Then he left them in the care of Laura and Janet, and started the slow, painful ascent of the narrow stairs.

At 7.42pm, sweating bullets, gasping in pain, he was there in the darkened alley, and the non-descript car pulled into the other end, as he’d been told it would.

His driver went by “Oscar”. That wasn’t his name, he was quick to tell Rangan. That was just what Rangan should call him. Oscar was tall, lean, freckled and red-haired, younger than Rangan, and twitchy. He was wearing a black hoodie, not unlike the one Rangan had been loaned. He spoke with a Jersey accent.

“Lie down in the back. Pull the blanket over you, the greyish one. Don’t lift your head up, ever. If you can see out the windshield, the cameras can see you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

Oscar drove, or the car did. Rangan wasn’t sure. Miles passed. The motion went from start and stop to the fast, steady flow of a freeway.

“Shouldn’t I be in the trunk or something?” Rangan asked.

“T-rays,” Oscar replied. “Terahertz scanners. See right through the trunk. Nothin’ more suspicious than a man in the trunk.”

Rangan noodled on that.

“So how do you know…” he started.

“I don’t know anybody!” Oscar snapped. “And neither do you! Knowing people gets em killed, OK? You wanna do those people that helped you a favor? You forget about em. You ever get in touch with them again? You ever mention their names? You’re killin’ em. Literally. So I don’t know em. You don’t know em. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”

Rangan shut up for miles after that, just staring at the ceiling of the car, trying to be grateful for the help Oscar was giving him, trying to take the things he was saying to heart.

“So where are we going?” He finally asked.

Oscar said nothing.

“It’s not like I’m gonna tell anybody,” he went on. “Hell, I don’t know anybody, right?” He forced a chuckle.

“Baltimore,” came the eventual reply.

“Baltimore?” Rangan was surprised. That was north of here. Cuba was the other way. “Shouldn’t we be headed south?”

Oscar took his time in replying. “We go where there’s a boat we trust, that’ll take you. You’re a hot commodity. The Cubans want you. But it’s a hell of a risk for anyone transporting you.”

“So why Cuba?” Rangan spoke up to the ceiling of the car.