Now was the time to move, and Ben had to move fast. He was on Jafari in two long strides and thrust him violently through the doorway, sending him crashing into the burly guy and headbutting him under the chin. The burly guy sprawled on his back with Jafari on top of him, both of them stunned by the impact. With the doorway clear, Ben and Roth poured through it like liquid, guns raised and marking their targets as they entered.

The holding cell was some kind of storeroom or workshop, with a bare concrete floor and metal shelving stacked ceiling-high with dusty crates and boxes, tools and bric-a-brac. It had an old wooden table at its centre, and some chairs. Sitting on one of them, blindfolded, bound and gagged, barefoot and wearing the nightdress she’d had on when they snatched her from her home, was the woman whose photo Ben had seen on Julien Segal’s office desk. She looked thin and frail and rigid with terror. Ben only gave her the briefest glance, because he had more immediately pressing matters to deal with first. Three of them, including the burly guy on the floor.

The room exploded with the sound of gunfire. Two of the startled guards managed to snatch up their weapons and get off a couple of wild shots before the twinned chatter of the silenced MP5s, like the sound of ripping cardboard, hosed them down with nine-millimetre bullets and sent them spinning off their feet. One of them cannoned against a wall and slid down it with his chin on his chest, leaving an oily smear of blood. Another crashed wildly backwards into the shelving and brought down an avalanche of tools and boxes as he slithered dead to the concrete. The execution was swift and ruthless. Last to die was the burly guy on the floor, who recovered enough from his shock to snatch a pistol from his belt and swing it halfway towards Roth before Ben shot him in the head.

After the violence came a sudden stillness, the only sounds in the room the frightened whimper of the hostage and the tinkle of a spent cartridge case rolling across the floor. Smoke drifted in the light. Ben looked at Roth and nodded. Roth nodded back with a wink. ‘Thanks, buddy.’

Jafari was still lying on the floor, sprawled flat next to the body of the burly guy. Roth grunted, ‘On your feet, scumbag,’ and kicked him in the ribs. When there was no response, Roth crouched down and rolled Jafari over. One of the wild shots fired by his terrorist cronies had gone through his left eye.

‘Whoops. Looks like he made it to Paradise after all,’ Roth said.

Meanwhile Ben had made his weapon safe and gone over to the woman tied in the chair. She was trembling, and flinched at his touch as he gently removed her blindfold, then the gag. He said, ‘Madame Segal?’