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The door opened abruptly, smacking him in the nose.

‘Ow!’

‘Oh, Fitz, I am so sorry! So sorry.’ Alberto was staring at him, aghast. ‘I came in to see how people are. I should have knocked on the door or –’

‘It’s OK, Alberto. I mean, I was wondering how long I could go before someone hit me so I guess I asked for it.’ Fitz rubbed his nose. The academic gestured for him to come out of the room and Fitz recognised the corridor beyond. It was part of the POUM building all right. Some room at the back of one of the converted stages, perhaps a costume store that had been converted to a sick room. He closed the door after him and glanced at the other man. Alberto looked tired, as if he were existing purely on nervous energy now.

‘Alberto, how did I get here?’

‘Your friend brought you in. He showed up at the door last night. You were unconscious. Left as soon as we had you safely.’

Fitz frowned. He had a faint idea that something had happened to Sasha, so how could he have got him back here? Maybe he’d just imagined it? He patted down his jacket, found that a fresh packet of straights had been stuffed into the inner pocket, along with his old lighter. Then he suddenly realised he had his jacket back. With all the familiar scuffs and rips. That he’d last seen when he was being treated in the Party building. He broke the paper seal slowly, wonderingly. There was a piece of paper, neatly tucked in between the foil and the cigarettes. He took it out and unfolded it. The handwriting was vaguely familiar: it just wasn’t Sasha’s.

I understand this is your favourite brand. Miss Kapoor will be needing your aid. Wait.

* * *

Anji watched as Joaquín loaded the bundled Blair into a car at the back of a rundown apartment block in the Barri Chino. Pia had already vanished, disappearing toward the Drassanes in borrowed clothes, muttering about a ship to catch. She had given Anji a sudden, tight, hug. Held her at arm’s length and made her promise to take care.

‘I wasn’t doing any of it. I told myself it was a desk job but I knew. I’m sorry. I should have gone with my conscience sooner. Get out of here.’ She’d glanced at the unconscious Blair. ‘Do what you see fit with him. He was the worst of them.’

Anji glanced down at him. ‘He knew all the right buttons to press, all right. But I don’t think that was him.’

Pia shrugged. Then she’d wrapped herself in a workman’s jacket, given Anji the anarchist salute and headed out. Anji grinned as she spotted her pocket a box of ammo for her stolen gun, slipping it out of sight.

McNair and Joaquín had watched the Italian woman out of sight, then turned to Anji and asked her what they should do with Blair. Anji had pulled the sleeves of her borrowed sweater down over her hands, wrapped her arms round her bruised ribcage. Blair’s breathing was shallow, laboured. She wasn’t sure how long he had. Her upper lip was swollen, puffy. He’d hurt her more though, seen the chink in her armour and twisted a knife into it. She couldn’t pretend it didn’t matter, not here. If she was stuck here – and the gods knew where the Doctor and Fitz had got to – then she was going to have to deal with it, seal up that chink.

‘I can’t believe he did this to you, Anji.’ McNair was looking harassed. He’d arrived here, out of breath, after a message from Joaquín.

Anji shrugged. She glanced at the injured Blair: there had been such desperate horror in his eyes, such self-loathing. She’d seen the state of herself reflected in his eyes at the moment and she was now fairly sure he had meant what he had said. At the end. And he’d taken a bullet getting them out.

‘Get him and Eileen out of here. Just pack him up with his wife, McNair, and get them to France. They can do what the hell they want from there.’

‘It will be dangerous.’

‘Isn’t everything? I’m going back to the Hotel to –’

‘The Hotel probably isn’t safe, Anji, they will be looking for you there. We can get you out, get you to England. I’m sure the Colonial Office will –’

‘I’ll think about it, McNair. Right