Firas did as he was told, and Carr took the opportunity to slide back his door, too.

He made it look casual, yawning as he did so, but this el Jaziri was a wrongun if ever he’d seen one, and he wanted to minimise the time it would take to get to him if it all went south.

‘Maybe I should arrest them and take them into town for the night?’ said el Jaziri.

‘Do what you want,’ said Firas. ‘It makes no difference to me, I still get paid. But I think it would be a waste of your time.’

El Jaziri slapped him across the face.

‘Do not disrespect me,’ he said, his voice laced with menace.

Over his shoulder, Carr saw the other three border guards stop talking and look over for a moment.

One of them lifted his AK for a second, and then spat on the floor and turned back to carry on the conversation.

‘I am sorry, sir,’ said Firas. ‘I am a poor man. Please, sir, I am sorry.’

‘So you should be,’ said el Jaziri, with a cruel smile. ‘But I need fifty dollars apiece to forgive you.’ He looked briefly at Carr. ‘Or things might get a lot worse.’

‘What do you mean, sir?’ said Firas.

‘Plenty of people around here looking to buy Westerners,’ said el Jaziri. ‘What are they? Americans?’

‘Irish, sir.’

The policeman tried to hide his disappointment.

‘Same thing,’ he said. ‘Still worth a few thousand dollars each.’

Carr nudged Geordie, who nudged him back.

Both men trying to look casual, but completely wired.

In the back seats, Kevin McMullen and Fred West leaned forward, sensing the danger.

Carr tensed his body and moved his left foot towards the open door. Much more talk of selling Westerners, and he was going out of it and straight for Mr el Jaziri.

Drop him, get his AK, hose down the other three before they had time to turn the minibus into a cheese grater.

Of course, if the weapon was in bad order – and judging by the state of these dickheads it might well be – then they were fucked.

But they were fucked anyway if things took that turn.

‘You wouldn’t sell them, sir,’ said Firas. ‘Surely not?’

Just then, one of the other border patrol men leaned into the cab of their pickup and spoke into the radio.

He pulled his head back out, shouted something, and climbed into his car.

El Jaziri glanced at the four white men.

‘I’m a merciful guy,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘But it was fifty dollars apiece, and now it’s a hundred. Quickly. And don’t let me catch them on the way back.’

‘Four hundred dollars, sir?’ said Firas. ‘Please. I don’t have any money. Four hundred dollars? Are you joking?’

Outside, the driver of the pickup was pumping his horn and waving frantically through his windscreen.