‘We had a code word,’ Farzan said. ‘Something we came up with one night at the pub. Hisham wasn’t used to alcohol, so he was a bit, you know, loopy.’ He waggled his head. ‘His idea was that if one of us ever vanished, we should use a code word to signal we were in trouble, and another one that meant we were safe.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Mountain meant safe. Rock meant danger. I picked the danger word based on the name of a legendary bird in ancient Persia. So huge it could carry off an elephant in its talons. Terrified me as a child.’

The girl at the next table closed her book and stood. As she tucked the paperback into her bag and buttoned her cardigan, Farzan grew silent and followed her movements with his eyes.

Gessen drank the last of his tea and shivered in his thin jacket. The sun had gone behind a bank of clouds, and a chill wind chased bits of paper across the pavement. ‘What do you think happened to your friend?’

Farzan lit another cigarette. ‘I suspect he was being followed. Someone broke into his flat while he was out and searched through his things. Nothing was taken, but…’ A breeze whipped his hair, and he stood to zip up his jacket. ‘There’s something else. Not long after Hisham disappeared, his computer was infected by a virus and all his data – three years of work – were gone. Poof, just like that.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Apparently, nothing was backed up on an external drive or saved on the server.’

He exhaled a great plume of smoke. ‘The thing that bothers me most is that our code word meaning all was well didn’t appear in his email. Hisham’s not a British citizen, so the Home Office wouldn’t look into it. I called all the airlines to find out if he’d boarded a flight to Baghdad, but of course they wouldn’t tell me anything. Who am I? Not family, just a friend.’ He tamped out his cigarette and flicked it away. ‘Someone else sent that message. Someone who wanted him out of the picture for good.’

Farzan gazed across the courtyard as if looking for a sign in the blocks of stone. ‘You asked me what I think happened to my friend?’ He looked straight into Gessen’s eyes. ‘I think Hisham is dead.’

14

Paris, France
September 1968

A lorry scoured by burning sands; a boat rocking in the wind; a night train trundling through the darkened countryside. Wind, sand, stars… on his journey to another world.

On the sleeper train he shares a compartment with four other students on their way to the capital. They disembark at first light, and he walks through the vaulted station, nearly empty at that hour, dull-witted and stiff-limbed from the long journey that began in a dust-choked village and ended in the shining city of his dreams.