La Fée Verte – an absinthe joint north-east of the city centre on the corner of Rue de la Roquette and Rue Basfroi – had about as much cover as a greenhouse. Along each street tall wooden-framed French windows, shut against the cold, stretched the full length of the building. Shooting fish in a barrel would, by comparison, have been challenging. Outside, a couple of smokers sat at one of the small tables heated from above by electric burners. Inside, it was already buzzing with brunch customers. Blending in as a solo diner is an unenviable task. There was no immediate sign of the fabled barmaid through the windows, which remained worryingly clear. And there was no sign of Lukov, either.

I resisted the temptation to circle the block and instead made for the bakery on the corner opposite. The entrance was set well back under the overhang of the first floor, shielded from the street by a masonry pier. I bought a croissant and loitered plausibly in the doorway while I ate it.

After leaving Lukov’s cell the day before, I’d ditched the tan overcoat and bought a decent black waterproof jacket with deep pockets and a down liner, new jeans and hiking boots – plus neoprene gloves, a sweater and a baseball cap. I’d reupped on painkillers, too. And a toothbrush. Man cannot live by Gore-Tex alone. In my jacket pocket: one hundred millilitres of legal pepper spray and a Pozidriv screwdriver with a six-inch shank. Knives were illegal to carry, and if I got stopped and searched I needed to be as clean as possible: a screwdriver would be easier to explain away than a blade, and would stab and throw just as well. On my wrist: the cheapest waterproof watch I could find. On my mind: nothing except the angles and arcs of fire around La Fée Verte that a sniper might use.

The Senegalese guesthouse I’d stayed in three blocks north of our RV demanded double the rack rate when I asked to pay cash with no ID. My shopping spree hadn’t left me with enough change to cover that and dinner – but the night porter took pity on me and brought me up a bowl of chere couscous and seasoned meat with tomatoes: ‘Un cadeau de ma femme.’ He brought me a beer – ‘Un cadeau de moi’ – too, and told me just to open the window if I wanted to smoke in the room – which I did.

Twelve fifteen.