‘I didn’t say I wouldn’t come along. I just don’t like this jaws of death shit. Been through enough fucked-up situations to know best how to avoid them.’

‘Whatever you decide,’ Ben said, ‘make your mind up fast. The clock’s ticking. The GIGN raid is bound to have made Nazim jumpy and they’re liable to move her to a new location, or maybe even kill her.’

Fred had been listening to their whispered conversation, and now came over to them. He said to Ben in French, ‘You people speak more languages than the fucking United Nations, but I understand enough to gather that you have a need for armament. Correct?’

‘Whatever gives us the edge,’ Ben said.

‘I think I can help in that department. Because I don’t only deal in rusty sawn-offs to sell to third-rate stick-up artists. I have some other merchandise that could interest you.’

Fred put the dog away, much to the relief of the chained-up prisoner, then led Ben and Roth to his caravan where he reached under the bunk and dragged out a large metal case. ‘You can’t be too careful,’ he said as he undid the four combination padlocks holding the lid shut.

Inside the case, wrapped in oiled cloths, lay a pair of gleaming black automatic weapons. Ben could have recognised them blindfold. They were MP5SDs, manufactured in Germany by Heckler & Koch and purposely developed for Special Forces. The ‘MP’ designation stood for Machinenpistole and the ‘SD’ for Schalldampfer, which was German for ‘sound suppressor’ and referred to the integral silencer tube that shrouded the machine pistol’s short but highly accurate five-inch barrel. It was one of the best weapons ever devised for the kind of warfare in which Ben and Roth had once specialised. The Rolls Royce of submachine guns, reliable, efficient and exactly as deadly as it needed to be.

Roth whistled at the sight of the guns, and couldn’t suppress the schoolboy grin that spread all over his face. ‘Holy shit, I haven’t handled one of those babies since Delta.’

Fred laid the guns on the bunk and hauled more greasy rags out of the trunk to reveal a nest of loaded magazines, long and curved and each containing thirty rounds of nine-millimetre ammunition, sitting on top of stacked cartridge boxes. ‘Over five hundred rounds in total,’ he said. ‘It’s my personal stash. But you’re welcome to make use of it, for a fee of course.’

‘This should even the odds a little,’ Ben said. He turned to Roth. ‘So are we happier now?’

Roth’s grin had stretched from ear to ear. ‘We’re happier, all right. It’s gonna be like the old days, except this time there are no bureaucrats to mess things up. No dumbass rules of engagement to get in our way. Just you, me and the bad guys. They won’t know what hit ’em.’