Back in 1989, after joining MI6, Shafer had been recruited by James Whitehead. Whitehead in turn reported to Oliver Highsmith, as did George Bayer. Shafer performed at least four “sanctions” in Asia over the next three years. It was suspected, but never proved, that he, Whitehead, and Bayer had also murdered prostitutes in Manila and Bangkok. These murders were obviously the precursors to the Jane Does, and to the game itself. All in all, it had been one of the worst scandals in the history of the Security Service. And it had effectively been covered up. That was how Jones wanted to keep it, and I had no worthwhile objection. There were already more than enough unfortunate stories to keep people cynical about their governments.

Our dinner broke up at around eleven, and Jones and I promised to keep in touch. There was one bit of disturbing news, though no one wanted to overstate the significance of it: Geoffrey Shafer’s body still hadn’t been found. Somehow that seemed a fitting end.

Sampson and I were due to catch the first flight to Washington on Tuesday morning. It was scheduled to leave at ten past nine.

That morning, the skies were swirling with black clouds. Heavy rain pounded on our car’s roof all the way from the hotel to the Donald Sangster Airport. Schoolchildren ran along the side of the road, shielding themselves from the rain with flopping banana-tree leaves.

The downpour caught us good as we tried to dash out from under the cover of the tin overhang outside the rent-a-car depot. The rain was cool, though, and it felt good on my face and head and on the shirt plastered to my back.

“It’ll be real good to be home,” Sampson said as we finally made it to a shelter under the metal roof painted a bright yellow.

“I’m ready to go,” I agreed. “I miss Damon and Jannie and Nana. I miss being home.”

“They’ll find the body,” Sampson said. “Shafer’s.”

“I knew who you meant.”

The rain hammered the airport’s roof without mercy, and I was thinking how much I hated to fly on days like this — but it would be good to be home, to be able to end this nightmare. It had invaded my soul, taken over my life. In a way I supposed it was as much a “game” as any that Shafer had played. The murder case had obsessed me for over a year, and that was enough.

Christine had asked me to give it up. Nana had asked, too, but I hadn’t listened. Maybe I hadn’t been able to see my life and actions as clearly then as I did now. I was the Dragonslayer, and all that meant, the good and the bad. In the end, I held myself responsible for Christine’s kidnapping and murder.