Ben could hear the wail of sirens tearing up through Montparnasse and approaching fast. In minutes, this whole place would be swarming with real police. But for the moment he was alone with the last of the three gunmen who’d just tried to kill him, and succeeded in killing a lot of innocent people in the attempt. Ben felt a pang of deep sadness for Françoise Schell. She was dead because he’d persuaded her to meet with him, no other reason.

And somebody was going to pay for that.

The Mercedes was a wreck, its front end crushed like a concertina against the thick iron bollard. The engine was dead and hot metal was ticking and a wisp of smoke was rising from under the crumpled, bullet-holed bonnet. There was no movement from inside. Ben walked towards it. He winced as a lance of pain shot through him. He could feel the blood trickling warm down his left side. He kept walking, eyes fixed on the Mercedes, gun in hand, ready for the driver’s door to fly open and the gunman to come jumping out, firing as he came.

But the gunman wasn’t going anywhere. Ben cautiously approached the side of the wrecked car and grasped the door handle with his free hand, and tugged it open with the gun ready.

The body of the terrorist slumped sideways out of the opened door, bloody and staring. His forehead and the top of his skull were caved in like an eggshell where they’d punched through the windscreen on impact. That might have finished him off, but the two bullets that Ben had plugged him with as he’d driven off earlier would have done for him before too long. The inside of the Mercedes looked like a butcher’s slab.

Ben crouched beside the slumped corpse and frisked him. The guy was wearing a gold identity bracelet that was engraved in Arabic with the name ‘Sarfaraz’, but aside from that he was carrying no identification, not even a phone. Too much to hope for. His slim leather wallet contained only a thick wad of banknotes. Ben took them for himself as spoils of war, since he’d given all his paper money to Michel Yassa.

He stood up. The pain was worsening now as the adrenalin of the chase was beginning to wear off. The blood was leaking mostly from his chest, as well as various parts of his upper body. If he’d taken a bullet anywhere serious, he didn’t think he’d have made it this far. Then again, he’d known men fatally shot who didn’t realise it until afterwards, when they suddenly collapsed.