But nothing could be more stupid than to let himself get caught at the airport, if indeed the cops were onto him. That was a risk Ben couldn’t afford to take, which meant he’d have to travel as Paul Harris. It also meant he couldn’t book the flight with his own credit card. That was where the rest of Sarfaraz’s cash would come in handy. Ben fished out the wad of notes, unrolled it and counted up what he had left. The terrorist had been walking around with nearly three thousand euros in his pocket. More than enough to pay for the return flight and expenses, with change.

Ben drove back to the safehouse and found Thierry asleep at the computer. He considered waking him up to ask how things were coming along, but already knew the answer.

Pierrot was crashed out in the bedroom, fully clothed and snoring as loud as a chainsaw. Junk food packaging was everywhere and it seemed inconceivable that two guys could make so much mess in just the space of a few hours.

Ben let them sleep while he took a shower, cleaned and redressed his wounds and changed into fresh clothes and packed some things for the trip, including Paul Harris’s passport. He unloaded and stripped his pistol, and added it to the cache of weaponry he’d already hidden from his temporary houseguests. Lastly he scribbled a note saying, ‘Back soon’, which he left on the table along with another few euros in case they needed to send out for a pizza. The things you had to think of.

Then Ben quietly left the safehouse, returned to the car and made the twenty-five-kilometre drive out of Paris to Charles de Gaulle Airport, where he paid cash for his flight ticket, no questions, no problems. Thank God some civilised traditions still existed. Sometime after midnight he checked into his executive room at the Hilton. Sarfaraz’s money might as well pay for a few luxuries while it lasted.

Ben raided the mini-bar for all the scotch he could find, and sat on the bed flipping TV channels to catch up on the latest news of the Paris terror incident. Amid all the speculation and breast-beating the media were coyly remaining politically correct as to the possible motives of the ‘Allahu Akbar’-screaming attackers, while nonetheless happy to broadcast all the gruesome scenes from the aftermath of the shooting. They’d managed to get the President out of hiding from the riots to deliver an impassioned statement about bringing the perpetrators of this latest atrocity to justice, even if nobody seemed to know quite who they were. None of the regular terrorist groups had so far stepped up to claim responsibility.

Nor was there any mention of a bogus plain-clothes police detective seen fleeing from the scene, whom authorities were seeking to help them with their inquiries. Then again, you couldn’t believe everything you saw on TV.