I tried a different angle. “What about A for African, C for culture … with any number of other letters?”

“There are two hundred and seven matches.”

I scrolled through the list; AC didn’t seem like a plausible abbreviation for any of them. One name was familiar, though; I replayed a section of the audio log from the morning’s press conference:

“William Savimbi, Proteus Information. You speak approvingly of a convergence of ideas which has no respect for ancestral cultures – as if your own heritage were of no importance to you at all. Is it true that you received death threats from the Pan-African Cultural Defense Front, after you publicly stated that you didn’t consider yourself to be an African woman?”

Mosala had put the quote in context – but she hadn’t answered the question. If a comment like that had been enough to result in death threats, what might rumors of “defection” – baseless or not – bring down on her?

I had no idea; I knew even less about South African cultural politics than I knew about ATMs. Mosala would hardly be the first prominent scientist to leave the country, but she would be one of the most celebrated – and the first to emigrate to Stateless. Chasing money and prestige at a world-class institution was one thing – but it would be hard to read a move to Stateless (which could offer neither) as anything but a deliberate renunciation of her nationality.

I paused on the landing, and stared at my useless electronic teat. “AC? Mainstream AC?” Sisyphus was silent. Whoever they were, Sarah Knight had managed to find them. I was beginning to feel an ache in the pit of my stomach every time I thought about what I’d done to her. It was clear that she’d prepared for this job meticulously, researching every issue surrounding Mosala – and coming from politics, where nothing on the nets was true, she’d probably gone out and talked to everyone in the flesh. Someone must have told her about the rumors, and put her on the trail which led to Kuwale – all off the record, of course. I’d stolen the project, walked in cold – and now I couldn’t even tell whether I was making a documentary about an emigrant anarcho-physicist in fear of her life … or whether I was jumping at shadows, and the only threat anyone on Stateless faced was being goaded into giving Janet Walsh some long overdue career advice.

I had Hermes call every hotel on the island, and inquire about a guest called Akili Kuwale.

No luck.