He hurried into his own suite and firmly shut the door. A pity there was no lock, a fact he found disturbing. He’d never been able to sleep properly in a room without a bolt on the door. But the information binder on the desk explained it was clinic policy for safety reasons, assuring him that the front desk is staffed round the clock for your comfort and safety. As if that was supposed to make him feel better. Each night, before going to bed, he took the precaution of pushing the heavy leather armchair against the door. He’d always been a light sleeper, so if someone tried to come in, at least the noise would wake him.

Relieved to be alone, he noisily expelled the air from his lungs. Peace at last. He dropped his satchel on the floor and stretched out on the bed. For a place that was essentially a hospital, the room was a pleasant surprise. A far cry from the scuffed linoleum flooring and metal-frame beds one might expect. Separate bedroom and living spaces, kitted out with sumptuous linens and furnishings, and a large bathroom done up in polished limestone. Though trapped here against his will, it would do nicely for the brief time he planned to stay.

On the wall opposite the bed, two paintings were hung, side by side. The one on the left, a watercolour seascape of a clutch of sandpipers – ten in total – chasing their shadows at the water’s edge. The other, a desert scene in gleaming oils, had a darker palette. Red rocks and blistering sands stretched to the horizon, seemingly empty. But if he squinted, he could just make out the hazy outline of a camel caravan, like a mirage floating on the horizon.

Vidor pressed his ear to the wall behind the bed. No sounds came from the other room, though at night he could sometimes hear the Emirati Prince, muttering and pacing, his bare feet slapping against the parquet. Not much else to do at night here if one couldn’t sleep. No internet or television or radio, nothing to distract them from the hamster cage of their thoughts.

A weariness fell over him like a shroud. While he could find no fault with the amenities, it was the free-floating unease of being a prisoner that made his heart tick oddly. All the luxuries in the world couldn’t make up for the fact that he was trapped inside the perimeter fence. Forced to undergo who knew how many more interrogations by this Dr Gessen. A man who appeared to enjoy the power of having Vidor’s fate in his hands.

The hourglass in his brain, that inexorable taskmaster, ticked away the minutes. How long would it be, before they let him go?

9