He had dragged a chair from the other end of the motel room, to sit in by the window and watch the door of the main office, in the courtyard below. Encroaching dawn was tinting the night sky blue, by the ragged line where the mountains met the sky. A solitary lamp-post in the middle of the courtyard bathed the parking lot in yellow-orange light. The main office had two windows on either side of the door, both blocked by crumpled Venetian blinds. The door itself was closed. It had been all night.
	He was supposed to be watching it intently, but his mind was wandering. The nights of the last few months had all been like this. The cities changed but the motels were the same, always cheap, always empty, away from the hearts of the city, instead on side streets in suburbs, where it was quiet as the grave. He could count on one hand the cars that had passed by tonight. At the approach of every car he would sit up, he would stare at the pair of lights in the dark, waiting for them to slow, waiting for the car to swing into the parking lot and pull up in front of the main office door.
	Tonight, though, he would get the visitor he’d been waiting for. It was inevitable, it was certain. He knew he would not be missed again. Over the past few months, his dread and his anger during these midnight watches had drained out until he felt only resignation, and finally just impatience.

	“Sit down, please, sit down.”
	He did so, uneasily, slowly lowering himself into the cushioned plastic chair.
	“Coffee?”
	“Sure.”
	There was a portly man behind the desk, in a grey suit that looked fit to burst. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, and thin white hair clung to his temples, ringing his bald crown. He had a paternal smile on his face, wry and regretful, as he looked at his guest. A pot of coffee was taken off the coffee maker and two cups were poured out. Wordlessly, the portly man pulled a flask from his jacket pocket and looked inquiringly at his guest.
	“No sir.”
	“Good man,” the man said, as he splashed his own coffee with the contents of the flask.
	“Times like these make me hate this job,” the man said as he took his seat behind the desk. “Truly, they do.”
	His guest just stared at him impassively.
	“Of course, I shouldn’t ask for sympathy. Not right now, not from you. But this sort of thing does not come easily, I want you to know. You’ve worked for me for a long time. I trained you, I watched over you, and God knows I sent you into Death and you came back again, hale and hardy, ready for another go. It’s a shame, when you and I have endured so much together, to have it end like this. It always is.”
	He took a long draught of his coffee. His guest left his on the table.
	“These are the sacrifices we said we’d make. You always figure, there wouldn’t be a doubt in your mind when the time came, but there always is. That’s what makes it so hard, and that’s what makes it so… honourable.”
	The portly man looked at his guest with equal parts pity and self-pity. “This job always ends the same way.”
	“Right,” his guest said, with bitterness.
	“You’re the same man who stood before this desk, all those years ago, and made your pledge of allegiance.”
	“Things have happened in the interim.”
	“Undoubtedly. But men like us never change. Honour to the end, eh, however it may come.”
	His guest’s lip twisted. He got to his feet and buttoned his blazer.
	“Are we through?”
	The portly man sighed. “Yes. There’s a room in your name at the hotel. Here…”
	He reached over the desk, a key card in his hand. His guest took it and slipped it in his pocket.
	“All the arrangements have been made, just give your name to the receptionist. Goodbye. It has been an honour serving with you.”
	The portly man stood straight and saluted, his hand quivering slightly by his brow. His guest looked at him for a moment, hostility evident in his expression, then he strode to the door and left.

	It was a nice hotel. The entrance room was floored with dark redwood, the walls were painted the colour of poppies, their liveliness muted by the sparse lighting. A well-kept middle aged woman waited behind the desk, and she smiled through him as he entered. He put his umbrella in the stand and approached her.
	“Anything for Arthur Graves.”
	“Yes, sir. A friend of yours left a package for you,” she answered cheerily, reaching down below the desk and emerging with a brown leather satchel. She placed it on the table and nodded.
	“Have a good night, sir.”
	He took up the bag and got into the elevator.
	His door key opened a corner room on the top floor. It was an open apartment, complete with kitchen and dining room, sparingly furnished but the pieces themselves were of good make. He placed the bag on the dining table and opened it up. Inside was a rubber tourniquet, a hypodermic needle sheathed in plastic, and a large vial of clear liquid. He picked up the vial and held it up to the light. Morphine, its label read. 900 mg.
	He held the vial clenched tight in his fist. He breathed, shoulders heaving, trying to slow his heart. He whirled and threw the vial at the wall, where it shattered and its contents stained the wall.
	As he walked tensely through the lobby once more, he turned to the receptionist.
	“If you see the man who left that bag, tell him I won’t be needing his magnanimity any more.”
“Of course, sir.” She smiled.

	He emerged from his reverie and focused again on the main office door. No movement could be seen in there, nor in the courtyard. He leaned back into the armchair and tapped his foot on the floor. He estimated the time to be between four or five o’clock, which would make it about eight hours since he checked in. It was beyond doubt now, that someone was on their way. He continued to wait, by the window, conscious of his muscles tensing and tightening against his will.

	“Sir.”
	“Hello. Come in, and get the door, please.”
	There was a portly man standing behind the desk. His thin, white hair stood out in disarray round his bald head. He stood pensively beside his chair, smoking a cigarette.
	“How is he?”
	The portly man heaved a sigh. “He’s not going to make it, I’m afraid. The doctors say they’ve tried everything. It’ll be done in a day, probably less.”
	“I see. He was a good man.”
	“It seems the good men always go first, leaving me behind to bury them.”
	“What’s the next step?”
	“Retaliation.” The man eased himself into his chair and gestured his guest to do the same.
	His guest nodded.
	“I know your strength lies in subtlety, Arthur, but this one must be handled differently. There cannot be any doubt in our enemy’s mind when he hears of it. Treason will not stand.”
	“When do I leave?”
	“Eight o’clock tonight, out of BWI.”
	His guest got to his feet and buttoned his blazer.
	“You’ll miss the funeral, I’m afraid. I understand you were close.”
	He looked thoughtful for a moment, his eyes unfocused. “I wouldn’t be much good there anyways.”
	The portly man nodded jerkily. “Better to stay focused on the job. Good man.”
	“Sir.”
	He left silently through the door.

	On the other side of the door, on the floor next to the doorframe, was a small pot of flowers: the red bloom of poppies sprouting from black soil. He had left it there when he was called in. He picked up the pot and walked down the hall. There was a door at the end, marked Christopher Macray. He opened the door.
	Inside was an office, much smaller than the portly man’s. It was little more than four walls and a desk. The walls were covered in photographs, taped or glued or pinned to the wall. There was one man in all of them. On the desk were flowers and handwritten letters and filled picture frames.
He put his little pot on the desk, and was then drawn to the photos. He picked one off the wall. There was Christopher Macray in the centre, dressed in an old suit, standing behind a stone bowl. He had his arm around a woman, who held a white-gowned child in her arms. They were both beaming at the photographer. The child’s eyes, soft blue below his wet brow, looked into the stone bowl.
It was five months ago, the day he took that picture of them. He smiled at the image, pinned it back on the wall, and made for the door. At the threshold he stopped. He moved back to the wall, picked the photo off it, and slipped it into his pocket.

	Nineteen hours later he stepped out of the plane and felt the wind, and the dust it brought, sting his hands and face. He took a pair of sunglasses out from his breast pocket and put them on. He assumed an expression of blank apathy, an expression he would have to hold indefinitely.
	“There’s a car waiting for us in the lot,” said the man standing behind him. “What’s the time?”
	He took out his phone. There were seven messages from Samantha Macray.
	“It’s five o’clock.”
	“Good.”
	The man slipped past him and headed down the stairs. After turning his phone off, he followed him.

	“Good evening, Mr. Graves.”
	He was in another office. It was softly lit by shaded wall lights, giving a glow to the mahogany of the desk and chairs. A graying woman looked at him through her spectacles, legs crossed and a clipboard on her thigh.
	“Hello.”
	“I am Dr. Carver.”
	“I know.”
	“I suppose you also know what the purpose of these meetings are.”
	“To find out if I’m a defection risk.”
	She smiled tightly, coldly. “We are not nearly at that point yet. We are here merely to assess whether or not you are capable of returning to the field.”
	“That won’t take long.”
	“Oh?” She made a note. “From my experience with events similar to what occurred in Egypt, the emotions you feel lessen in intensity as time passes. Anger, rage, frustration, these all fade, and you will return to your emotional equilibrium, and you will want to get back to work.”
“If it’s all so inevitable, then why am I here?”
“We will meet at least every week, so I may mark your progress and give my opinion to your superiors as to when you will be ready to return.”
“And if I don’t return?”
She smiled humourlessly again. “You will return, take my word for it.”
“Why’s your word worth more than mine?”
	“We will find your patriotism again. You are an honourable man, and that remains constant through adversity.”
	“Are we almost done?”
“This session lasts an hour. I advise you to settle in.”

No movement could be seen in the courtyard. He leaned back into his chair and took his eyes from the window. He thought that it was taking too long, but he couldn’t be sure.
The room behind him was devoid of light, save for the stray rays that came in through the window. The digital clock on the bedside table was blank; he had unplugged it when he arrived in the room. A stripped handgun lay beside it, and its parts too, were scattered around the table surface. Something metallic-looking had fallen off and rolled under the bed: he could see its faint glint in the deep shadow. He didn’t see the point in picking it up.

A black cab pulled up to the consulate, its headlights lancing through the night, dust from the road swirling in incoherent movements within the beams. He got out, and Michaels did as well.
“How long are we staying?”
“Enough to get a lay of the place. We’re out by ten, at the latest.”
He shifted his suit jacket on his shoulders. The strap of his holster dug in painfully. He loosened it a notch, and followed Michaels up the stairs.
A doorman took their coats and ushered them into the ballroom. Columns, draped in red velvet, ran the length of it. They supported a balcony which ringed the room, meeting the floor in a curved, sweeping staircase at the far end of the room. Electric light, turned down low, lit the room from chandeliers and sconces. A band could be heard but not seen. A few dozen people lounged by the walls, shunning the center of the room. They were all in finery, a clash of African and European styles, contributing low conversation to the dull hum that pervaded through the room.
Michaels slapped him on the shoulder and headed off toward the right side of the ballroom. He watched him go, standing on the flats of his feet, hands in his pockets. After Michaels disappeared from view he padded over to a bar, set in the wall to his left.
He saw her there. She was off at the far end, leaning an ivory arm on the redwood surface, in a wine-red dress from which no light escaped. Bloody rubies hung from her ears on fine silver lines. Her lips were curled in an absentminded smile. There was a man at her elbow, talking at her incessantly, receiving no reaction. Her black eyes were glossed over, but when she met his gaze from across the bar they were revived, and glittered with lustre from under her thick lashes. Her smile broadened as he watched her and she watched him. She remained like that for a moment, before her eyes drifted back to wherever they were before. The man at her elbow droned on, never breaking his speech.

“Are you a politician,” she asked, touching her lips to her glass, “or a househusband?”
She had found him by the stairs. He thought about what to say.
“The latter.”
“Good.” She smiled back. “There’s hope for an interesting conversation.”
Idly he gazed at her.
“Where’s your wife?”
“Talking to her colleagues.”
“She sounds like a fun girl.”
“Maybe I’m the type for peace and quiet.”
 She laid her fingers on his arm. He still held his blank expression, but his eyes did not leave hers.
“What’s your name?” She asked.
“I don’t think names are necessary.”
“Tell me it anyways.” She drew in closer.
“I would just be lying.”
“I don’t care.”
They held there for a spell, her scarlet fingernails trailing on his black sleeve.
“Arthur Graves.”
She laughed and tapped his arm. “Arthur. That’s my husband’s name. What an interesting turn of fate.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“You don’t?” She arched her eyebrows. “Isn’t it so like you, Arthur Graves, to believe you’ve still got some agency left.”
She drew away from him and returned her arms to her sides. “Find me later.”
“I’ll leave it to fate.”
She smiled and turned away. He climbed the stairs.

“Would you like to talk about Egypt?”
“Would you?” He replied. He wore an impassive expression, resting his jaw on his palm.
“We’re going to have to eventually.”
“Why?”
She sighed and leaned back in her chair. “It is necessary for the process.”
“Why’s the process necessary?”
“Do you want to come back to work, Mr. Graves?”
“I suppose the work is necessary, right?”
“The country has enemies, you know that better than most. If you will not defend it, who will?”
“There’s no shortage of people like me.”
“Oh?” She made a note on her pad. “What makes you think that?”
“How long did it take you to find Macray’s replacement? How long did it take you to find mine? I’ve met the kid, you know. Passed him in the halls. He didn’t know who I was.”
“How did that make you feel?”
“Great.”
“You’ve made many sacrifices to do your job. You don’t think that deserves recognition?”
“I don’t really care.”

A cigarette tip flared in the low-light. He slipped his lighter back into his pocket. A blue tint was creeping up behind the ragged black line of the mountains on the horizon. He pushed the window open. It was in between late and early; there was not a sound to be heard in the courtyard or in the street beyond. Nobody stirred behind the blinds of the main office. Smoke curled up and out of his window.

He stood by the curb, shoulders knotted and hand balled up into fists. The rain fell down on his head. He had forgotten his umbrella inside the hotel.
From his pant pocket he drew out a cell phone and an ID badge, which he tossed to the curb. The flow of water picked the things up and carried them down through the drain, next to the wheels of a silver sedan. He unlocked the car and started it up. The shrill sound of the engine rang out and mingled with the noise of the street. The car pulled out and joined the thoroughfare, heading east to the end of the city.
He drove along the main arteries that lined the countryside, freeways wide long and empty, save for the stabbing points of white light that flew by him on his left, and the bleeding red that was always in front of him. He felt that all the properties of personhood he believed himself to have, he in fact did not have. He felt like a cell swimming the bloodstream of an organism so beyond his scope of comprehension as to be impossible to believe in. But that organism was not great, or powerful, or meaningful; it was just a mass that lay on the surface of the earth, that inhaled rock and exhaled dust, its form rising and falling constantly in its caricature of breathing. He did not think this, but he felt it, as he drove.
He drove for hours, until a neon sign to his right caught his eye, advertising a motel. He swung out onto the next offramp.
It was seedy looking, and there were few cars in the lot out front. The silver sedan pulled up in front of the main office.
He tracked muddy water onto the thick carpet. There was a man at the desk, disinterestedly leafing through a tablet. He rang the bell next to him.
“Got a room?”
“Got a name?” was the surly reply.
He thought for a moment. “Jared.”
“How’s Mr. Jared gonna be payin’?”
“Cash.”
The clerk straightened wearily and took a key off the wall, tossing it on the desk.
“Room 201.”
He snatched it up and headed for the stairs.

He and Michaels were seated on a wrought iron dining set on a dusty patio, shirts half undone against the heat. Two coffee cups too hot to bear were placed on the table between them. Michaels was reading a newspaper.
“Shit.”
He flicked the newspaper over to Arthur. The headline spoke in block letters: Bank Explosion Kills Seven. He glanced down the article to where Michaels’ finger was tapping on the small print. Mr. Artie Jones, the owner of the bank, was out of town on business during the attack and returned upon hearing the news. He was not available for comment.
“We fucking missed him.”
“So we did.”
He drew a cigarette from his pocket and waited for Michaels to speak.
“Let’s tie it up, then. Tomorrow. I have his address.”
He took a drag. “Let’s go home.”
“What?”
“We were here to send a message, and we did. So let’s go home.”
Michaels shook his head. “Christ. What about Jones?”
“Do you really care about Jones?”
“He’s why we came here.”
“That’s not what I’m asking. Do you really fucking care? About Jones?” He looked intently, feverishly, at his partner.
“What’s gotten into you?”
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, then closed it, and began his deep breathing exercise, pausing only to take another drag.
“If we don’t get him right now, he goes to ground, skips town, and we spend the next six months in a goose chase.”
“And how is that a change, huh? Our lives are both endless goose chases. It won’t make a goddamn difference what we do, so why bother? I want to get out of this place.”
Michaels stared wide-eyed at him. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, but tomorrow, we get Jones, we’re out on the next flight.”
“Fine. Tomorrow.” He tossed the butt in the coffee cup and heard it hiss at its end.
Michaels shook his head again as he stood up. “It’s not like you have anything to go back to.” He buttoned up his shirt and snatched the newspaper off the table.
“Fuck you.”
They left the cafe in silence.

The night was hot and the air was heady. They lay in sweaty patches on the bed, the sheets coiled around his waist, her red lips wrapped around a cigarette.
“My husband bought this place for me when I told him I wanted to be a painter,” she said, looking at the walls made pale by the moonlight.
“You paint?”
“Now and then.”
Her arm was linked with his, as if they were a young couple walking in public. He was made uncomfortable by the routine closeness.
“You don’t feel guilty?” He asked suddenly. It had been on his mind.
“It never had much purchase on me.”
“Even after marriage?”
She adjusted her shoulder’s lie on the headboard and took a drag of her cigarette. “I know housewives like myself who chew themselves up inside as they go about their dalliances. That always struck me as silly. The guilt never is strong enough to keep us from dallying, so why have it there at all?”
She turned to look at him, her strands of chestnut hair haloing around her head. “What about your wife?”
He paused before speaking. “I dislike her now. She never thinks of me much, anyways.”
“Am I just an opportunity for revenge?” She gazed at him with a false pout.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
She laughed and patted his hand. “I was only joking, sweetheart. I don’t really care.”

She had his file open on her desk. “You don’t have a wife, Mr. Graves?”
“No.”
“It can be helpful to have roots down, you know. Many employees benefit from the stability.”
He stared at the doctor blankly.
“You don’t have any living family either.”
He didn’t respond.
“Can you understand why it might make the agency nervous, to have a man like you, with no ties to the country, knowing the operational secrets that you know?”
Again she went without an answer. Her gaze turned hostile.
“What are your politics, Mr. Graves?”
He pointedly checked the clock on the wall.
“Believe me when I tell you it is in your best interest to answer.”

He thought about calling her now. He got up from the armchair and switched on the bedside lamp. Light was thrown across the room. A black phone cast its long shadow up the wall. There was a scrap of paper next to it, lying on the table. On it, written hastily in red ink, was the name Ms. Jones, and a phone number. With the note in one hand and the receiver in the other, he punched in the number. He put the phone to his ear.

He and Michaels walked up the whitewashed steps and knocked on the broad front door. The sun beat down on them, both sweltering under their black suits. Light footsteps could be heard from within. Both men quickly checked their holsters and straightened themselves.
She answered.
“Can I help you?”
“Is Mr. Jones here?”
“He’s upstairs.” She beckoned them in. They both stepped inside and slipped out of their shoes. The breath of air conditioning touched their streaming faces.
“He’s in his study. Up the stairs, down the hallway, last door,” she said helpfully, pointing a finger at the staircase.
“Thank you ma’am. We won’t be a minute.”
She smiled at Michaels.
They trudged heavily up the stairs and reached the landing. Michaels turned to him.
“Fuck,” Michaels whispered. “I didn’t know he was married.”
“Me neither,” he lied.
“Well, nothing for it, I suppose.” Both drew their handguns out from their jackets. “Which do you want?”
“I’ll take the wife.”
“Best not to meet until the airport, I think.”
“Sure.”
Michaels nodded and headed for the last door in the hall. He watched him go, then turned and walked back down the stairs, gun at his side.

The phone rang twice before she picked up, but as her greeting came over the line he heard the sound of a car engine come in through the open window. Picking up the phone, he stood by the armchair and looked down on the courtyard. A black sedan had pulled up by the main office. A man in a black suit got out and went inside.
He hastily said his goodbyes into the receiver and hung up the phone, turning off the bedside light as he did. Standing by the armchair he saw the office door open, and two figures step out. A man in a red apron pointed up to his room. The man in the suit nodded. The aproned man retreated back into the office and the man in the suit strode quickly across the courtyard, his hand disappearing into his jacket.
He felt an urge to run. The key was in his pocket. To flee into the woods, to lengthen the chase. He suppressed those urges with difficulty, beginning his calming routine. His hands shook. The routine was not working. The man outside walked up the stairs to the second floor. He moved from the armchair and sat on the bed, back to the motel room door, trying to unknot the muscles in his shoulders.

He approached the motel as dusk turned to night and the warm colours drained from the sky. He turned the car right into the courtyard. As he entered, a solitary lamp-post flickered to life. He parked in the lot and walked to the front office. It was a smoky dark room, lit only by the slashes of yellow-orange light that cut in through the Venetian blinds. There was a man behind the counter, bearded and disheveled, smoking a cigarette. A red apron, smudged with grease, was tied around his waist.
“A room for the night.”
The man looked up. “How’ll you be paying?”
“Credit.”
The man grunted. “Name?”
“Arthur Graves.”