Bowman gazed out of the window, hiding his dilated pupils from his colleagues as they rounded Port Hercules. They carried on east down Avenue J. F. Kennedy, past rows of super yachts, ugly high-rise blocks and tacky restaurants. Casey checked her phone again. Loader stuck to a moderate speed, staying well under the limit.

We’re almost there, Bowman told himself. Just keep your shit together for a few more minutes. Then you can get into Lang’s apartment, find his drugs stash. Sort yourself out.

And if he doesn’t have anything? What then?

I don’t know.

They cleared a wide roundabout, passed an underground parking garage and shuttled north along Avenue Princesse Grace. One of the world’s most expensive streets, twenty years ago. But it didn’t look like it. Not anymore. Bowman saw dated 1970s apartment blocks the colour of orange peel, roof awnings hanging over the tiny balconies, a handful of drab cafés and garish nightclubs. They tooled on for another hundred metres, past a glass and steel conference centre and a monument to Grace Kelly.

Getting close now.

They rolled on for another hundred metres, and then Mallet pointed to a parking area at the side of the road next to the promenade.

‘Pull over here,’ he said.

Loader nudged the E-Class into a free space, parallel with an ice-cream parlour and opposite a luxury car dealership. The engine died. Then they waited. Casey tapped open an encrypted messaging app on her phone and quickly read the text.

‘Got another ping on Lang’s phone,’ she said. ‘He’s still in his apartment.’

‘This is it,’ Loader said. ‘We’re in business.’

Mallet and Loader checked their side mirrors, watching for pedestrians. They had talked through this part of the plan in detail on the jet. Bowman and Webb wouldn’t step out of the vehicle until they had confirmed that the coast was clear. If someone happened to see two guys in courier gear getting out of a civilian car, they might get suspicious. Safer to wait until they had a clear run to the apartment.

Seconds ticked by. Bowman waited impatiently for the signal. He started seeing things. Vivid waking hallucinations. Memories of the night his family had been butchered, seeping into the real world. He saw blood puddled on the pavement. A girl was lying dead on the street, her throat slashed open. Bowman was about to alert his colleagues when he realised she was wearing the same princess outfit as his dead daughter. His Sophie. His wife was there too, a neat bullet hole in the middle of her forehead. Both of them stared at him with accusing eyes.

He blinked. The images vanished.

Christ, I need a pill.