He heard stories about parties and thrilling flights to Gibraltar, night cruises on the strait, where the lanterns and flares of smugglers lit up the three-mile limit. The man spoke of a city built from the materiel of the Great War – the bones of the old world wetted with the blood of the new. Sam gulped the man’s words like the cocktail in his glass. If he’d been there, if he only could’ve been there … In that moment, he would have given anything.

Finally, when it was completely dark, the man stopped talking. Sam couldn’t see his face; he could barely see his own hands that rested on the writing case.

There was a knock at the door. When neither of them answered, it creaked open, letting in a sliver of warm, yellow light and the smell of toasted spices.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ the young woman said, breaking the web of words around them. ‘Is he staying?’

The man said nothing, as if he had exhausted himself. Sam hesitated. He did want to stay for dinner. He wanted to desperately. And yet … His head was bursting with what he had heard. He needed to remember it, write it all down.

‘No.’ His voice sounded clumsy in the dark room. ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get back.’ Too late he realized he hadn’t actually been invited. ‘Another time?’

‘Another time,’ the man murmured. ‘Yes. Come back tomorrow, around five. Bring that old suitcase.’ The chair creaked as he leaned back. ‘Zahrah will show you out.’

Awkwardly, Sam put the glass down on a side table. He paused, the writing case in his hand. Should he give it back? The man hadn’t asked for it. He decided not to.

‘Thank you, Mr Langham,’ he murmured.

He received no response.

In a daze, he followed the young woman back into the kitchen. On the table he saw a platter of meat scattered with pomegranate seeds and herbs; rounds of bread wrapped in cloths. He began to regret his decision not to stay.

She showed him out a different way, through the garden, where plants and vines dragged at his shoulders, releasing their scent. He caught a glimpse of water through the trees; a swimming pool, tiled blue and white. The stones around it were cracked but clean, as if still in use. Dar Portuna only pretended to be abandoned, he realized. Like a rich man dressed in pauper’s clothes. But why?

‘Tomorrow come this way,’ the girl told him shortly. ‘Don’t use the front gate. It’s always locked.’

‘It wasn’t today,’ he said. ‘I walked straight in.’

The girl made a noise. ‘I forgot to lock it. I was distracted. Some idiot chased me through the medina.’

‘Sorry.’

They’d reached the far end of the garden. Hidden behind a tree was a short flight of steps, and a second door, whitewashed like the wall.