He ate it with the writing case tucked under one arm, and his eyes on the café, the juice running down the backs of his hands, dripping from his wrists. He almost expected it to hiss when it hit the gravel below. It was lukewarm and honey-sweet, washing the taste of nicotine from his mouth, filling his head with a rush of sugar.

A uniformed guard found him just as he was spitting the pips into the hedge.

‘Qu’est-ce que vous faites?’ the man barked.

‘I’m, ah, waiting for someone,’ Sam said unconvincingly. ‘I’m American and I—’

Something flashed across the street; the glass door of the Gran Café de Paris, reflecting the sun. A figure was hurrying out, looking down, sliding something small and rectangular and white into a shoulder bag, something like an envelope …

Without thinking, Sam broke into a run, though the guard shouted angrily and made a grab for him. He barged through people on the pavement, almost tripping headfirst into a roadside stall filled with broken watches and old shoes. More people shouted at him, he didn’t care. He blinked hard, staring down the street.

There, the figure was walking away, one hand gripping the bag. Whoever it was, they were swathed in a brown djellaba, the hood pulled up against the heat. Sam jogged, trying to close the distance between them, but the person was already nearing the corner of the Rue de la Liberté.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

The figure paused and half turned towards him. He caught a glimpse of dark hair before they whirled around and disappeared between two taxis.

‘Hey!’ Sam yelled again and lunged to follow, only to almost be knocked down by a moped, the driver screaming at him. Heart hammering, swiping sweat from his eyes, he looked down the street and caught a glimpse of the figure, rounding a corner. He raced to follow. Beyond, the road curved left towards the Place de France and the English Church, right towards the tarpaulined chaos of the medina. He had no idea which way the person had gone. Gasping in a lungful of hot air, he took a gamble, and turned right.

It couldn’t have been a worse time. Late morning, and the narrow paths between the market stalls were swimming with people, crowded with breath and voices and the smell of wet dirt and meat, pungent fish, crushed spices. He fought down one passage, turned left and battled past the stall that sold live chickens and ducks, squawking in their cages. Blood and water ran across the cobbles from the butcher’s stalls, making his shoes stick to the ground. Almost every person there was wearing a djellaba, it would be impossible to …