‘You used to show Al Jazeera here,’ I said. The owner shrugged. ‘You prefer Russian TV?’

‘My son prefers it.’

I took the drink to my table, feeling defeated, wondering at the way history creeps up on you. The journey from the counter gave me an opportunity to scan my immediate environment. There had been one man sitting at the Starbucks across from me for fifteen minutes now. He’d taken a seat facing in my direction, although he hadn’t looked directly at me once. He had an Arabic paper spread in front of him but his eyes didn’t track the text. Not airport security, but I thought I glimpsed a holster.

I finished my beer, watched a group of business people speaking Russian hurry towards the flight to Damascus. After another few minutes my Starbucks friend departed, slinging a laptop bag over his shoulder. I put my phone on encrypted mode and dialled a Saudi number.

‘I’ve had to leave town for a few days. There’s a few bits and pieces I left behind which I won’t need any more. I’d like you to dispose of it all.’

‘Yes.’

‘And then I think you should get out.’

‘You are leaving us.’

‘The situation’s become precarious.’

‘We are ready.’

‘I appreciate that. I have instructions.’

I rested my eyes on a video screen above the concourse: a woman in a field of lavender pressing a perfume bottle to her throat. ‘I will be doing everything I can to ensure you have no problems,’ I said. ‘If you speak to Leyla, will you tell her I’ll be in touch as soon as possible?’

He put the phone down. I closed my eyes. The fabled licence to kill is nothing beside the very real licence to die; to walk out of a life and its responsibilities. No farewell, no last confession. I picked up my phone again and called CIA’s station in Islamabad.

‘Courtesan’s a no-show,’ I said. ‘Everything on ice for now.’

‘What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I’ll message when I do.’

I moved a blood-red Swiss passport from my bag to my jacket pocket, booked a night at the Mandarin Oriental in Kensington. Then I went and bought a suit and a clean phone.

I knew from experience that in five or six hours I’d be facing men and women in ironed clothes who would determine, from how I presented myself, the level of mishap they could pin on me. Luckily, routes to and from war zones make for good shopping: Rolex, Ralph Lauren and Prada do their own sleek profiteering. The woman in the Prada concession was elegant, flirtatious, didn’t blink at a man who stank of petrol smoke digging out his money belt and buying a three-grand suit.

‘You have been staying in Jordan?’ she asked.

‘Just passing through.’

‘English?’

‘Canadian. I might get a watch as well.’

I chose a watch.