For the first forty-eight hours of his stay, he was quieter than normal. He spoke only to the doctor who treated his wounds and to the Englishman. To the staff he said nothing at all, only a deflated “Thank you” whenever they brought him meals or clean clothing. He kept to his small room overlooking the empty moorland, with only the television and the London papers for company. He made just one request; he wanted his BlackBerry. Parish the permanent caretaker patiently explained that company, even company of his exalted stature, weren’t permitted the use of private communications devices in Wormwood Cottage or on its grounds.

“I need to know their names,” the injured man said on the third morning of his stay, when Parish personally delivered his tea and toast.

“Whose names, sir?”

“The woman and the child. The police haven’t released their names.”

“I’m afraid it’s not my place, sir. I’m just the caretaker.”

“Get me their names,” he said again, and Parish, wishing to remove himself from the room, promised to do his utmost.

“What about my BlackBerry?”

“Sorry,” said Parish. “House rules.”

By the fourth day he was strong enough to leave his room. He was sitting in the garden at midday when the Englishman set off on a hike across the moor, and was there at sunset when the Englishman returned, dragging a pair of broken bodyguards in his wake. The Englishman walked every afternoon regardless of the weather—even on the fifth day, when a gale blew hard across the moors. On that day he insisted on carrying a rucksack weighted down with whatever debris the staff could find. The two bodyguards were half-dead by the time they stumbled back to the cottage. That night, in the living quarters of the converted barn, they spoke with hushed reverence of a man with almost superhuman strength and endurance. One of the bodyguards was former SAS and thought he recognized the mark of the Regiment. It was in his step, he said, and in the way his eyes took in the contour of the land. Sometimes it seemed as if he were viewing it for the first time. Other times it appeared as though he were wondering how he ever could have left it. The bodyguards had looked after all kinds at the cottage—defectors, spies, blown field agents, frauds in search of a taxpayer-funded payday—but this one was different. He was special. He was dangerous. He had a dark past. And, perhaps, a bright future.