The receptionist frowned as Norton disappeared into the room behind her. A moment later she was taking a lockbox from under the desk and counting out a handful of coins. Sam checked the clock again. He felt sick. If he was late, would Zahrah be there to open the door? Or would he have missed his chance?

‘There you go,’ the receptionist said, pushing the money towards him.

‘Taxis can get through as far as the Bab al-Bahr, can’t they?’ he babbled, fumbling the cash into his pocket.

‘I think so,’ she said, bewildered.

Then Norton was back, swinging the suitcase over the reception desk.

‘Thanks.’ Sam grabbed it. ‘I don’t know if I can pay—’

‘Don’t worry, call it an advance. Now go!’

Sam barrelled out of the Interpress doors, almost knocking down a man on the other side. He made for the line of grand taxis that waited by the kerb at the edge of the Place de France. Unlike the cheap, petit taxis that zipped about, crammed with people on different journeys, these cars were almost always empty, reserved for rich people, for long trips. He’d never had the cash to take one before.

‘Bab al-Bahr,’ he gasped to the first man in the line. ‘Please, quickly!’

The taxi driver waved his hand. ‘Not far enough,’ he said, flicking ash from his cigarette. ‘Take a petit.’

‘Here.’ Sam shoved the pocketful of dirhams at him. ‘I’ll pay you that, just get me there as fast as you can.’

The man’s eyes widened in surprise. A moment later, he threw away his cigarette and was climbing into the car, motioning for Sam to get in. Then, they were speeding into the traffic, almost blindsiding a motorbike.

‘When’s the call to prayer?’ Sam yelled over the man’s radio, blaring out a French rock song.

‘For Asr?’ The man checked his watch. ‘Soon.’

‘How soon? I need to be there before it ends!’

‘Vale!’ The driver put his foot down, cutting off another taxi.

As they turned on to the Rue d’Italie, Sam heard the first crackle of static. The muezzin’s voice began to echo from somewhere above them, competing with the noise of the traffic. Come on, Sam begged silently.

The driver slammed his palm to the car’s horn, trying to ram his way through the crowds of people spilling from the medina on to the street. They ignored him, for the most part. Finally a gap opened, and he sped forwards. Sam was thrown back in the seat as they raced up the steep road, the taxi’s engine whirring and struggling. The call followed them, taken up by one loudspeaker after another until Sam felt as if they were racing it to the top.