“Shit.”

Mysha brought her another cup of tea.

“What do we do next?” Faulkner asked.

“If he did see me, he’ll be looking for me now. The road back to the city won’t be safe. I’ve got somewhere to stay tonight. I’m out of the way.”

“And?”

“And I’ll need you to come and pick me up. Tomorrow morning. Seven.”

She told him where she was.

“Fine. And then?”

“I need you to arrange a call with Pope.”

He hesitated. “Okay . . . you want to tell me what you want to speak to him about? Because I know he’s going to ask.”

“You need to tell him there’s going to be a change of plan.”

“We’re still going to get Mackenzie West?”

“I promised Pope I would, and so we will.”

“What about Duffy?”

“We’re going to need him to help us do what I want to do.”

“You think that’s likely?”

“I can be persuasive.”

Mysha busied herself by the stove, coming over to check on Beatrix at regular intervals and bringing fresh cups of tea. Beatrix didn’t have her bag with her, and the Zomorph was in it. The pain was bad, but she was going to have to go without her pills. She concentrated on her breathing, and after a while, the pain receded a little.

The shack grew dark as the hour drew on. Mysha lit the paraffin lamp and hung it from a hook on one of the joists that supported the ceiling. The light was warm and inviting, flickering against the blanketed walls. Beatrix drifted in and out of sleep until she became aware of pleasant aromas. Mysha brought her a tray of food. She had prepared sabich, pita stuffed with fried aubergine and hard-boiled eggs. There was also shawarma, a wrap made of shaved lamb and goat.

“Have you kept food for yourself?” Beatrix said as the girl passed the plate across to her.

“Yes, I have plenty,” she said, although Beatrix knew that she was probably lying.

“Here,” she said, tearing the shawarma and passing half back to her.

“No . . .”

“Eat it, Mysha.”

The girl paused, but then did as she was told. She finished it quickly, betraying her hunger.

“Do you have a photograph of your brother?”

“For your story?”

“Yes.”

“Of course.”

She went over to a bag at the other side of the hut, and when she returned, she had a passport photo. She gave it to Beatrix. The young man in the photograph couldn’t have been much older than twenty. He was handsome, with a clear and open face and thick, jet-black hair. His hazel eyes sparkled with life.

“What’s his name?”

“His name is Faik. Faik al-Kaysi.”

“And his age?”

“Nineteen.”

“Do you mind if I borrow this?”

Her face flinched with reluctance.

“Don’t worry. He can bring it back himself after I get him out.”

“You can do that . . . ?”