Duffy had been doing this long enough to be able to compartmentalise his work. The interrogation was necessary, even if it hadn’t produced anything useful other than that the boy knew nothing. And now it was done.

“Sure,” Duffy said. “Why not.”

Chapter Eleven

The airbus stopped in Doha to refuel before travelling on to Kuwait City.

She spent her time reading the dossier on Mackenzie West that Michael Pope had provided. He fit the profile of the typical Manage Risk operative: he had been a Ranger with experience in Iraq during the occupation. His file showed that he had enjoyed an exemplary career and had been recruited by the company as soon as he demobilised. There had been work in Pakistan, Afghanistan and then Iraq. His annual fitness reports were near perfect.

It appeared that he had enjoyed something of a Damascene conversion soon after his arrival in Basra, with his line managers reporting that his conscience was proving to be an impediment in the efficient fulfilment of his duties. They had insisted that he undergo a psychological evaluation, and the spooks at GCHQ had been able to hack into Manage Risk’s servers and download it. The report had suggested that an incident on the road out of Basra in which an insurgent’s IED had killed a colleague had provided the impetus for his change in outlook. What he had witnessed outside the gates of Energy City had been the final shove that he needed. Now, the report said, he was unstable and could not be trusted to toe the company line. He was, they said, a liability.

They arrived in the evening, the dying sun casting its last rays across the expensive new airport. Beatrix had operated in the Middle East dozens of times before, but it was still a shock to the system to leave the climate-controlled interior of the Airbus for the heat outside. The air bridge was air-conditioned, too, but the evening’s heat bled through it and slapped against the disembarking passengers as if it were a physical presence. Beatrix slugged back a mouthful of cold water from the bottle she had taken from the steward and walked purposefully to border control. Now that she was here, she wanted to get started. There was a lot that needed to be done.

She flashed her diplomatic credentials and bypassed the sweaty line that had formed at the understaffed gate. The airport stretched away, gleaming steel and chrome and marble. She bought another bottle of water from a concession, swallowed another Zomorph and negotiated the slowly revolving doors into the baking warmth outside.

She carried her bag to the taxi rank and slid into the nearest cab. It was blissfully cool inside.

“Where to?”

“The Intercontinental,” she said.

Beatrix was waiting at the hotel bar as she had been instructed. It was a hot, stifling evening, and she had ordered a beer to try and combat it. The place was as weird as the rest of the crazy city: armed guards at the door and an atmosphere that was wound tight with apprehension. The other drinkers were going about their business with single-minded determination, as if they could find reassurance in the bottom of their glasses. She was wearing a pair of jeans and a sleeveless top that emphasised her lithe and muscular figure.