“We’re going to make sure you get the chance to say it.”

“Who sent you?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Not the government.”

“Not your government, Mr West. I think they’d rather you were quiet, don’t you?”

“I don’t care what they think.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“You’re getting me out of the country?”

“Yes,” Beatrix intervened. “We’re just picking up some friends first.”

They had left Faik and Mysha in a twenty-four-hour café attached to a gas station on the edge of town. They had dropped them there earlier, and after two short jabs of the horn, they emerged. They looked frightened and vulnerable. Beatrix felt a catch in her heart as she watched the girl reach out for her brother’s hand and lead him across to them.

Beatrix got out. “Are you alright?” she asked when they had reached them.

“We are fine,” Mysha answered for her brother.

“Who is that?” Faik asked, pointing at West.

“His name is Mackenzie. I was sent here to bring him out of the country.”

“Why?”

“He worked for the contractors.”

Faik’s face flashed with anger as black as his bruises. “Then what is he . . .”

“He’s going to give evidence against them. He was there when your mother was shot. He wants justice for her. For her and all the others.”

The lights of a car that Beatrix didn’t recognise swept into the sandy lot.

“Who is that?” Faik said fretfully.

Beatrix turned to Faulkner. “Pope?”

“I think so.”

“You think?”

“Who is it?” Faik repeated.

“It’s your ride out of Iraq,” she said. “It’s fine. We’re here. We’ll make sure you get away safely. Stay here, alright? I’ll be back.”

She turned to Faulkner and indicated with her eyes that he should stay with them. He nodded his understanding.

She stepped up to the car. It was a Toyota Camry, slathered in dust. The headlights burrowed into the darkness and made it difficult for her to see any details beyond a black silhouette.

The door opened, and a man stepped out.

“Turn the lights off.”

The man bent down and killed the lights.

“Hands where I can see them,” she called out.

“Easy!”

She raised the pistol and aimed. “Hands up, right now.”

The man did as he was told.

He stepped forward so that she could see him.

“Easy. It’s me.”

It was Pope.

“You think maybe you might have told me that you were going to come out here, too?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. I didn’t think you’d be planning something as stupid as a jail break.”

She glowered at him.

He indicated the al-Kaysis. “These the two?”

“Yes.”

“And West?”

“In the car.”

“Duffy?”

“Yes,” she said.

He took another step forward and squinted at her. “Are you alright?”

“What do you mean?”

“You look dreadful.”

“It’s been a long day,” she said, waving his concern off.

“Beatrix . . .”