Nazim was in the jacked-up black Toyota Hilux, sitting up front next to Abbud at the wheel. Mahmud, Dariush and two other men were jammed in the rear crew cab seats, and another pair were riding in the hardtop load bed with the eight drums of fentanyl salvaged from the boat. The remaining six drums were aboard the silver Nissan following close behind, driven by Zahran. The trucks hammered up the shore, hit the track and set off on their winding high-speed journey through the maze of country roads.

Nobody had as yet mentioned anything about poor Shaykh, lying dead on the beach with the two infidels they’d killed. He was on his way to Paradise now, or whatever attenuated form of it the Prophet had reserved for raisin heads. If the police found the body before it was claimed by the tide, they’d almost certainly identify him from their terror watchlist and connect him with known associates, including some of the present company. Nobody much cared about that, either.

As they hurried away from Vaucottes Nazim took out his phone and did an internet search, which led him to a list of links, which in turn led him to a specific website, which he spent a few moments studying with great interest. It was perfect. Not too far away, just a couple of hours’ drive. If possible, they would ditch these vehicles en route and switch them for something less conspicuous. Perhaps pick up a hostage on the way, too.

The four-wheel-drive Toyota was a macho boy’s toy with all the bells and whistles, including a fancy inbuilt sat nav system. Abbud was fiddling with it as he drove. A text input box popped up on the screen, prompting him to program their destination. Abbud punched in the letters P-A-R-I-S and the winding route towards the capital instantly appeared. ‘Looks like we can get there in less than three hours via the A13,’ he said, looking pleased that the temporary glitch in their plans was now behind them and they were back in the game.

Nazim didn’t answer right away. He was thinking about the Islamic State’s call to all believers in the West to attack all infidels by whatever means possible. ‘If you are not able to find a bullet or an IED, then single out the disbelieving American, Frenchman, or any of their allies. Smash his head with a rock, or slaughter him with your knife, or run him down with your car, or throw him down from a high place, or choke him, or poison him.’

With those last inspiring words resonating in his mind, Nazim felt his fate being sealed. He smiled to himself. Then more words came to him, this time from a verse of the Holy Book, one he’d memorised a long, long time ago: