They found the autovia and she saw the sign to the airport. A few miles short of Fiumicino he turned the Vespa into the drive of a low, modern hotel, found a hidden space in the car park at the rear, stopped and turned off the engine.

She got off the scooter without being asked.

“You did well,” the man said simply, staring at her.

“Did I have a choice?”

“If you want to live, no, you don’t. Have you already forgotten you are in grave danger?”

She glanced at the scooter. “Is that what you are? A thief?”

He nodded, and she wondered if there was the slightest of smiles behind the matted, grubby beard. “A thief. That’s correct, Felicia. We must go inside now.”

He waved the key as they rushed past reception, and went to the first floor where he opened the door and ushered her into his room. It was a suite, elegant and expensive, the kind she had only seen in movies. There were two large suitcases already packed on the floor. The pillows of the bed were covered with scattered chocolates. He picked up a couple and gave them to her. She ate greedily. It was good chocolate, the best. The room, she understood, had been waiting here, empty, running up a bill, perhaps for weeks.

“Do you have a passport with you?” he asked.

“Of course. It is the law.”

She showed him.

“I meant the other. You have dual nationality. This is important.”

“No.” She shook her head forcefully. “I am Polish only. That was an accident of birth.”

“A lucky accident,” he grumbled, and picked up a briefcase by the side of the bed. The man—she could no longer think of him as a tramp—pulled out a blue document, an American passport.

“Your name now is Joanna Phelps. Your mother was Polish, which explains your accent. You are a student at college in Baltimore. Remember all this.”

She didn’t take the passport, though she couldn’t stop herself staring at the gold eagle on the cover.

“Why?” she asked.

“You know why, Felicia,” he replied.

“I don’t, really . . . ”

His strong hands suddenly held her shoulders, shaking her slender frame. His eyes were fierce and unavoidable.

“What’s your name? What’s your name?”

“My name is Felicia Kaminski. I am nineteen years old. A citizen of the Polish Republic. I was born . . . ”

“Felicia Kaminski is dead,” he cut in. “Be careful you don’t join her.”

Stepping back, he said, “Do not answer the door to anyone. Eat and drink from the mini bar if you need something. I must—” he stared at the grubby clothes, hating them—“do something.”