, as soon as she was inside his office, just over twelve hours since she’d stormed out of it.

‘So?’ Gibson replied.

‘That makes him my asset.’

‘The hell it does.’ It was still early but the underarms of Gibson’s shirt were already stained dark, and his forehead was slick with sweat. ‘You’re lucky I’m not slapping you with a reprimand for not bringing him in immediately.’

That would have been proper procedure, but Bennett knew that if she’d followed it Gibson would only have complained about being disturbed in the middle of the night.

‘Worker bees don’t get the honey,’ Gibson said.

Bennett ignored the clunky metaphor.

‘There’s a connection between us,’ she said. ‘We should leverage it.’