‘You staying with these friends, or do you need taking to a hotel after?’ said the driver.

‘I’m staying at the Golden Tulip,’ said Mahsoud. ‘On the Avenue Ouled Hafouz. Is it far?’

‘From M’Rabet?’ said the driver. ‘Maybe three kilometres.’

‘I’ll probably walk,’ said Mahsoud. ‘But give me your card anyway.’

He took the card and settled back into his seat, a satisfied smile playing on his face.

He had no intention of going anywhere near the Golden Tulip, but he wanted to plant the seed in the driver’s head – just in case anyone asked him where the Waziristani with the British passport had been going.

‘The Boulevard Mohamed Bouazizi,’ said the driver, conversationally. He had come to a stop behind a bus. He gestured at the road outside. ‘Named after the guy who set himself on fire. Did you hear about that in England?’

‘Yes,’ said Mahsoud. ‘He started the Arab Spring, right?’

‘That’s him,’ said the driver.

‘And was that a good thing?’ said Mahsoud.

The driver said nothing for a few moments, and Mahsoud wondered if he had not heard.

Then he looked over his shoulder and smiled.

‘I wouldn’t know, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m just a humble taxi driver.’

He didn’t seem to want to add to that, so they drove on in silence for the next ten minutes, until they reached the Souk el Trouk, where Zeff Mahsoud handed over ten dinars and got out of the cab.

He waited for it to drive off, and then walked a couple of dozen paces down a nearby alley. There he knelt down, opened his suitcase, and pulled out a light blue T-shirt. He stepped into a doorway and quickly pulled the blue shirt on over the red one in which he’d flown. Then he jammed a faded green baseball cap onto his head. Finally, he transferred everything else inside the case into the black rucksack, which he hoisted onto his shoulders. Then he placed the empty suitcase in a large bin and strolled casually away, down into the souk.

He walked for half an hour, always alert for followers or strange eyes, doubling back, stopping suddenly, and turning this way and that, down meandering, narrow lanes. The whole of the medina was alive with people buying and selling almost everything under the sun – copper pots and leather goods and fine silks and jewellery – and it was impossible to be certain, but he felt reasonably happy.

In the Souk el Fekka, he lingered for a while over a display of nuts and raisins, weighing a bottle of rouzata pistachio syrup as though considering a purchase, while he had a final, careful look around.