It was the longest letter he had written to date, describing how he’d discovered that the tag belonged to the Hotel Continental, and how he’d searched the storeroom there, and everything that came after.

There was a passport in the suitcase, belonging to a man named Alejandro del Potro. Was he someone you knew? Please believe me when I say I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. I just want to know a little more about you, who you are, your life here. It must sound strange, but you’ve caught my imagination in a way nothing else has.

He paused. Was it too much? Maybe, but he wanted to be honest. The only thing he hadn’t mentioned was the strange, pencil-written letter.

Please write back. I have so many questions.

Sam

He sealed the letter, scrawled A on the front and went to the counter to find Khalid.

‘I’ll be back this afternoon,’ he said loudly.

Khalid nodded, and tucked the letter into his apron. He obviously didn’t relish his role as go-between, no matter what A was paying him. Sam walked out of the café and turned, making sure Khalid saw him pass the windows. As soon as he was out of sight, he stopped and turned. If Khalid wouldn’t tell him who A was, he’d have to find out another way.

The French Embassy stood across from the café, with its stern, clipped hedge and stone pillars, entirely at odds with the grime and hustle of the street. Trying to be casual, he stepped through the gates and looked for an unobtrusive place to wait. He found that by standing in the shadow of one of the hedges, he could see the terrace of the Gran Café de Paris without being seen himself.

All right, he thought, taking the rolling papers from his pocket. Let’s see who you are.

One cigarette became two as the morning grew warmer. Before too long the sun drove the shade away, beating down on the back of his neck. He tried to keep his eyes fixed on the café as it filled up with men in suits and sports jackets and djellabas. A couple of girls went in, American or British students possibly, and he almost gave up on the stake-out. Another twenty minutes, he told himself, another ten.

His scalp was prickling in the heat, feet swollen in the sloppy espadrilles. It must have been nearing eleven. When a man walked past the embassy pushing a cart full of melon, hacked into slices, he couldn’t stand it any more, and ducked out of the gate to buy some.