The woman appeared satisfied with whatever information she had exchanged with the little computer attached to her arm. She took a drink from her own supply before unwrapping two more of the unpleasant-tasting chocolate bars. Lupérico thought she might share one with him, but she ate both.

She took a few seconds to chew through the small meal, regarding him without apparent effect as she did so. Then something crashed through the undergrowth nearby, causing her to cock one ear in that direction, and even to sniff the air like an animal, but she detected nothing to alarm her. Another drink, a quick check of their surroundings, and she seemed ready to deal with him. It did not leave him feeling confident.

‘You ran a detention facility, an undeclared asset, for the French Government, in Guadeloupe.’

It was a statement, not a question. Lupérico nodded warily. He’d been sure this would be about that period. He’d lived hand to mouth, stitching together one arrangement after another, since losing his position in the colony. Although he’d involved himself in any number of questionable activities during that time – some of which had finally brought him undone, when he trespassed on the prerogatives of Roberto Morales’ mafia state – none suggested themselves as likely to elicit the very precise form of violence this woman, this opératif, had visited upon the militia. His mind began to race all over again, desperately searching for some memory that might explain her arrival. In the meantime, there was little point in lying to her. Indeed, it would probably prove to be dangerous.

‘I was the administrator there, yes,’ he answered.

‘You remember a prisoner, a German national of Turkish background, by the name of Bilal Baumer? You would have received him via extraordinary rendition, sometime after the Paris intifada.’

Lupérico tried to keep his face neutral, but he feared that the woman could read his underlying anxiety. He now knew this was political, and political intrigues were always the most problematic, no matter that his own involvement might be tangential. Again, he saw no point in lying to her. She obviously knew the prisoner had been through his facility.

‘Well, we had a large number of renditions after September 11,’ he replied, watching her carefully for any sign of a reaction while he tried to reach back through the years. She gave none, which he found even more unsettling. He did not want to displease her. A German national? Of Turkish background.

Think, he told himself. Think.

‘I didn’t say September 11,’ she corrected him. ‘I said you would have received the prisoner after the intifada.’