Sixty-three

The evening at Ghita’s secret apartment had been long, and loosened with much Pouilly-Fumé. Blaine found that chilled white wine was the best way of dealing with the fear, the fear of being hunted in a foreign land.

He and Ghita sat on either end of the long ivory-white couch, inching a little closer as the cool wine warmed them. Blaine suggested fleeing back to New York, but Ghita reminded him of the uncertainty likely to face him at the airport.

‘Only the police commissioner can help you,’ she urged.

‘But what if he arrests me right there and then?’

‘In an illegal drinking den?’ Ghita wagged a finger left and right. ‘He wouldn’t dare.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because here in Morocco there’s such a thing as hospitality. If you are hosting someone, you have to protect them. It’s a duty, not a choice.’

A second time, Blaine suggested absconding home to New York, and Ghita switched on her charm. She stroked a hand down over his arm, looked him in the eye, and managed to coax a single tear to roll south over her cheek.

‘I need you,’ she whispered, as a second tear tumbled down in the wake of the first. ‘I need you more than I have ever needed anyone in my life.’