Amin was accustomed to these communications. When he travelled he made the same call every day and it usually lasted twenty seconds. Sometimes the Colonel would ask a pointed question about gyroscopic stabilisers or satellite guidance systems. He always asked who had spoken to him and his response.

‘An Australian engineer, John Vaughan,’ said Amin when the inevitable question was posed. ‘He invited me to go for a drink. I said no.’

As the Colonel ended the call, Amin’s iPhone began to buzz along the desktop. He’d switched it to vibrate in the seminar, and now it just rattled on the wood veneer. He checked the caller ID; it was Anita.

‘Hello, my love,’ he said, happy to hear from her. Since marrying, he was prone to homesickness.

‘Amin, you have to come home,’ she said. ‘Please! It’s urgent.’

‘Slow down. What’s happening?’

‘It’s Mama—she’s sick,’ said Anita. He could hear the fear in her voice now. Amin’s mother-in-law was a healthy woman; any sign of ill health would be a shock to her family.

‘I’m on the two o’clock flight tomorrow,’ he said. ‘There’s a round table tonight.’

‘No,’ she said desperately. ‘Mama might not make it through the night. We need you here now.’

‘Okay, okay,’ said Amin, sensing panic.

‘There’s a flight from Changi at six,’ said Anita, almost shouting. ‘I’ve emailed you a ticket. You cannot miss that flight, Amin.’

Amin frowned. Anita was a scholarship science student who completed her PhD in Britain before joining the best scientists in Pakistan at the MERC. She didn’t yell, she wasn’t easily flustered—and she was very, very careful with money. She didn’t just pay for an earlier flight when her husband was already booked on one courtesy of the government. Amin knew something very serious was driving this conversation. He looked at his watch. ‘I’ll try to make the flight. Don’t worry.’

‘Don’t just try,’ she snapped. ‘Do it! I need you here.’ She hung up.

Amin had never heard her like this before. He opened his laptop, retrieved his e-ticket from Anita’s email and clicked the option to have it sent to his phone. It was now 2.10 p.m. Then he opened his ProtonMail account and saw a new email in the inbox from Marcus Aubrac. It said: Meet for a drink?