He got back behind the wheel and drove off. But where to go? Nazim al-Kassar could be anywhere in Paris, if indeed he hadn’t left the city by now. He’d soon realise that his hit had failed. Then he’d simply disappear into the shadows for a while, planning his next attack. There was no way to anticipate where or when that might take place.

Ben connected his phone into the in-car system and called Thierry to check on his progress with the audio recording. The reply was disappointing.

‘Not much joy so far, chief. I’ve cleaned up as much of the background noise as I could and boosted up the voice frequencies hoping you might be able to hear what these two guys are saying, but it’s like polishing a turd. Whatever you do, it’s still a turd.’

‘Keep trying,’ Ben said, and ended the call.

Still nothing from Keegan. It was one bad break after another.

Ben lit a Gauloise and pondered his options as he drove. He’d just run from the scene of a major crime incident where he’d impersonated an officer, which only complicated an already problematic situation. There was a decent chance that the cop he’d spoken to had taken down the Alpina’s registration. That would lead them straight to Le Val. Jeff would know how to handle things if the police turned up there. Which would buy Ben some time, but meanwhile he’d need to take the necessary precautions to avoid unwanted attention from the law.

Afternoon was turning into evening by the time Ben pulled up in the junk-filled forecourt of Fred’s car-breaking plant down by the river. While the city’s industrial areas were shrinking in the face of ever-expanding gentrification, Fred and his domain of scrap metal and rust, walled in like a fortress behind mesh gates and guarded by France’s most vicious cur of a junkyard dog, were among the last of the holdouts. Selling dodgy cars for cash, no questions asked, was one of Fred’s specialities that Ben had made use of in the past. Another was illicit firearms. All Ben needed from him today, however, was a set of scrap number plates to switch for the Alpina’s.

Fred was only too happy to oblige. For a fistful of the cash Ben had lifted from the dead terrorist, he fitted the car with plates from the rusted-out corpse of a Paris-registered Peugeot that was destined for the crusher next morning. For another hundred euros Ben could have driven away with the sawn-off twelve gauge Fred wanted to sell him too, but he could live without one of those.