‘Excuse me,’ he asked her. ‘Which is Ellis Norton’s desk? I’m meant to wait for him and—’

‘Who?’ she asked, not looking up from her typing.

‘Norton, Ellis Norton, he’s a junior correspondent.’

The woman tutted over a typo and pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Corner desk.’ She jerked her head towards the windows. ‘Next to metro.’

Sam had no idea what that meant, but he walked confidently in that direction, until he saw a piece of paper pinned to a cubicle divider that read E NORTON.

He was sweating now. So was everyone else in the room, though he wagered they were sweating from the heat rather than nerves. He lowered himself into the chair at Norton’s desk, ducking behind the divider.

The workspace was cluttered, carbon copies strewn around a typewriter, newspapers in French and English piled up next to it. This could have been his own life, Sam realized, with a bizarre rush of clarity. If he had followed a different path, if he had studied harder at college and made the right connections, he might have been sitting at one of these desks working, rather than skulking like a thief. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

Quickly, he began to search. No one seemed to be looking his way. The only man within eyeshot was smoking and reading a copy of Al-Alam. He found a handwritten note and snatched it up only to discover that it was all in shorthand, like a taunt. Think. The passport was Norton’s proof. He wouldn’t just leave it lying about in the open.

Beneath the desk was a squat metal filing cabinet. The top drawer opened with a metallic squeal, and the man opposite gave him half a glance. Sam smiled back. Be calm, he told himself.

The drawer was full of cardboard files, all the same shade of beige. The passport could be in any one of them. He started to lift covers at random, peering at the papers inside. They were full of cuttings, edited notes, picture references. He began to scrabble through them faster. It would make him look suspicious, but he didn’t care; he didn’t know how much longer his nerves would hold out. He opened the fourth file down and felt smooth card beneath his fingers, thicker than carbon copy. He yanked it out.

PASAPORTE.

Thank god.

The photo of Alejandro looked up at him, defiant and sullen. He recognized Ale now, so young, and felt his chest tighten with sympathy, with admiration. What had happened, during those dark, hot days of July 1928? He still didn’t know.

Englishman Drowns in Strait.

Skin prickling, Sam shoved the passport into his back pocket. He was reaching down to close the drawer when something else caught his eye, a photograph of a familiar location. He pulled it out.