He was holding something out towards me. For a moment, I almost told him he was mistaken, until I realized what it was. It was Langham’s writing case, personalized, stamped with those two, golden letters.

Slowly, I took it. When did he leave it here? I wanted to cry. What did he ask? Why was he here at all? But I couldn’t, the waiter would think I was mad, asking those questions about myself.

‘Thank you,’ I muttered.

‘De rien, monsieur.’ He lingered, hoping for a tip. When I didn’t move, he gave up and disappeared back into the building.

What was going on? Maybe Langham had been early, I thought rapidly; maybe he’d left our bags here, so as not to be suspicious. I flipped the latch of the writing case, thinking he might have left some note for me inside.

But before I could open it, I heard scuffling, the sound of feet trying to walk quietly on the gritty stones. Two o’clock exactly. My heart leapt as I latched the case and stuck it beneath my arm, moving quickly to the corner.

‘I’m here,’ I called softly. ‘Is it—?’

Light flared, blinding me. I threw up my arms, the case thudding to the dirt. Suddenly, I was surrounded, voices were shouting, hands were swarming out of nowhere to grip my arms and shoulders, shoving me face first to the ground. I screamed in panic but my mouth was full of dust, and I choked. Someone was pulling at my jacket. That sent me crazed, and I lashed out, clawing, kicking, thrashing at anyone within reach. It didn’t stop them. One man – I could smell it was a man – kicked me, before leaning all his weight on to my back, ripping Langham’s watch from my waistcoat, scrabbling through my pockets.

Thieves, I thought wildly. I tried to yell for them to take what they wanted and leave me alone, but my voice wouldn’t work, all I could do was wheeze with pain and fear.

But a pair of shoes were stepping into the light, and they didn’t look like they belonged to a thief. They were good shoes of black leather, below black suit trousers. I struggled, craning my neck until I could look up. A man was holding my passport in his hand, shining a torch down on to it. They had pulled it from my pocket, which I didn’t understand, because I had put my passport in the suitcase, hadn’t I?

Then, through streaming eyes, I saw: it wasn’t my passport at all.

Every knot of bravery I had tied around my heart unravelled when I realized what was happening.

‘It’s him,’ the man with the torch called in English, before looking down at me. ‘Arthur Langham, I am arresting you in the name of Her Majesty’s Service for the crime of treason against your country …’

Tangier

July 1978