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Come to think of it… wasn’t there something familiar about Guest’s sidekick? Not his face, not his shape. Just the little things, the tiny hiccups in his voice, those bits and pieces of body language you couldn’t ever pin down properly –

Later, thought Sam. Think about it later. She hurried out of the lift and along the passage, past the ceramic plant pots and the Athena prints on the walls, not looking back at the lift. Hotels always made her feel claustrophobic, for some reason. The carpet‐cleaner‐flavoured air, the radiators humming like nasty little goblins, that horrible sensation of good taste everywhere. No wonder I’m panicking, she told herself. I feel like I’m being stalked by the wallpaper.

Once she’d turned the corner at the end of the corridor, she pressed her back against the wall of the next passage, and listened. She wasn’t sure what good pressing her back to the wall did, but it felt right.

There were soft footsteps. Mumbled voices.

‘So, the DTI…’ said Guest’s friend.

‘Local governmental organisation,’ Guest said. His voice was deep, but smooth, just like on the video. He would have made a pretty good baritone. ‘It regulates trade to, from and within this nation‐state. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.’

‘They’re supposed to have rules…’

‘The DTI’s purpose is to facilitate trade. The regulations are there for the sake of appearances. For political reasons.’

‘Those protestors…?’

‘Yes. People in this line of business don’t make a habit of checking their contacts’ credentials. That’s why we’re able to move with so much freedom.’ There was the sound of tumblers turning in a lock. ‘The DTI has access to local tax funds. They pay for business expeditions to foreign territories. Mr Llewis mentioned South America. Possibly the Lebanon. He didn’t seem certain. Provided no illegal security or interrogation equipment touches British soil, the DTI are happy to facilitate. I don’t see why the organisation shouldn’t help us as well. After all, we are representatives from a foreign territory. Of a kind.’

Sam took a deep breath. They were going into one of the rooms. She had to find out which.

Right. One. Two. Three.

She stuck her head around the corner. Guest and his friend were standing in front of an open door, and there was obviously a third figure on the threshold. Aha. Guest hadn’t unlocked the door, then. It had been opened from the other side.

There was an electronic ping, then a painful grating sound. The lift doors were opening again, Sam realised. No, wait – it was the other lift, the one they hadn’t used. Sam ducked back around the corner.

More padding footsteps. A pause. Then a voice. Female. Sam didn’t recognise it.

‘Mr Guest,’ the voice said. ‘Fancy meeting you here.’

‘Ms Bland,’ Guest said. He sounded surprised.

Sam very nearly choked.

Bland? As in, Sarah Bland?

‘What a coincidence,’ Ms Bland said. ‘This is my floor, too.’

Damn, thought Sam. That’s my line.

‘Then I’m sure I’ll be seeing a lot more of you in future,’ said Guest, diplomatically.

‘I’m sure you will.’

More footsteps. Getting closer to the corner. Sam weighed up the options. It was probably Ms Bland, on her own, but there was no point taking risks. She looked up the corridor. Yes – stairwell at the end. She could wait there for a while, come back later when the coast was clear, maybe use the binoculars to see into Guest’s room.

Sam turned, heading for the stairwell, and tripped over the pot plant at her feet.

She didn’t swear – although it was tempting – she just threw out her hands, landed on the carpet with a little ‘oof’ noise that the Doctor probably would have found incredibly funny. The binoculars slipped from under her arm, and she heard them crack against the plant pot. Something broke. Sam wasn’t sure what.

She didn’t hear anything as she scrambled to her feet. She didn’t know whether the footsteps were getting faster, whether Guest and his friends were coming to see what the noise was, whether