Casey took over the briefing. She handed Bowman a piece of paper with a list of phone numbers and a map detailing various pick-up locations. The numbers belonged to individuals the team could contact in the event of an emergency. There was a guy with a small boat in the Fontvieille district, she said. A doctor across the border in Nice. A pair of retired spooks living in a town forty miles to the west, in Trigolins.

They discussed escape plans and rat runs. Emergency pick-up procedures. Locations in the area, safe places where they could hide out for a day or two. Worst-case scenario stuff. Bowman tried to memorise every detail, but he struggled to focus. The lack of sleep was catching up with him. His tired body craved another hit of opiates. Something to keep him wired. He was sweating badly under his shirt. He took a pull of bottled water, tried to refocus.

There was time for one last general run-through around the conference table. Everyone talked through their specific roles, making sure that there were no grey areas, no loose ends. Then the pilot announced they would shortly be making their final approach to Côte d’Azur, and Webb and Loader quickly gathered up their belongings and carried the bags back to the aft compartment. Casey cleared the papers from the table and hurried over to the office to feed them into the shredder.

While they were busy, Bowman levered himself up from his seat and quietly slinked off to the toilet.

The cabin shuddered as he moved down the aisle. Bowman almost lost his balance, recovered as the jet began pitching and plunging through the air. On the speaker, the pilot explained they were going through a patch of turbulence. Bowman ignored the request to stay seated and staggered into the toilet, his palms greased with sweat. He felt like shit. The cravings had been getting worse for the past hour, but he’d soon be feeling normal again. He dipped a hand into his jacket pocket, removed the cap on the base of the pill crusher and tipped one of the tablets into his shaking hand.

The cabin jolted.

The plane banked hard to the right, throwing Bowman off-balance. He lurched backwards, crashed against the door, steadied himself against the countertop, then looked up in despair as he saw the pills clattering around the basin. Like balls on a roulette wheel. He stumbled over to the sink, panicking. The plane pitched heavily again as he clawed at the pills, but they disappeared down the plughole before he could scoop them up.

A few moments later, the plane stopped shuddering.

Bowman stared unblinking at the plughole, feeling the cold hand of dread clench around his throat. His stash of pills – gone. All of them.