Across the other side of Boulevard du Montparnasse, the three men were watching from their black Mercedes parked a little further up the street, a few cars behind the metallic blue BMW Alpina they had followed there. Mohammed sat at the wheel, Muhammad in the back and Sarfaraz in the front passenger seat holding a camera with a telephoto lens, through which he’d observed the man Nazim had described get out of the Beemer, cross the street to the café and go inside. It was just after five in the afternoon.

‘It’s definitely our guy,’ Sarfaraz was saying. ‘He’s not alone. Turned up a few minutes ago to meet a woman.’

Nazim al-Kassar was on the other end of the hands-free phone plumbed through the car’s stereo system. ‘Describe the woman.’

‘White bitch, blonde, fortyish, kind of skinny but still worth raping if she had a bag over her head. She’s sitting right by the window. He’s sitting across the other side of the table. Doesn’t look like they know each other well, from the way they’re acting. They shook hands when he arrived. Like business colleagues who just met.’

‘She must be the same one the Juneau woman called,’ Nazim’s voice said over the car speakers. ‘The reporter, or whatever she is. What are they doing now?’

‘He showed her something on a phone. Photos, or a video. She seemed to be looking at it with a lot of interest. Then they talked, and then she showed him something on her phone. Now they’re back to talking again. Looks like an intense conversation.’

‘They’re swapping information,’ Nazim said. ‘It’s these phones. I knew it. We need to stop them, right now, before it goes any further. Take them out. Immediately.’

There was no hesitation about obeying the order. ‘We’re on it.’

‘I want a picture of them dead, and don’t forget to get those phones. Got it? Call me when it’s done.’ Nazim ended the call.

Sarfaraz put down the camera. He turned around to look at Mohammed at the wheel, then Muhammad in the back. They both nodded. Muhammad had a large attaché case next to him on the back seat. He popped open the catches and raised the lid. Nestling inside were three Škorpion submachine pistols. Czech weapons, the professional badman’s weapon of choice for messy, up-close-and-personal hit-and-run assassinations ever since they were invented in 1959. Muhammad handed one to each of his companions and took the third for himself.

There was silence in the car for a few moments, except for the metallic sounds of magazines being checked and slammed back into place, actions being cocked, folding stocks being extended, selector switches being set to fully automatic fire, safety catches being clicked off.

‘Allahu Akbar,’ Sarfaraz said. Mohammed and Muhammad repeated the same holy words in reply.