Milton gave the Pontiac a final wistful look. He was going to miss it. He had given some thought to continuing the trip all the way down to Argentina, but didn’t want to press his luck. He had made an appointment with an old acquaintance in Bali, and, given that he had two long flights ahead of him—to Istanbul and then to Denpasar—he wanted to get going. He had been travelling as John Smith, and that was now a lot more precarious than it had been before. His old legend would serve him one final time, and then it would be retired. Milton intended to be someone else from now on.

The dealer indicated that Milton should follow him. Milton tapped the hood of the car—a final thank-you for a journey well done—and made his way to the hut where the transaction could be completed.

* * *

Milton took a taxi back to the hotel. He opened the window and let the warm air blow over him. The last month had been a balm. He had allowed himself the luxury of unplugging from the world, forgetting what had happened to him in Colombia and then Kansas City, where his fears—that Group Fifteen had resumed the hunt for him—had been confirmed. He had planned to take a road trip across America from coast to coast, but had recalibrated his itinerary on the basis that it would be much harder to locate him in South America than it would have been if he had stayed north of the border.

His choice had been more than vindicated. Apart from the anonymity that it had afforded him, the trip had been rewarding. He had stopped at San Cristobal de las Casas, the heart of the Mayan culture, and had taken a boat trip to the ruins at Yaxchilan. He spent two days in the frontier town of Frontera Corozal and had diverted to observe the waterfalls of Agua Azul. He visited the ruins at Tikal, drove through the volcanic Cerro Verde national park, and toured the canyons around León. The dislocated shoulder that he had suffered in Kansas City had healed without complication. He had eaten well, had run every morning and swam when he could, and, as a result, he felt better than he had in years.

But all good things eventually come to an end, and he was at the end of the road. His flight to Turkey was at ten o’clock tomorrow morning. He had one more night to enjoy himself.

2

Milton awoke late after a deep and restful sleep and looked around the small hotel room. The sunlight streamed in through the curtains, highlighting the threadbare patches and stains in the material. The room in the República was not luxurious by any stretch of the imagination, but it had suited his needs well. He had wanted somewhere quiet, cheap and anonymous. The small room had met all three of his criteria.