He opened the door, checking the corridor. It was empty. He knocked on the door of the room opposite. There was no reply. Examining the lock, he found it so flimsy that a shove with his shoulder snapped the timber frame. A search of the room revealed no bags and no belongings. He checked the window. Unlike the previous room there was a way down to the street – the ledge to the sign to the ground – difficult but not impossible. He hurried back, waking Nara.

—I want you to stay in the other room. Don’t turn the light on. Don’t make a sound. If anything happens to me, escape. Don’t make your way to Islamabad. Don’t try to go to the American Embassy. Don’t trust anybody. Just run.

Nara didn’t argue, picking Zabi up, who was still half-asleep, and carrying her across the hallway. She lingered by the door, slipping back out, kissing Leo on the cheek before retreating to the room and shutting the door.

Leo returned to his room, sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked around for something that might be used as a weapon. Unable to find anything, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. His appearance was wild and ragged, not the impression he wanted to present if he was trying to sell himself as an important source of information. He hastily straightened his hair and was about to head downstairs to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door.

Leo stood to the side, calling out:

—Who is it?

—Fahad.

He opened the door. Fahad entered, with two men dressed in suits. The Pakistani intelligence officer was the older of the two, in his late sixties, with thin hair and lively eyes. The CIA agent was the same age as Leo. His face was gaunt. The whites of his eyes were tinged with yellow. He was a tall man with a slight, skeletal frame. Whereas Fahad’s sinewy body suggested strength and dexterity, there was no such implication from the CIA agent, whose physique indicated a life of reading, drink and intrigue. From one addict to another, there was an immediate connection, a silent communication. Unlike Leo, the agents were exceptionally well tailored and tidy, with jackets and crisp shirts, though neither wore a tie. In the case of the CIA agent, there was a sense that his meticulous tailoring served to conceal the subtler indications of his addiction. With the Pakistani agent the tailoring seemed to be an orthodox indication of his power and status. The CIA agent shook Leo’s hand.

—My name is Marcus Greene.

He spoke perfect Russian, before continuing in fluent Dari:

—We should speak a language that we all understand.

The Pakistani agent shook Leo’s hand, also speaking in Dari.

—Abdur Salaam. That is not my real name, but it will do for the purposes of this meeting.

Greene smiled.