Verity was gazing out at the garden. ‘It’s all madness, when you think about it. And so oddly medieval. Men don’t have to kill each other to prove they’re men any more, do they? So why do women have to have children to prove themselves? It’s insane.’

They sat there for a moment, staring at the dank garden shed.

‘It’s our battlefield,’ said Miranda.

‘Are you and Tom . . .’ Verity let the question drift.

‘Oh no,’ said Miranda. ‘Not yet. No.’

8

8

A few hours later, Casey was waiting for Gabriel Bantham. On the street outside his Georgetown apartment block, as the birds sang into the dawn.

Hessa had followed him home from the embassy the night before, to this home close to Rock Creek.

This is a test, isn’t it?

Not really. Yes.

I’ll find his address.

I know.

Casey was neat now, dark hair tied back, waiting for Bantham’s door to open. She had felt her throat tighten, as his neighbours left for work, one by one. Every time the door opened, Casey wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Usually, she and Miranda had a rule: whoever did the undercover escaped the front-up.

Casey always hated the front-ups anyway. It was the change in the voices; that was the worst. From buoyant and brash, confident and ebullient, to uncertain and panicked and broken. The undercover front-ups were the worst. As they realised, so slowly, that it was a lie. All of it.

It was you, all along. Wasn’t it? Whoever you fucking well are.

Better, always, that it was an anonymous voice. So the humiliation and the shame were at least impersonal.

Casey hated it. Hated it every time.

But today, it had to be her, because Miranda was thousands of miles away. So Casey thought about Romida, the little girl living in the dark, and dug her fingernails into her palms.

Above her head, the lights flicked on and off in Bantham’s building. It was a townhouse divided into apartments, smartened up recently. Casey waited and waited and waited.

Finally, the door opened, and Bantham took the steps down to the street in a rush. Late. Hurrying. Cross. And Casey stepped into his path.

For a second, Bantham’s eyes swept over her, narrowing as they took in the tied-back hair, the jeans. Hessa was beside Casey, ice-still.

‘Katie?’ Bantham tried.

‘No,’ said Casey. Then, almost meaning it, ‘Sorry.’

‘Who are you?’ His voice was almost a shout. ‘What do you want?’

Wordlessly, Casey handed him a silver tablet. A tremor started in his hands, and Bantham pressed play almost involuntarily.

There he was, leaning back in his chair, smiling. He was neatly framed by the Four Seasons’s white irises and a bottle of mineral water. The words clear, the picture sharp.

It was almost artistic.