‘I’m already in it,’ Ben said. ‘Might as well get in all the way. The authorities can have him after we’re done with him.’

‘Fine by me,’ Roth replied, grinning fiercely. He seemed to be loving every moment of this.

‘If you want to make yourself useful, pop the boot lid for me.’

‘The what? Oh, you mean the trunk.’

‘And get the roll of Gorilla tape from my bag.’

‘Boy oh boy. This is just like the old days,’ Roth said. Ben made his pistol safe and put it away, then pinning Jafari to the ground with his knee he tore off a length of the strong black tape and wrapped it three times around the prisoner’s head to gag and blindfold him. Then he used two more lengths to bind his wrists and ankles before hauling him upright by the scruff of the neck and dragging him around towards the back of the car. The two of them dumped Jafari unceremoniously into the boot and slammed the lid down on him.

‘Where to?’ Roth asked as they got back in the car.

Ben had no desire to bring a kidnapped terrorist back to his own apartment, safehouse or no safehouse. What he had in mind was going to require a different kind of venue.

‘It’s time for you to meet a friend of mine,’ he said.

‘I can’t wait.’

Chapter 38

It was after one a.m. by the time they rolled up to the tall wire mesh gates of Fred’s junkyard. The headlights shone on the rusted corrugated metal sheds and workshops inside the compound. Roth peered up at the curly razor wire that topped the twelve-foot fence. ‘Wow. How quaint. Our very own Guantanamo Bay.’

‘Fred values his privacy,’ Ben said.

‘I can resonate with that.’

‘Plus, not all the business he does on the premises is strictly legit. Let me do the talking, okay? He doesn’t speak a lot of English, anyway.’

‘Wouldn’t be a problem, bro. I’m fluent in seven languages.’

‘I keep forgetting what a genius I have for a partner.’

Alerted by their presence, the junkyard dog bounded out of the moss-covered hulk of a derelict Citroën that was his kennel, and came streaking across the yard to hurl himself against the gate, barking furiously, wild eyes and gleaming fangs flashing in the headlights. Moments later dazzling floods lit up the compound and the steel shutter door of the largest corrugated building rolled up with a clatter. The burly shape of Fred appeared, clad in the same greasy blue boiler suit that he apparently slept as well as worked in, and clutching the sawn-off shotgun that he’d tried to sell Ben on his last visit. Fred lumbered across the yard, squinting suspiciously at the unexpected visitors.

Ben stepped from the car. He called out in French, ‘Tire pas. C’est moi.’ Don’t shoot. It’s me.