For a moment he didn’t know what to do. He contemplated unscrewing the pipe but figured the pills would have dissolved by now. Then he began to think more clearly. The situation wasn’t good. He had no spare tablets in his luggage. No emergency stash of meds. Somehow, he was going to have to wing it for the next few hours without any pills. And pray that the shakes didn’t get too bad.

He walked back down the aisle, sat down opposite Casey. She half smiled, a questioning look on her face.

‘Everything all right? You look like you’ve had a fright.’

‘Just a lack of sleep. I’ll get over it.’

He looked away, panic rising in his chest. He tried telling himself to stay calm. But it was no use.

We’re about to go in and arrest a violent mobster, and I’m staring down the barrel of an opioid withdrawal.

And there’s nothing I can do about it.

A few minutes later, the Gulfstream began its descent.

Thirteen

Thirteen

They landed at eight o’clock in the morning, on a grey windswept day on the French Riviera. The Gulfstream taxied off the runway to the tarmac stand, the engines dialled down to a whine, the airstairs unfolded. Loader gave the attendant a parting smile, and then the team deboarded. It took them only a few minutes to clear through security and transfer to the heliport. Mallet had explained that they were on the fast-track programme. Something called the Elite Service package. Which brought with it certain privileges, such as a streamlined check-in procedure. A short, squat official gave their passports a cursory glance, and then a pair of waiting airport buggies whizzed them round to the heliport.

The chopper was an AgustaWestland AW109. The civilian variant. Helicopter of choice for the executive community. The team ascended the retractable steps and made themselves comfortable in the six-seater cabin while another official loaded their holdalls and rucksacks into the luggage compartment. The twin engines screamed, the rotor blades swathed through the air. The pilot performed a series of final checks, testing bits of equipment, gauging dials and meters.

The Agusta soared into the air above Nice. The pilot rounded the beaches of Cap-Ferrat, roughly following the coastline running north-east towards Monaco. Cruise ships and yachts were strung out like stepping stones on the deep blue water. As they neared the principality, Bowman’s hands began to tremble. His palms were clammy with sweat; veins of it slicked down his back, gluing his shirt to his skin. With the tremors came the deep throbbing pain. The involuntary twitching of his muscles, the drip-drip of anxiety into his guts. Bowman balled his hands into tight fists and hoped the others hadn’t noticed.

They might realise I’m getting withdrawals, he thought.

Or worse . . . they’ll think I’m afraid.