It was six o’clock. Taylor told Kudus to call it a day. She lingered in the office. There was a dinner party she was meant to attend that evening, an old uni friend. She would have loved, more than anything, to have a drink with someone to whom she could unload the aggravations of the last twelve hours, but neither of those things was permitted. She locked her work in the office safe and tried to remember what other people liked to talk about.

8

Hunger woke him, followed by a stab of adrenaline. Kane sat up. The room was lit by a weak blue light from the curtainless window. His watch said five forty-five a.m.

The events of the previous night returned in fragments, as if out of an alcoholic escapade: the spotlit scene by the church; the boy’s wounds beneath the bare bulbs; the final sight of him walking into the US base. Kane saw himself returning the car, like a regretful thief, and sighed.

He checked the laptop for any indication his report had been received by Kathryn Taylor, but there was nothing yet. He found an old radio in the kitchen, turned it on, and listened to a man with an English accent reading messages from soldiers on deployment. Hi, Sarah. Happy birthday . . . British Forces Broadcasting. Unmistakable. It did pop music, the Archers, and service-oriented news bulletins on the half hour. Kane hadn’t heard it for a while.

UK prime minister in visit to new Brunei base. EU Defence Co-Operation in tatters. Mental health charity recruits veterans for new campaign.

Kane tried other frequencies and got an earful of static. He dialed back to BFB as a weatherman recited his way through the network: Gibraltar, Afghanistan, the Falklands, and finally Ascension. Clear skies, hitting a maximum of thirty-three degrees in the shade. Going to be the same tomorrow and the day after that.

Kane turned the radio off, checked the ash on the hallway floor. No one had been in. The door was still locked.

He searched for food. The departing family had left plenty of possessions but nothing edible. Kane unpacked the rations he’d picked up in the Johannesburg airport: an apple, a protein bar, a cheese sandwich. He found his folding knife and divided the bar in two, ate half, then the apple and half the sandwich, wrapped the rest. He refilled his water bottle, pocketed the knife.

Thirty days until the next flight out. He had no idea how to play it. Worst-case scenario: Some men turn up with scores to settle. He ends up in the island’s hospital or its police station. Either way, his ability to operate is all but ruined.

But it hadn’t happened yet.