Because English had been in her house that afternoon almost a decade ago. He had been Number Nine then. He knew that his name was on the list she was methodically working through. He had not expected to be in a position where he might have the advantage of surprise over her. That was the prerogative of the hunter, not the hunted.

Now, though?

Now, he would.

He got up and followed her as she walked to her gate. She moved gingerly, as if in pain, although there was nothing visibly wrong with her, and when she stopped to gather her breath, he caught the reflection of her face in the window of a book store. She was grimacing in discomfort.

She continued on to Gate Fifteen and took a seat where she could look out at the passengers circulating around the terminal. Inherent caution, tough to shake. English walked by, pretending to compare the information on his boarding card with the flight details displayed above the gate. He moved on another two gates and took a seat where he could keep an eye on her. He wanted to be sure that she got on the plane.

He took out his encrypted phone and dialled.

“Yes?”

“It’s me. I have her.”

“Where?” Control pressed impatiently.

“Basra. She’s at the airport.”

“What?”

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either.”

“What is she doing?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, sir. But she looks like she’s been through the mill. Moving very gingerly. Looks like she’s in pain.”

“Maybe Duffy . . .”

“Maybe,” English finished for him. Duffy was nowhere to be found, and Beatrix was in town. Joining those dots didn’t look too good for him, but maybe Control was right: maybe he had gone down swinging.

“Why would she leave from the airport? Surely she’d drive south?”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“So where’s she going?”

“I’m checking that.” English looked up. “Hold on.”

There was an announcement that Gate Fifteen was boarding. He watched as she hobbled to the desk and presented her boarding card. She disappeared into the air gate.

He got up and walked quickly to the gate to make sure that she hadn’t tried to elude him, maybe trying to escape onto the runway. He looked out of the windows, and there was no sign of her.

“Casablanca, sir,” he said. “She’s going to Casablanca.”

“Very good,” Control said. “Send me the flight details. There will be someone waiting for her at the other end. Wherever she’s been hiding, we’ll find her now. We’ll flush her out.” There was a pause, and all English could hear was the static on the line. “It’s nearly done,” Control said finally. “Nearly over.”