Nazim stood by and watched as they drove the vans single-file inside the warehouse, spreading out to leave room for the two larger flatbed lorries to park later. The transfer of the two hundred drums to the smaller vehicles would keep them all busy for a while. Nine tons divided equally to a ton and a half per vehicle, the vans’ maximum payload. Until they had it, all they could do was wait. They had several hours before the container vessel was expected to dock at Le Havre, sixteen kilometres west of here. Nazim believed in punctuality, preparedness and staying well ahead of the curve.

The terrorist leader appeared outwardly calm and composed as ever, but beneath the cool facade he was feeling nervous as his anticipation of the impending shipment grew more intense and the complexity of the plan crowded his mind. So many small details, of which any could potentially go wrong – and if anything did, it was he, Nazim, who would be held accountable by the staunchly unforgiving men who headed up his organisation and had made such a sizeable investment in this enterprise. It was a great honour that had been placed on him, but it was also a heavy burden of responsibility.

While all this troubling stuff was buzzing through his head, it occurred to him that some time had passed since he’d last checked with the men guarding the Segal woman. It was important to him that she be kept in reasonable condition, in case she needed to be used as further leverage. By ‘reasonable condition’ Nazim meant some degree of consciousness and the ability to scream horribly into a phone to remind her husband of what was at stake here; her state of health or prospects of survival meant little otherwise.

While his men were opening up the vans and preparing the transit crates in which the two hundred precious drums would be transported back to Paris in a few hours’ time, he took out his phone, dialled and waited.

No response.

Nazim cancelled the call, frowned at his phone and tried again.

No response.

Disrespectful. Unacceptable.

This time he left a terse message in Arabic: ‘This is Nazim. You better call me back right away. What’s the matter with you sons of whores?’

Two minutes went by, then three, and still the phone remained dead in his hand. Now Nazim was getting concerned. He made a third call, this one to another of the Mohammeds back in Paris, different from the Muhammad who was one of the hostage’s guards. Even Nazim mixed them up sometimes.

This Mohammed answered promptly ‘As-Salaam Alaikum’, instantly deferent when he realised who was calling. Nazim said, ‘I need you to get down to the makhba [which was what they called the hiding place in Arabic] and check things out. Take a couple of others with you. Call me the moment you’re down there. Got it?’

‘Got it, boss.’