A light bulb flickered intermittently in the narrow corridor. An unmanned reception desk was being used to store barrels of cooking oil. Fahad didn’t bother ringing the buzzer for attention. He walked straight through, under a broken ceiling fan limp and askew like a desiccated insect sucked dry and left to hang in a spider’s web. They entered a small restaurant. Several square tables were lined up against a wall but on one side only, as if waiting to be executed by firing squad. They were covered in red and white plastic tablecloths and set out with bright yellow napkins, unclean cutlery, each with a hundred partial fingerprints. The customers were a mix of strung-out tourists, lost souls running from home, adventurers and mercenaries. They were distinguishable by their physical strength, or lack of, and their kit, wearing leather boots laced up above their ankles or flip-flops with colourfully painted toenails. The Soviet high command had been worried about the mujahedin filling their ranks with Western mercenaries, fighters bought with drug money, believing only Westerners knew how to fight, when in fact the mujahedin, in this terrain, were the best fighters in the world. Their fight was personal, a matter of principle not profit, and they had no time for mercenaries. They didn’t trust their motives and thought them intrinsically unreliable. The groups sat at their tables, making plans over plates of oily chips. There was no alcohol and apparently no staff. Some of the customers turned around, regarding the new arrivals, curious, some too doped up to care. As Fahad slipped into the kitchen, a cockroach boldly passed him by, running out as though he were the establishment’s only waiter. Within seconds Fahad returned with a key.

On the top floor there were five rooms, three on one side and two on the other. They took the last room, the corner room, with windows on both streets. There was a bed, no bathroom – the facilities were shared one floor down. The floors creaked. The plaster was stained. The bed sheets had not been washed, only tucked in after the last occupants. Fahad tossed the key onto the bed.

—I will meet the ISI. If they refuse to help us, the mission has failed. I do not have any contact with the CIA myself. And we cannot approach them without ISI’s permission.

—We could go direct to the embassy and make our way to Islamabad.

—Not without Pakistani permission. We’re in their country now. My orders are strict. They will decide what to do. If you try to reach the American Embassy without me, I’ll find you and I’ll kill you.

With that warning, Fahad left.

Leo picked up Zabi, putting her on the bed. She asked:

—Are we going to die?

—No.

—But he said—

Nara interrupted:

—Ignore what he said.

Leo added: