#multchapter

It tastes gross.

Her mother smiled. “It tastes bad because it’s medicine. You shouldn’t be drinking it, since you are healthy. Once you get to be my age, you will understand why.”

Her mother coughed a lot because she didn’t like to open the windows. She said it was just to prevent the cold air from getting in in, or hot air getting out. Besides, if Madeleine were uncomfortable she could always go outside.

Madeleine said, why do you drink it?

“Because I’m sick right now. Why don’t you go upstairs and play?”

By then, Madeleine was old enough to decipher the surgeon’s warning on the back of the bottle. Just like the gun under the cabinet, the magazine with five rounds past the legal capcity, her father’s choice in colleagues, her mother’s sickness, there were things you did and didn’t talk about.

As her mother began drinking more heavily, Madeleine would go to school or into the village with the bodyguard of the week. It must be lonely for her, sitting at home all day. Madeleine would spend some time with her mother if she was awake, just talking about the day, and her mother would sit and nod along as if she were still dreaming.

Sometimes she would drink too much and make herself sick. The maid showed Madeleine how to get stains out of the upholstery by diluting white vinegar or hydrogen peroxide with equal parts tap water. Not to combine vinegar and peroxide, creating peracetic acid which was an irritant. Cornstarch or baking soda to deodorize.

“If you want to do it properly, she said, mix ten ounces of three percent hydrogen peroxide, three tablespoons of baking soda, and two drops of dish-washing detergent. Mix until the baking soda is dissolved.

“Pre-test the upholstery by applying the cleaner in an inconspicuous place. Allow it to dry. If the fabric does not change color, spray the stain and allow the cleaner to work for an hour. If the stain is not gone, repeat the process.

“Rinse the cleaning solution from the area by dabbing with a damp cloth and blotting with a dry towel. Over time, detergent residue will attract dirt. The hydrogen peroxide could bleach the upholstery and weaken the fibers of the fabric. Then, you have to call a professional cleaner.”

Then, one day, the maid’s services were no longer required. There was no warning. Her mother said something about some of her jewelery missing, how you couldn't trust a lot of people. Madeleine nodded along. She was a very good listener.

The year Madeleine turned ten, a week away from her parent’s anniversary, she was home for Christmas break. She woke up a little earlier than usual because she was still accustomed to her regular schedule. She had a couple hours before she walked into town. She got dressed and came downstairs to fix herself breakfast. Her mother was sitting upright on the couch, in the same position as last night. Sometimes she fell asleep like that. Passing by, the acridly sweet smell of vomit permeated the air. She’d have to clean that up first.

In between the living room and kitchen Madeleine stepped on something small and crunchy. Her mother’s painkillers were scattered across the wood floor. She walked over to check on her mother, who was staring out the window without seeing. She didn’t respond when Madeleine touched her shoulder. Then shook her lightly. Called her name twice.

She noticed the half-empty glass, the upturned bottle of medication on the table. Her mother’s breathing, laboured. The bodyguard came in the house which her parents would never permit. He told Madeleine to get her things.

Madeleine’s father came home early in the morning. He explained that her mother took enough sedatives to make herself very sick, but nothing more. One of his most trusted associates, Dr. Vogel, would come here to make sure she was stabilised. In the meantime, he invited Madeleine alone to Morocco. To see more of the world, as he put it. Her mother needed time to recover.

Two days later in the lobby of L’Americain her father was chatting with the attendant behind the desk. He mentioned his wife (sick, again, poor thing) and daughter (just turned ten last year), a bit more delicate in their sensibilities. Her father led her upstairs to their room.

Madeleine set her own luggage down in a shady corner. The fine-cut curtains didn’t do much to stop the sunlight beaming in, the dry air. Madeleine went to the bathroom and checked her face. The white sleeveless cardigan looked elegant, but come evening she would have pink patches on the crown of her head, bare arms, tip of her nose. In a few days they’d start peeling. Madeleine made sure her hands were clean before tending to her face, which was still smarting. She took her time patting dry with the towel. She came back and her father was looking at the empty wall opposite the master bed.

“She never really liked coming here,” he said. “She just wanted an excuse to drink.”

Why did she make herself sick?

“She’s angry with me. Well, I haven’t been home as often as I should. There’s only so much I can do, now that she has gotten so ill.”

Does she hate me?

Her father stopped. The lines in his face accentuated by his frown. “She’s in a lot of pain. When people get very upset, they tend to say things they don’t mean. However she chooses to deal with that pain is her decision, but it is not your fault. Don’t let her convince you otherwise.”

Madeleine nodded. Her father’s hand smoothed her hair back; she stepped away, resisting the temptation to massage her sunburnt scalp.

He said, “You’ll have to change before dinner.”

Madeleine, biting the inside of her cheek, said, I know, dad. Frowning, she said, I don’t have to talk to Mr. Le Chiffre at dinner, do I?

“He is my business partner. You keep your opinions to yourself.”

Yes, dad.

Her father looked at her a long moment, then shook his head. “Here, you can’t go anywhere with a burnt face.” He motioned her over to the bathroom and started opening drawers, retrieving a tube of antimicrobial ointment next to the shaving cream. “There’s a hand-mirror as well, if you miss a spot. Just put it back when you’re finished.”

Okay. Thank you.

He smiled. Madeleine smiled back, even though her face hurt. 

⁂

On the drive to the Paris-Est, Madeleine’s feelings dissipated into grudging acceptance of her situation. An independent contractor looking for ransom would not understand the significance of the name SPECTRE, nor refer to her father by his title of The Pale King. Neither Safin nor his associate bore the metal ring she associated with the black emblem on her father’s letters—from work, he would always preface to her mother’s scowl—or the scant, unnamed ones that began showing up at Aunt Droit’s house the summer she turned eighteen.

She looked at the back of Safin’s head and said, “You work for my father?”

“I was contracted.”

Madeleine scowled at nothing in particular. “I didn’t know he still hired men like you.”

“He does not usually employ those outside of his circle.”

Exiting the car, boarding the train, she already had her tickets in first-class. Safin took a seat adjacent to her, with the end of the car in his line of sight. His associate was out of sight, on the other end.

En-route, they’d go from Paris-Est to Strasbourg, then Basel, then arrive in Zürich; a four-hour commute, assuming no complications. She could sit and refuse to talk like an insolent child, or she could take a moment to dissect her only source of information.

Objectively, she placed him somewhere in his early-to-mid-thirties. Average height. Not as physically imposing as his colleague, but still in excellent shape. He had a soft face which made him look younger, despite the scarring. The backs of his hands were damaged to a lesser extent than his face and throat. A subtle tension persisted around the shoulders—back in her residency years, she’d observed the same tendency in men who came from prisons.

The attendant walked over smelling like artificial vanilla, and enquired if they would need anything. A rush of saliva flooded Madeleine’s mouth as before vomiting. She shook her head.

“Everything’s fine, thank you,” said Safin.

The attendant continued down the aisle. Madeleine exhaled. Sunlight beamed on the side of her head, warming her past the point of languid ease. All she had was the handbag at her feet; burner phone, wallet, spare cosmetics, and a custom holster for a gun she hadn’t touched since purchasing, years ago. Still in the safe, if it hadn’t been confiscated by forensics or whomever broke into her apartment.

Madeleine relaxed her shoulders. Itching to get out of her head and into someone else’s for a change, she said, “I never collected my luggage from the airport, you know. I don’t have much on me.”

“Your personal affairs have been accounted for.”

A well-dressed thug was still a thug. Now she was stuck with him for the rest of the commute. Madeleine couldn’t stand to sit.

“Where do you think you’re going?” asked Safin without looking up.

“Dining car. I haven’t eaten since this morning.”

Safin made eye-contact with the associate by the door and gave a slight nod; Primo got up and followed her down two car lengths. Madeleine took a seat at one of the tables. Primo was by the door again. He didn't order anything. The other passengers, the server, became non-entities. Ordinary civilians. Two strangers on a commute. She shouldn't stare diffidently around as if waiting for the other shoe to drop. Focus on having a quiet meal. She paid in cash. Tipped ten percent.

When she returned to her seat, Safin said, “Trouble?”

“Of course not.”

Safin glanced down the end of the train. “Very good.”

From Basel to Zürich, they were on the upper level of the SBB train, seated at a booth. Safin was closest to the aisle and by extension, the exit. Madeleine, in a spot by the booth corner, was getting a little sick of this charade. He wasn't much for conversation, and the confines of her own head were starting to wear on her. He was allotting her space but less visibility, like putting blinders on a horse. If this situation were truly dangerous, they wouldn’t be travelling by train in the first place. Too many possibilities for interception.

The passing attendant didn’t address her beyond a glance and a small, terse smile. Probably just wanted to get to the end of the shift. Or maybe it was just her resting bitch face. She was simply run-down by the events of this morning. Operating on fumes. A dangerous way to live, even with someone else looking over your shoulder. Just like her father, sending a bodyguard-slash-operative in lieu of explanation.

“Dr. Swann,” said Safin, “is there a reason you keep looking over at the door?”

It was the first thing he’d said to her in a while. “I was just thinking. My father never mentioned any property in Zürich.”

“Not property. It’s a penthouse. You have a room set up already. I’ll stay out of your way.”

Madeleine nodded. Parsing over his sentence in her head a few more times. She looked up. “You have a reservation?”

“Only in the interest of your protection.”

Madeleine stared at him. Scoffed. “This is ridiculous. I haven't had a problem in years. He still treats me as if I am indebted.”

“You took his money.”

Madeleine stared at him in disbelief. “I took it to get through university, which I could never have afforded on my own. I never asked for anything beyond what he deigned to offer.”

Safin’s mouth thinned.

“Now you don’t want to talk? Fine. Since you obviously have nothing better to do than humour me, there is something I’ve been meaning to ask. What, exactly, were you planning to do if I walked away? I understand you have your method of operations, but really. The middle of a police station?” Safin said nothing. “I guess even men like you have to get your kicks. It's not every day you get to lead someone at gunpoint—”

“Are you finished?”

His indifferent tone didn't match the look on his face. Before she went to Oxford, she would have never talked to a close-protection officer this way. Madeleine averted her eyes. She could feel him studying her over the edge of the sunglasses. He turned his head in her direction, said, “You dislike guns.”

“I hate them.”

“May I ask why?”

“When I was a little girl, a man came to the house looking for my father. He found me instead. He got very angry when I wouldn’t tell him where my father had gone, so, I defended myself.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That’s why.”

⁂

After getting off at the station it was only a short drive into the Wollishofen district. The hotel entrance flanked by a pair of men in suits. One of them nodded to Safin before bidding them entry.

The penthouse was a step above the apartment in France. Hardwood floors. Everything polished. Individual climate control, central heating and IDD telephone. The kitchenware looked new. Her room was already set-up for her. A gilded dresser by the bed. Pillow-top mattress. The marble bathroom adjacent, complete with a hairdryer, dressing gowns and towels. Twin lamps flanked the bed. Engraved into the ivory base of each lamp was the shape of a dragon, twisted in upon itself.

Hardly her father’s style, or to her own tastes, for that matter. He probably picked this establishment because it was close to where he worked. Running business meetings over in Schwyz. He'd always been pragmatic when it came to his family and occupation.

The suitcase at the foot of the bed called her attention. Opening it, she found the clothes she’d left in Arnaud’s apartment. She parsed through the fabric. Some of these, she hadn’t worn in a season or two. Going out more often. Getting compliments at work, out-and-about, trying to smile.

At the bottom of the suitcase, she felt something heavy and cold underneath her folded dress shirt. The Glock 43 in her hands, complete with a spare box of ammunition. Manilla envelope containing old birth certificates and copies of all her current information, plus forged papers. Everything from the safe. A level of attentiveness hovering between convenience and invasion.

She went over to the set of glass doors leading out to the balcony, and drew the curtains shut. Unpacking the rest of her belongings, she couldn’t hope to blend in wearing anything she’d taken to Conakry. She was not strapped for cash, and still had plenty of money set aside in a Swiss account—for a day just like this one. The type of life insurance most people her age could never afford, and the ones below her tax bracket would kill for.

Despite occupying an apartment together, the death of Arnaud had the same emotional weight as a newspaper obituary. An hour at most for sympathetic grief, then annoyance for the persistence of that grief. All this time, carving out an altruistic identity through deeds. Spending the rest of her life making up for inherited sins. Living with people for the sake of social convenience.

Taking comfort every month her father failed to acknowledge her, in this façade of a charmed life. Holding onto that impossible dream until karma caught up. Leaving behind nothing of herself, beyond the lives she might touch along the way. Taking perverse pride in the impossibility of knowing an enigma. Each time, the quiet of each new office, the empty apartment, became a little more encompassing.

She was going to be here a week. She would have plenty of time to recuperate. And heaven forbid, enjoy herself for once. She was not going to sit here and cower like she was under house arrest.

Coming into the living area, she caught sight of Safin and his associate.

“The room is fine,” she began, “but, if I’m going to be here a week I’ll need some things in the morning.” Safin held her gaze in lieu of speech. “Just clothes. I don't want to walk around in things I wore a week ago.”

Surely, he would rebuke her. Call her out as a trust-fund. She had given him every right. He levelled with her and said,

“Once we work out an itinerary, that shouldn’t be an issue.”

⁂

That night she buried herself under the soft blankets. Dreamless sleep the most precious amenity of all. If she started taking pills she’d draw attention to herself. She dreamed she was back in her childhood bedroom when her mother called from downstairs. Madeleine checked the rooms and couldn’t find her mother anywhere. Someone she didn’t know, standing in the hall that led to the living room. She said,

Où est ma mère?

The man turned. He was dressed in a jet-black suit.

Laissez-moi passer. J’ai besoin de parler.

The man motioned to the living room with a lanky arm. "Elle vous attend."

With each step the hall increased a little further and further. Living room should only be ten steps away, not fifteen. Not twenty. When she looked back the man was elsewhere. The living room was empty. On the sofa was a large, red stain. Her mother must have spilt the wine.

The shock of cold liquid percolating her socks. Someone had tracked water into the house.

She followed the trail into the kitchen. A different man hunched over the sink, in a white coat and snowpants. A rifle slung around his shoulder, at his hip. Black gloves. Black boots still damp with melted snow.

Before she could say a word he grabbed the rifle and turned to aim at her with mechanical precision. Muscle memory.

"You aren’t supposed to be here." His accent wasn’t Austrian, or French. Garbled through the blood trickling into his mouth, under his tongue. "Get out, and I’ll forget about this."

There was a hole in his jaw the size of a 9×19mm Parabellum. Nine rounds loaded into her father’s Beretta 92S, under the cabinet with the bleach.

She explained in a high voice how the stain in the living room needed cleaning. Her mother would be very upset if she didn’t. She just needed to get to the cabinet for a moment, please.

His teeth bared, stained red. Finger on the trigger. "I won’t ask again."

She opened her mouth and screamed, maman, run—

Two shots. Impact tearing through her body without regard for gravity. Looking down in time to see blood spattered across the hardwood floor. Brain matter and bone fragments against a hot car window.

She plunged her hands into herself. Clawing away the sheets. Unbroken skin, sheened in sweat. Her eyes flooded with tears as she sat up and began to rock herself back to stability. Waiting for the initial swell of terror to pass, as it always did. Regulating her breathing. Just a trauma response. Sitting still, unsure if it was midnight or five in the morning. 

Pressing her face into her palms. A dull throbbing behind her eyes, in the base of her skull. About to get up when she heard the footsteps. Movement from the hall towards the living room. A few seconds later, Safin’s voice, indistinct. She couldn’t make out what he was saying at first. Something in Russian. Orders from his employer, most likely.

And what must they think of her? Another privileged idiot, living in a bubble. Disrespectful to her father and his syndicate. Hypocritical.

She contemplated feigning sleep. The warmth of the sheets was too cloying. Her phone read 06:21. Still too early for her to be awake. She stood up, barefoot on hardwood, creeping over to the balcony. Reaching out to touch the pane. Cool glass kissing her naked palm. In two weeks it would be October. Two months from now, the ground would be laden with snow. The ocean grey and still.

Opening the door. Stepping out onto the balcony, gripping the rail. Taking fresh air into her lungs until the soles of her feet smarted. Hardly any boats. Just her and the horizon and the night sky.

Stumbling into the bathroom when she couldn't bear the cold any longer. Bags under her eyes more pronounced than the day before. Madeleine had a shower, trying to piece together the dream, hazier than in her youth. Visceral details heightened by recent exposure. An intimation of childhood memories depicted in abstract. She shook it off, dressing for the day. It was only a dream.

Before she left the room she caught the silvery glint in her peripherals. The old television reflecting the light from outside. Combing around the drawers for a remote. She clicked it on. Quickly hit the mute button. Squinting at the harsh colours that only reignited her headache. Flitting through channels for news. Poring over the headlines. Not a word about the MSF. 

She sat there for a while letting the colours wash over the room. Clicked it off and went downstairs to have breakfast.

Safin, hovering by the glass doors in the living-room area overlooking the ocean front, was dressed as if for another commute. “Dr. Swann,” he greeted.

She rifled through the pantry and found it stocked. Looking for some cereal, something basic—catching briefly on the bottle of liquor. Madeleine took the cereal, fixed herself a bowl and some coffee. Still had a headache. Light breakfast. Plus, the caffeine would dehydrate her.

“I don’t suppose this safehouse has any painkillers?” Safin looked over. She was already going through cabinets. “It’s my head. Just the weather.” She met his gaze with more confidence than she could back up. Safin’s attention shifted to the side of her head.

“On your right.”

She took two with her coffee. Ate in silence. Waiting a week in the hope her father might have an excuse was a truly miserable proposition. What would she say? Hello, Papa. I’m still alive. Did you pick this location to remind me of your home in Austria?

Well, one thing at a time.

“Who do I speak to when I’m ready to leave?”

In lieu of a response, Safin glanced over at his associate.

⁂

She couldn’t travel beyond Zürich’s aptly-named canton. She could not contact anyone else outside of SFT to confer information about her father’s whereabouts, or anything else for that matter. Aside from that she was free to go wherever she liked within the constraints of the itinerary.

First, clothing. That took her to Bottega Veneta. In Flagranti’s Business Acumen playing over the intercom. Madeleine’s hackles raised. The painkillers in effect. Caffeine wearing off. She started parsing out signs. She hadn’t really thought about what she needed beyond the vague idea of change. Starting fresh. So accustomed to the life of a disconnected middle-class that its opposite became seductive. Perusing the aisles in a daze. Selecting whatever pulled at her heart in a perverse reminder of home. Nothing too extravagant. A new raincoat and a couple pairs of shoes. Navy scarf for the winter months. Spare lipstick. A few more shirts and dress pants in monochrome. Spare underwear, socks.

Spent an hour trying it all on. Avoiding the eyes of the woman in the glass. She didn’t feel any different. The raincoat was too dark. She might as well be attending a funeral. She already had a reputation for being severe. What did it matter? She was always severe and the rest of the world could just bite the bullet.

The associate was waiting, outside. Probably didn’t give a damn about her, either way. She wasn’t about to humanise him beyond his occupation. They made brief eye-contact. Unimportant banter between her and the cashier during the transaction. Associate was taking her bags. Walking with her over rain-slicked asphalt. Back into the car. The beat of raindrops on the window lulling her into a false sense of security.

Snapping herself out of it when the car stopped. Treading up the stairs, down the hall. Pulling old clothes out of drawers, off hangers. Substituting her purchased goods. It wasn’t enough to fill the wardrobe, but she would have time to buy new clothes. Set aside the old stuff to be dealt with.

Each time she returned to the safehouse, there were men checking over everything. Protocol, on top of all the scrutiny. 

“I don’t want them in my room when I come in,” she told the associate. “Around the premises, and they can check the cars if it is necessary. If they must check all the rooms, fine, I just don’t want to see it.”

Childish to her own ears. Too beaten-down to think better of it. The associate just said, “Talk to Safin about it.” He walked out of the room without looking back.

That evening, Safin was lingering around the living room. He'd made himself tea on the stove. Without looking up he said, "I hear you are feeling crowded?"

Madeleine scowled. "He told you about that?"

"That's all right." He paused. "I'll accompany you."

The next few days were a tolerable blur. Wandering through Bahnhofstrasse. The Beyer Clock and Watch Museum. Next day, the Museum of Graphic Design for ten francs. Bellevue Square. Sattel-Hochstuckli. The three hundred seventy four metre Skywalk. Dinner at the Mostelberg-Stübli. Home again, each time without incident.

On the job, Safin hardly said more than a couple words to get his point across. But he gave her no reason to acknowledge him beyond this, dissolving into the background noise until he was needed. At least they weren't glowering at each other.

Apart from this, he was not around except for very early in the mornings. At the safehouse he would acknowledge her in passing with a curt nod.

How much normalcy could she put up with before she broke down? She had no more power or relevance than the common man and the only difference was her awareness of futility.

Inevitable, perhaps, that her thoughts would stray back to the MSF. Conducting research on her own, in the mornings and evenings; parsing through official news sites on her laptop, then underground articles, statistics, and anything else she could scrounge up.

The Guinean military had been busy quelling unrest for the last week, but there were few details. Several key figures in the MSF were currently under investigation, tarnishing the reputation of the organisation. That stuck around the headlines, right next to some lesser story in the corner about various pharmaceutical companies cooperating in tandem with the Red Cross and clean MSF figures to ensure there was no repeat affliction throughout the rest of Africa. Madeleine didn’t see her face or any mention of a Psychosocial Unit mentioned anywhere.

By day four, it was all she could think about. She alternated between laying in bed and taking down notes from various news sources. She slept one hour. Shambling downstairs on a very shameful autopilot. No real appetite. Safin nowhere to be seen. It took all the energy she had just to stand. Maybe she could take a free-day if she was polite. He had already accomodated her other, silly demands. Moving over to the sofa. Slumping into it. Closing her eyes. Only for a second.

Sharp staccato of rifle fire tearing apart a wooden door. Gun in the cabinet, next to the bleach. Heavy footsteps on wood. On carpet. She’d never get there in time.

A gloved hand on her shoulder. Jerking awake with a guttural hitch.

“Dr. Swann?”

Face-to-face with the last person she wanted to justify herself to. She recovered her composure, averted her eyes. “I—I’m sorry. It was just a nightmare.”

“About your mission?”

He was still holding her shoulder. He didn’t need to restrain her. She was perfectly aware of her surroundings. “No. I’m not sure what. Anyway, it was only a dream.”

“Don’t insult my intelligence.” His grip tightened, causing her to flinch. “If a client came to you exhibiting these symptoms, what would you assume?”

Madeleine held her tongue. 

“This is not the first time you have exhibited this behaviour. Mental or physical distress to trauma-related cues," he inclined his head, "an increased fight-or-flight response. Difficulty sleeping.”

“So, you can define post-traumatic stress disorder. It does not make you my analyst.” She brushed him aside, staring at her hands balled up on her knees. “Most of the time, I don’t remember my dreams.”

“That’s a strange thing, to not remember something so distressing.” An undertone to his voice that made her stomach clench. “Tell me, did you buy your way into passing your psychological evaluations?”

“Let me make one thing very clear to you,” said Madeleine, standing up to look him in the eyes, “I can accept that you are here to keep me alive. I’ll go along with your precautions, or whatever you think is necessary. Your personal opinions do not apply. If that is more than you can handle, I’ll simply find someone else.”

He said, very softly, "Are you threatening me, Dr. Swann?"

"Do you feel threatened?"

A flicker of some unfamiliar emotion trapped behind his reserved countenance. Tempered with the set of his jaw. He stepped back. “You aren’t leaving until you get some sleep.” Before she could answer, he turned and left her alone, confused.

⁂

For the next thirty six hours the SFT team confined her to the safehouse. Letting her out only to walk her around the halls for twenty minute intervals like a high-strung pet. She could take sleeping pills, though she was monitored. Her resentment outweighed by desperation to regain her agency.

Falling asleep due to exhaustion rather than effort. She woke up to daylight behind the curtains.

Safin was lurking about the living area when she came down. He didn’t say anything. Maybe she was going about this the wrong way.

“You’re an independent contractor?” Safin looked at her. “How long have you been operating?”

“Fourteen years. Our operations tend to stray away from the public eye. The situation in Conakry was an exception.”

Madeleine nodded primly. Still grasping for a conversation topic that wouldn’t completely sabotage her own intentions.

“I remember there was an incident in Bolivia, back in 2008. A water crisis." Safin was watching her out of his peripherals. "Dominic Greene, the famous entrepreneur, lost his life and the organisation he was courting shut down. But the gas explosion at the La Perla de las Dunas, that was all over the news. At the time it was deemed a political assault because several key members of the Bolivian military were rumoured to be involved.”

“Did they mention a man by name of Luiz Medrano?”

“Medrano. It's been a long time. I honestly don't recall.”

Safin nodded. “General Medrano, I should say. He cut a deal with Greene. Undisputed access to a seemingly useless piece of land in the Atacama Desert. It was, in fact, the site of an underground dam. Greene would have a monopoly over Bolivia’s water, and Medrano and his coup would seize control of the country.” A particularly cold smile crossed Safin’s face but didn’t reach his eyes. “Not all of their subordinates were loyal. Someone from the outside must have intercepted at the hotel. Even so, their claim over the dam might have stayed out of the public eye if not for the amount of military figures found complicit in that political handover.” He paused. “QUANTUM’s disbandment was not made public at the time. How would you know of this?”

Madeleine lowered her voice. “My father helped found it. Greene was one of his associates. I don’t think my father mentioned him to me more than twice in my life. He’d never let me see his shame directly. Just like what is happening now, in Conakry. You must know something, please. Is this another one of his deals? Why was I singled out?”

Safin drew breath, exhaled.

“You are concerned. That is natural. For your own good, forget about what happened in Guinea.”

A week ago Madeleine would’ve clung to her indignanation. “You expect me to ignore this? It isn't going away just because I'd like it to. All those people, their families are suffering.”

“You accepted the mission knowing that there was the possibility there would be casualties.” He looked over at her. “The situation escalated far beyond any one party’s control. There’s no sense in blaming yourself. You did the best you could.”

“Forgive me if I do not want to stand by and watch people suffer.”

“There is a difference between idealism and taking action. Just because you grew up wealthy, you don’t have to prove yourself to the rest of the world.”

"It’s always been important to me. It's not just wealth. I realise that I have a lot of advantages that other people around the world may not. The least I can do is help, however I can." Safin chuckled. "What’s so funny?"

"The resources required are hardly ever provided by charity. Access to agricultural tools. Clothing. Self-defence. Usually, it falls to monetary donations without any regard for politics or economic disparities. Your MSF is something of an exception."

"First of all, it's not my charity, I volunteer. And these changes don’t happen by simply talking about it. You need to organise first. Someone has to provide funding. There is a lot of work that goes on behind the scenes you are dismissing.”

“The failure of the MSF to act indicates the organisation’s greater limitations. Not your own, or any one person's.”

“They’re supposed to be neutral.”

“What good did neutrality serve the civilians in hospital? The mining infrastructure?” said Safin coldly. “The MSF look weak, collaborating with the same men who keep these people in poverty, and future clients understand that no one is going to protect them.” He paused. “Why give your time to them?” 

“That’s the trouble with men like you. You’re focused on the bigger picture. You don’t give a second thought to anyone else who might get caught up in the mess you thrust them into.”

“Good-will is useless when you are looking down the barrel of a gun. In the end they needed someone willing to work outside of their jurisdiction.” He glanced at Madeleine. “To keep the peace.”

Madeleine mulled over what he was saying. Studying his face. Too intricate to be leprosy or a burn wound. It couldn’t be an acid attack, as the structure of his face remained intact. Chemical, perhaps. It was a very distinctive type of scarification she’d read about once or twice, but never treated.

“Are you trying to diagnose me?” he said, turning to look at her directly. “You could just ask.”

Easy to read. She paused. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

The ice in his eyes dispersed into indifference. He shrugged. “It was a long time ago.” Cordial, but not openly genial. “Now that you're awake, I can tell you. There’s been a slight change of plans. Your father should be arriving later this evening.”

Madeleine exhaled. "Just my luck." Then she looked over at him. “Well, I suppose I've no reason to distrust you.”

“I’m just the messenger, Dr. Swann.”

Madeleine smiled. “Please, just call me Madeleine. I’m not working right now.”