Klay had a pounding headache, a sore neck, and pain in the middle of his back. He didn’t remember anything. The swelling under Barrow’s left eye might explain his restraints.

“We’re not renditioning you here.” Barrow chuckled, running his eyes over the jet’s zebrawood paneling. “Wanted to get that out of the way straight off. Ketamine does pack a punch, though.”

“Fuck yourself, Barrow. If that’s even your name.”

“It is.”

“Good. I’ll want that for my story.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’ll be a story here.” Barrow reached beside his seat and set a briefcase on the table. It was an old barrister-style leather bag that opened from the top. Barrow removed a thick accordion folder. He found the file he wanted, opened it, and laid a large color photograph on the table in front of Klay.

It was Bernard’s body on an army cot. A white plastic sheet had been pulled back to make the photograph. Barrow tapped the photo with his pen. “This gentleman, not wanting all those Perseus bells and whistles on his elephants, had to go.”

He removed another photograph. It was Simon Lekorere, the politician, dressed as he’d been in the passenger seat of Bernard’s Land Rover. His throat was sliced wide open. “Like a vacuum cleaner hose,” Barrow observed. “Collateral.”

Another photograph. A fat man hung by a rope, eyes bulging. It was the purple Croc on the floor beneath the body’s bare foot that brought it around for Klay. The Filipino priest. Martelino.

“Suicide. Or the look of it. Maybe he hung himself. Maybe he got hung. Your story made it a question with an answer.”

“The priest’s dead?”

“Very,” Barrow said. He tapped the photo. “Krieger was pleased with this one, yessir. His troublesome priest. Some lovely stuff you’ve done.”

Klay gritted his teeth with fatigue and frustration. “What’s the point of this?”

“Then there’s Mr. Gatt. Found him washed up on Cebu, Bobby Maxwell–style. We’re not sure how he fits in yet. Did you know him?”

Klay looked. An obese man’s body was pale and swollen to sea-creature proportions. “I have no idea who that is. What are you telling me?”

Barrow continued, talking as much to himself as to Klay. “Krieger dismissed your Mr. Eady at first. Called him a lackey. But Eady kept at it, didn’t he?” Barrow tapped each of the photographs. “Desperate to find his way in. Drove him crazy. Tried a couple of PR stories. ‘Angola’s New Hope.’ ‘Congo’s Christian Warriors’ . . . ” He dropped a copy of The Sovereign onto the table. “That was the first one, far as we can tell. Like a serial killer, he was cautious at first. Seeing if he had the stomach for it.” Barrow chuckled. “Turns out he did.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Klay would have stood if he weren’t trussed like an animal.