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“You look alive.”

She read the page aloud, slowly. “Zuri Aduke.” She glanced up. “Is Aduke your surname?”

I shook my head. “I have many identities. This one gets us out of the country.”

“So what’s your real one?”

I did not answer. She studied my face, and whatever she saw there made her slip her hand into mine and leave the question where it was.

The sedan waited in the garage two streets from the hotel. I walked her past it. At the corner stood an old man in a coat too thin for the weather, sitting on a flattened box with a paper cup beside him. I stopped. I took the keys from my pocket and the garage ticket, paid up for a month, and pressed both into his hand with an envelope of cash.

“It is a grey sedan. Dented, left rear. The tank is full. Sell it, drive it, sleep in it. It is yours.”

He stared at the keys, then at me. “God bless you, son.”

Zuri’s fingers tightened around mine. When I glanced down, her eyes were bright, and she was looking at me as if I had done something far greater than give away a car. I looked away before she could see what it did to me.

Back at the hotel, I arranged a late checkout. Our bags were packed and waiting by the door. I ordered a driver for two o’clock, to the Brooklyn terminal.

Zuri flopped back onto the bed, the passport held above her face like a prize.

“Mrs Aduke,” she said, trying it out, and grinned.

I stood at the foot of the bed and watched her. Four days ago I had been a man with a single bag and no one to answer to.

I had killed for far less. I would die for this.

❦ ❦ ❦

One day I would be back for this Adrián, and I would happily take the entire crew down with him, but Zuri would need to be in Russia or Kenya for that to happen. Under the moonlight she had shared what happened. My insides burned, but I stroked her knuckles and kissed her just below her ear. It always tickled her.

There was nothing more I could do. We were leaving America behind.

The forgery was of exceptional quality. The attendant glanced at it before checking mine. My hands felt strangely light. No steel at my hip, no blade at my ankle. For the first time in years, I walked into a crowd with nothing but a woman and a passport.

Zuri’s masterplan had been to wear a giant white sunhat to match her dress and cover her nervousness. She held onto it with one hand as we walked towards the ramp, the wind plucking at the brim.

She stopped so abruptly that someone bumped into me. They began to grumble. One glance silenced them.

“It’s so big,” she gasped as she took in the sheer size of the ship.

A black hull rose above us like a cliff, her red funnel tilted against the sky, her decks stacked in white tiers that seemed to go on forever.

“I know,” I whispered, and gently tugged her forward. Her sweet laughter took the chill away from the heavy wind.

We stepped aboard, and the world changed.

The Grand Lobby rose three decks above us, a cathedral of brass and polished wood and deep, warm light. Twin staircases curved up to a gallery, their balustrades gleaming, their carpets a rich plum and bronze. Amber lamps glowed along the walls. A chandelier hung like a frozen fountain. Somewhere above, a pianist was playing something soft.

Zuri turned in a slow circle, her hat tipped back, her mouth open.

“Tau,” she whispered. “It’s a palace.”

I counted exits. Two stairwells. Four lifts. A steward in white gloves at the desk, bowing to us with a smile that never reached his eyes. Cameras above the doors. Nothing out of place. And yet my attention kept sliding back to her face, to the wonder that had wiped the last shadow from it.

“Walk with me,” I said.

We went slowly, hand in hand, past gleaming wood and gold leaf and walls the colour of cream. Doors opened onto the long promenade deck. The sea air hit us, cold and salt and clean, and a deep horn sounded from somewhere above, so low I felt it in my chest.