From Fred’s place, Ben headed across the river into the Latin Quarter, to a Franco-Lebanese food bar he knew in the fifth arrondissement. The evening was turning cold and rainy. He spent more dead man’s cash on a pile of falafel with tabbouleh and lemon-marinated chicken en brochette, and took them back to eat in the car. He hadn’t eaten all day, and needed the energy for what was promising to be a long night ahead.

Because by then, Ben had decided on his next move. If he couldn’t spring a surprise visit on the hideout of Nazim al-Kassar, he could at least try to locate Nazim’s business partner, Julien Segal. He wasn’t going to achieve much by calling the Institute again in the morning. But there were other ways to gain information.

The offices of ICS were situated off Rue de Rivoli, not far from Place de la Concorde on the Champs Élysées and a stone’s throw from the north wing of the Louvre Palace where Ben had been that morning. As he arrived in the vicinity, he saw the flashing lights illuminating the night sky above the rooftops, and soon discovered that the streets for blocks around were swarming with police and riot troops. A fresh round of disturbances was already getting underway as thousands of protesters in yellow vests braved the rain to kick up a storm against the police. From a distance it looked pretty serious. Ben could hear the roar of the angry crowds and the popping of tear gas grenades. Maybe this time, if the marchers could breach the security cordons and make it up past Place de la Concorde, they might even have a crack at the Presidential palace. Though without a doubt, the little guy himself was tucked far away from any danger.

For Ben, the rioting was the perfect cover. He left the Alpina far enough away to be safe, turned up the collar of his jacket, pulled on a woollen beanie hat and a pair of thick leather gloves, and slipped up Rue de Rivoli on foot, keeping to the arcades. Emergency vehicles howled by but they had much more to worry about than a lone figure who just happened to be wanted in connection with that afternoon’s terror incident.

Segal’s Paris headquarters was a handsome three-storey building, in keeping with its upmarket address. The front entrance was a solid affair and the windows on the street side were barred with iron. But skirting around the side, Ben saw that a walled garden extended from the rear of the Institute, and that only the ground-floor windows on that side were barred.