She could have exfiltrated by retracing her way in with Faulkner, driving south across the border to Kuwait and then flying out from there. That route would mean she would be less likely to be detected and it would be much safer, but she was weak. She was frightened of how feeble she felt, and the prospect of that long drive was so daunting that she was not prepared to consider it. There were other options. She could find her way to Baghdad and fly out, or she could gamble and depart from Basra. In the end, ease won out. Basra was closest. She knew it was a risk, but it was one that she was prepared to take.

Because there were other benefits in that risk, too.

She was ready to lay some bait.

That was not to say that she was blasé about the dangers. She returned to the tailor’s shop and asked him to collect the things that she would need. He had a small flat above his shop, and he showed her up to it and told her she was welcome to stay for as long as she wanted. There was a tiny bathroom adjacent to the bedroom, and she stripped off and showered, washing the sand and the grime from her skin. That helped. She scrubbed her hair and hung her head, watching as the dirty water drained away.

She turned off the water, wrapped herself in a towel and got out. She sat down on the bed and took a moment. She was finding it difficult to breathe. She knew that dyspnea was a symptom of the cancer, one of the symptoms that was most usually suffered as the disease reached its conclusion. It felt as if she had liquid in her lungs that she couldn’t clear. She knew that there were medicines that would help alleviate it, but she would have to wait until she was back in Marrakech to see about that.

She took two Zomorph tablets, slugging them down with a glass of tepid water, and lay back on the bed for a moment. She had intended to wait there only until the shortness of breath was under control, but she slept as soon as she closed her eyes.

When she opened them again, it was dark outside.

The tailor must have heard her stir. He knocked softly on the door and brought her the things that she had requested. There was a small carry-on suitcase with a change of clothes inside. There was an envelope with a fake passport and a ticket to Casablanca.

“Is there anything else you need?”

“A taxi.”

“It’s alright. I will drive you.”

“Thanks.”

“Mr Pope has contacted me. He wants to know that you are alright.”

“I’m fine,” she said. “Did you tell him about Number Twelve?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say?”

“He hopes that you are alright.”

She nodded, the fatigue buffeting her again.

“Are you alright?” he asked.