He referred Maria to his address book then told her which of his Cypriot contacts might know the home address of Metin Volkan and asked her to call him back as soon as she’d found it out. It was a short walk to the border, a pedestrianized alley in which two men in blue overalls with long-handled rollers were whitewashing away graffiti, while a border guard with hooded eyes lost a private battle against the urge to yawn, then shifted weight from leg to leg. Iain’s recent troubles in Antioch might have earned him a place on an immigration watch-list, so he and Karin joined different queues. The woman officer glared at him. But then she glared at everyone. She held his passport beneath a scanner then stamped it like it had jilted her. Then she turned her glare onto the family behind. Maria came through with Volkan’s address. They Googled directions then hurried along cobbled streets as shadows inched up facing buildings.
