The drive down Ledru-Rollin had taken thirty seconds. I braked and kicked down into second and looked fully over my shoulder. The pursuit bikes had kept pace behind me, one hundred metres, slowing but closing – the rider of the BMW hung back, sun glinting off his visor, no weapon visible. I faced front again. The junction ahead was open, but a military unit from the Gare d’Austerlitz on the left bank had made it over the river and cut the bridge at its summit. Legionnaires sprinted to take up covering positions, green berets bobbing in the winter light. The chopper caught up with me. The sirens grew louder.

Think.

If I ran the roadblock it was a short blast south-west through to where I needed to get. But they’d cut me to ribbons before I cleared the first fifty metres. I could try the Pont Charles de Gaulle, one over to the east, though the chances were they’d make it there before me, too – and I’d be driving against the traffic. West was best. I risked getting lost in the maze of city centre streets, but if you’re in a tight squeeze, the thing to do is get smaller. As long as I had room to ride, the more people around me the better. Colonel Ellard would have approved. Use everything to your advantage – human shields included. I accelerated right and buzzed on north-west, river to my left, police bikes on my tail. They appeared to hold all the cards. But I had an ace up my sleeve: they didn’t know where I was going. If I could get over the river, I could disappear.

I took off right along the Quai de la Rapée and over the Arsenal Basin. The window glass of the van to my right exploded into tiny crystal cubes. A squaddie had opened up from the bridge. On a busy street in London they’d shoot you only at point blank. Hit and you’re a hero; miss and maybe you’re a murderer. I’d been there myself. In France they didn’t fuck about. More lead skidded off the asphalt around the tyres and I felt the tic-tic-tic of bullets hitting the panniers. But I was away and out of range in a couple of seconds, dodging round to the right before he could line up on my back. The river forked around Île Saint-Louis. Pont de Sully slipped past to my left, a blur of blue flashing lights through a gap in the bare winter trees. I tipped to my left and opened up harder, the quayside flitting past in a mess of booksellers and tourist-trappers selling everything from peanuts to Picassos.