This humiliation remained invisible to his students. Kane was reduced to traveling the world through its languages, just as he had done twenty years ago—a hunger for losing himself in other cultures that had led him into intelligence work in the first place. His doctorate had begun well. The college had been surprised by his existing range of knowledge and had pressured him into teaching a couple of courses. His former bosses at MI6 even had the audacity to suggest Kane keep an eye out for potential recruits. And if he had taken down the maps of the Middle East from the walls it was simply to help him remain focused on the present. An acknowledgment that beneath the bandage of his new life, old wounds refused to heal.

The students weren’t sure what to make of him. In self-conscious moments he wondered if they detected a fracture. When Kane had been working undercover, he knew what to wear. Now he didn’t. He knew that they believed something had gone wrong in his life, but also that there must be something they could glean from his lectures for their own self-advancement. These were bright kids. They wanted a ticket into their future, the perpetuation of achievement that had borne them this far, oblivious that others would use this for their own ends. So as a secret favor, Kane gave them something beautiful and useless: a history of poetry. And they wrote it down as if it would help them.

“While Europe saved its love for God, the Middle East was articulating the spiritual complexities of human romance. That’s why we’re looking at Persia today, and in particular at the knot of ideas within this word wajd. Sufi writers believed that it had its roots in wa-ja-da, which means devotion but also discovery and even being itself.” Kane picked up the board marker again, then added Grief at the bottom. “Alternatively, wajd can mean ‘grief’ or ‘pain,’ because the experience can only arise through separation.”

Students typed sedately, filling their MacBooks with thirteenth-century mysticism. Kane kept his focus on the regulars. He had allowed himself to believe that if he conformed enough to this new cover, the intelligence service would forget he was here. But they never forgot.

The man at the back was a few years older than most of the audience, but it was his clothing and physicality that made him conspicuous. He leaned back in his seat, leg crossed, tie neatly knotted. He nodded appreciatively when his eyes met Kane’s, writing occasionally in a black notebook. As Kane began to wrap up, he returned the notebook to his jacket, withdrew a phone, and punched in a message.