‘Fetch the hammers,’ Nazim commanded. ‘Smash them open.’

The men obeyed enthusiastically, a gang of them standing beneath each monster statue and swinging away with gusto. For Nazim, watching, the moment was a nostalgic reminder of the glorious days of the ISIL conquest of Syria. The first few pounding blows did little more than crack the thick plaster. Then the cracks began to widen, and fragments began to rain down, exposing the internal wooden frames. More chunks of plaster fell away and the first dull glint of the aluminium drums inside became visible. A few more blows, and the two hundred drums began to spill out of the shattered bellies of the Lamassu. As each one thumped to the deck it had to be quickly propped up on end to prevent it from rolling dangerously around. Jamshid was bowled off his feet by one that crashed into his shins. Another almost burst through the railing.

7.08 a.m. Nazim was acutely conscious of the time going by. He had no idea how these things worked, but it was likely that the French coastguard would be alerted if a ship in their waters fell out of radio contact for any length of time. Every minute counted.

Then it was time for the next phase, transferring the nine tons of drums onto the small boat. This was the hard part. Nazim turned to the crewman who’d claimed to know how to use the crane, and said, ‘Your turn. Get moving.’

The guy had gone bluish-white with fear. ‘I … I … can’t …’

‘You told me you could operate it. That’s why you’re alive.’

The guy fell to his knees, cringing on the deck like a supplicant at Nazim’s feet. ‘Please! I have a wife and child.’

‘Then they’re better off without a liar for a husband and a father,’ Nazim said, and he drew his pistol and shot the guy in the back of the head. The crack of the shot was snatched away by the wind. At the sight of his shipmate’s bloody execution, the crewman who’d been pressed into operating the forklift truck let out a wild yell and tried to make a break for it. Nazim took aim at the fleeing man and shot him in the back. He pitched face-first to the deck and lay still.

‘What do we do now?’ Jamshid said anxiously, looking at the two hundred drums. Their boat seemed very small and distant, a cockleshell at the foot of a cliff. ‘Lower them down the side one at a time on the end of a rope?’

‘We don’t have time for that,’ snapped Nazim.

‘I think I can work the crane,’ Zahran volunteered. ‘I’m smarter than any of those kuffar morons.’

‘Then hurry, and don’t mess this up,’ Nazim warned him.