The scant light caught the side of his neck, his cheekbone, the very edge of his mouth. I sensed that we were playing some game and that I had to tread carefully, because I didn’t know the rules.

‘I came here to find you,’ I said, gambling that the truth would be more potent than a lie.

‘Why?’ The smoke from his cigarette was filling the space between us. ‘Why me?’

‘Because …’ The truth ran out. It was something that didn’t exist in words, yet, only in the stab of my heartbeat, the singing of my blood, the yearning in my constricted chest. Because you have everything I want.

He didn’t ask me to continue. Instead, our breathing filled the silence until he moved abruptly, reaching along the desk.

‘Where did you get this?’ he asked.

It was my passport. Bouzid must have gone through the pockets of my jacket. I tried to see Langham’s face, but it was lost in shadow and his voice gave away nothing.

‘From the consulate.’ I tried to keep my voice steady.

‘The consulate here in Tangiers?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you’ve been here before?’

‘No. I lost my papers. A friend helped me to replace them.’

‘A friend,’ Langham said softly. He opened the passport, to where my face stared up sullenly. ‘Del Potro,’ he read, and half laughed, ‘what a name.’

‘It’s the only name I have,’ I told him.

He looked at me, and I could tell he knew everything; that the name was false, that I was here because I was desperate, because I was running from something. Almost everything, I thought, as the bindings squeezed my chest.

After what felt like an age, he nodded. ‘Very well, del Potro. I will consider your request, if you can assure me of two things. First, that you will not bring trouble to my house.’

I shook my head rapidly.

‘I will not, monsieur.’

‘Second –’ Langham paused ‘– that you will give me one thing, without question or condition.’

I swallowed, feeling a pulse beat in my throat. ‘Which is?’

He closed the passport and held it towards me.

‘Your loyalty.’

Tangier

July 1978

‘A drink?’

Sam looked up, trying to bring his thoughts back into some kind of order. He’d been staring, trying to take everything in: the expensive rug on the floor, the varnished desk, the bookshelves lined with ledgers, the small, curved bar built into one corner of the room, and the person who stood behind it …

‘Yes.’ The word stuck in his throat, and he coughed. ‘Yes, thanks.’

He watched as the man confidently took up spirit bottles and a measure, scooped ice from a bucket and shook droplets of who knew what into a measuring glass. Only when the clinking of the stirrer stopped could Sam bring himself to speak.

‘Who are you?’