‘“Run into each other”?’ he said. ‘Is that what you think we have done? Do you think I just happened to be passing by Aba? Let me enlighten you, my friend - I was looking for you. Two Russian diplomats were murdered in Lagos last night, and this afternoon the police put out an alert at all airports for a British journalist by the name of Kane, whom they urgently wish to question. When you turned up again at Lagos Airport, a very efficient customs officer, Mister Igbaweno, a distant cousin of mine, as it happens, radioed through to me to ask what he should do. I advised him to let you on the plane and promptly contacted divisional headquarters in Enugu. They were very understanding, thankfully. We have had a few minor disagreements, our two divisions’ - he offered a preview of a smile, then shut it off abruptly - ‘but when I explained that there was a British spy and murderer flying in their direction, and that I had already come across him and would like the opportunity of dealing with him myself, they were only too happy to let the plane be diverted. When the winds came up and your plane failed to land as your pilot had announced to our control tower, I sent some of my men out to see what they could find. It didn’t take them long to track you down. On arriving at the spot, I found that you had persuaded some of our troops to fraternize with the enemy. So you see,’ he concluded, folding his hands in his lap, ‘there is really no question of my misinterpreting your actions. They speak for themselves.’

Blown.

The police had known to look for Kane.

Blown by Pritchard.

What a fool I had been. I’d completely misread the man - desk work had killed my instincts. I was a fucking amateur, of no more use than Manning or, indeed, Isabelle. Because I should have - how could I not have? - realized what the bastard had been up to. When I had suggested delaying the PM’s trip, he had raised a few polite objections and then backed down, nodding that cadaverous skull of his at me. It was so obvious now that it felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. He hadn’t simply strongly suspected me: he hadn’t bought my story for a moment. He’d realized I was Radnya the moment I’d fled London. Farraday hadn’t told him to come out and run me; he’d told him to come out and find proof.