‘Look,’ he went on, gesturing helplessly, ‘it was obvious to me he was one of the bearded crazies. Even though he was clean-shaven. I have dealt with enough of them to recognise the type. Fanatics, all of them . . . But you would know that, after 9/11,’ he added, hoping to create some common link. ‘This German was no different. A fanatic with more sense than most, but still a death-obsessed medieval god botherer, no? But what did it matter? Their great Satan was gone. There could be no return to France for him. Not when Sarkozy prevailed in the war. So what did it matter, letting one more savage out into the wild?’

The log on which he sat was rotten, and it crumbled underneath him as he shifted his weight. Lupérico’s backside cracked the thin husk of the hollow, fallen tree trunk with a loud crunch and he dropped a couple of inches before emitting a little shriek when he realised he was covered in stinging red ants. He leapt to his feet and tried to brush them from his pants. The woman was on him before his heart could beat again. He had no idea what she did to him, but he felt his legs suddenly swept out from under him as his shoulders were driven down into the ground. Into the giant ants’ nest he had just disturbed. He would’ve shrieked aloud, and for much longer, but the fierceness of the expression on her face, now less than a foot from his, unmanned him. She looked predatory, carnivorous.

‘Tell me exactly how he was released.’

He tried to speak but she was choking him. He could feel his eyes bulging and his face turning red as he spluttered and slapped ineffectually at her stranglehold. She regained control of herself just as he felt himself about to pass out, but he remained unable to answer her with any alacrity. Instead he rolled away from the ants, coughing and gagging for air.

‘It was another Turk,’ he said with great difficulty, fighting the urge to vomit. ‘A businessman. He described himself as Baumer’s uncle, but that was almost . . . almost certainly a lie. But he was a businessman. He was in shipping. One of his ships was in port and he offered to take Baumer away. What did I care? It was one less prisoner to feed, one less crazy to worry about. The world was at an end. It did not matter.’

His tone was almost pleading. The woman had withdrawn to the other side of the clearing and gave a very strong impression of having to restrain herself. Why did she care about all this? What was it to her? Like him, she was just a functionary.

‘The name of the Turk,’ she demanded. ‘The one who came and took your prisoner, the one who bribed you. What was his name?’