In the early hours of morning, sometime before the inky blankness of night gave way to the slightest hint of grey dawn she dreamed herself imprisoned in a cell, somewhere in the old fortress of Noisy-le-Sec. Her captors had beaten her, told her that as a ‘floater’, a deniable asset, she was already dead. She lay on an old cobblestone floor, in a pool of her own vomit and blood, her eyes closed almost shut by swelling. Two teeth were loose, probably knocked free of their roots. The pain from them alone was a hard, white supernova burning one side of her face. She could hear voices discussing her. Gutteral French, a smattering of German, and a few snatches of Arabic.

‘She is already a ghost. Let us be finished with it now.’

‘But the Americans, they know…’

‘But they can do nothing! She is Echelon. She does not exist.’

‘They dare to send her against us. They should learn such impudence is always punished.’

‘There will be reprisals.’

‘But of course!’

‘Oh, it is fine for you, al Banna, you are not…’

She tried to wrench herself back towards consciousness. Al Banna. Her target. Monique’s ‘boyfriend’.

‘It is all right for you. You are safe.’

‘Nobody is safe.’

‘She is not just a spy – she is a killer of the most dangerous kind.’

‘Then ensure she does not kill again.’

‘Bilal, it is not easy…’

Caitlin’s head felt as though it was wrapped in heavy blankets. Exhaustion and illness weighed her down, pressing her back into sleep, but a small part of her, an echo of her waking consciousness, forced her up out of the troubled sleep. The dream came apart like mist before a hard wind. Her head reeled with dizziness, but she was immediately aware that the horrendous pain and nausea had gone. Not just eased, but gone, at least for the moment.

She became aware of everything. Her position, jackknifed on the short, uncomfortable couch. The threadbare blanket with which Monique had covered her. The smell of the meal she had cooked some hours before, and the rank stench of her having thrown it up. The pre-dawn darkness, tinted just the faintest orange by the glow of a far-off blaze. The ticking of a wind-up clock. Footsteps padding about in the apartment above her. And Monique’s voice, talking to someone. Just her voice and occasional blank spots in the rhythm of a muttered conversation. She was on the phone.

A jolt ran though Caitlin’s body, propelling her up off the couch and across the room. The sudden change left her balance reeling and she barked her shin painfully on a table leg, cursing but hurrying on. A phone call!

‘Mother of Christ,’ she hissed.

She heard Monique’s voice falter, just before the beep of a terminated cell-phone call reached her.

‘What the fuck are you doing? I said no calls! Who was that, Monique? Who was it?’ Caitlin found her in the kitchen, pressed into a corner, looking scared.

‘I am sorry. I’m so sorry, it’s just I was frightened.’

The room was dark, the only light the residual glow of the tiny screen. It painted her features a garish yellow, before winking out and leaving them in darkness.

‘Did you call your boyfriend, Monique?’ Caitlin’s voice was flat and hard, a sheet of stamped iron slamming down between them. ‘Did you call Bilal?’

Her reply was an almost inaudible squeak. ‘I’m sorry, Caitlin. It is a new phone. Prepaid. I had to talk to him. I had…’

‘Jesus Christ, Monique. How many times did I tell you, no calls to anyone? Let alone your boyfriend the terrorist.’

‘He is not a terrorist…’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. Did he pinky promise you that? Cross his heart and hope to die? Well then, I guess that’s all right. I’ll just go back to bed.’

Caitlin spun on her heels and stalked away, heading for the bathroom, where she tugged on the string to power up the one exposed bulb, before bending down to rip back a sheet of mouldy linoleum, exposing the wooden floorboards beneath. She reached one finger through a knothole, gave a tug, and the board came away. Another pull removed the piece of wood beside it. A thick, buff-coloured folder came out first. She sensed Monique coming up behind her but said nothing, busying herself with emptying the small arsenal she had stashed away beneath the floor.

No conversation passed between them. The only sound was Caitlin’s breathing and the metallic rattle of weaponry and ammunition coming up out of the hiding place. She could feel Monique wanting to say something, the air was almost alive with the tension growing between them. Caitlin didn’t trust herself to respond rationally, however, so she decided to short-circuit any confrontation. ‘There’s a sports bag in the bedroom, would you please get it for me?’ she asked, in as reasonable a tone as she could manage.

‘Okay,’ replied Monique in a small, frightened voice.

She returned a few moments later with an old Adidas bag, empty save for a few shopping items from their last trip out. Batteries, a flashlight, some energy bars. Caitlin began stuffing the guns and ammo into the holdall.

‘I am sorry, Caitlin… It’s just…’

‘Forget it,’ she snapped. ‘It’s my fault. ‘I should have found the phone and taken it off you. You were always going to call someone. I should be apologising. I’ve lost my edge. This fucking tumour, the Disappearance, or whatever – it’s fucked me up and we are going to get killed because of it. Not because you made a mistake. That’s just… you. You’re not trained. You have no experience. You don’t think things through the way you need to now.’

She finished topping off the bag with the three passports and a stack of currency. After a pause, she tossed the greenbacks. They were just deadweight. The euros, about fifteen grand’s worth, still had some residual value. Probably about half the purchasing power they’d had before Friday, 14 March. Caitlin hurried through to the small living area.

‘I’m outta here. You can stay or come with me. If you stay, there’s a good chance men will be here with guns very soon.’

‘Because of my call.’

‘Because of your call. To Bilal.’ Caitlin turned and looked at her with real anger. ‘If you come, there’ll still be men with guns. At first it’ll be like at the hospital – professionals, playing by the rules. Even if the rules have changed, and I don’t know what the fuck they are anymore, there will be rules. But soon, very soon… no more rules. Just violence like you cannot imagine. You will have to change, Monique. You will have to grow up.’

‘To be more like you?’ Her tone was reproachful, almost sarcastic.