Here is the other side of it, which she did not get until about the fourth month and which she has never entirely forgiven him for.
He saw her first.
Naples. The second week of September.
He was in that bar because a man at a bus stop had told him about it, and he was reading, and he had ordered in Italian that he had been assembling for about a fortnight and was deploying with enormous care.
And a woman came in on her own at eleven o'clock at night and ordered in Italian that was worse than his.
That is all. That is the entire event and he has been extremely precise about it: she ordered badly and cheerfully and in a way that was quite clearly the fourth or fifth time she had said that sentence that day, and then she sat down and got out a notebook and did not look at her phone once in forty minutes.
"You noticed the notebook."
"Frankie, I noticed everything," said Kit Sorensen. "That is what four years of that method does to a person. You become somebody who can tell you how many people are in a room without turning round."
He did not speak to her.
He has given four different reasons for that over the years and he has admitted that none of them is the true one.
The true one is on the record because she got it out of him in the eleventh month, in a kitchen in Lisbon, after a very long day.
"Because you looked like somebody who was working," he said. "And I had not spoken to anybody who was working in about a year and a half."
Chisinau. The eleventh of November.
The bus from the airport. He got on first and sat down and did not look round, and she got on four seats behind him.
He knew inside about two minutes.
That is the thing that took her a year to get out of him: he recognised her getting onto that bus and he sat in front of her for forty minutes with his back to her and did not turn round once.
"Why not?"
"Because I had already decided it was a coincidence," said Kit Sorensen, "and the only way to keep a thing a coincidence is to not look at it."
Almaty. January.
The canteen. He was three places ahead of her in the queue and this time he did not know until he had sat down and seen her across the room.
And he got up and left without eating.
That is the one she could not let go of.
"You left."
"I left."
"Kit, you had queued."
"I had queued for about eleven minutes and I got up and put the tray back and went out," he said, "and I walked around a car park in Almaty in January for about half an hour, and it was minus nineteen, and I stood there and did the arithmetic that you did on the funicular, and I got the same two answers you got.
"And the first one was that I was following you. Which I was not, and I knew I was not, and I still had to stand in a car park at minus nineteen and check."
He put his cup down.
"And then I got on a flight four days later," said Kit Sorensen, "and it went to Tbilisi, and I came up a mountain at ten past seven in the morning in the dark because I could not sleep, and I stood at a rail for fifty minutes working out how to leave Georgia.
"And at eight o'clock somebody came up behind me and said three words.
"And I have never in my life been so glad to be caught."