Henderson was closing on the bottom of the hill and there was a tight turn just ahead. If they didn’t make it, he was going to crash into a metal fence before careering over the handlebars and slamming head first into a wall without a crash helmet.

He waited until the hill started to level before dabbing the brakes, but there was still enough force to send Marc sliding down inside the body of the sidecar. Each time the sidecar tried to outrun the motorbike to which it was joined, it pitched to one side. Henderson would correct this by steering in the opposite direction and Marc would hit the metal with a thud. The process was repeated each time Henderson applied the brake and, as if the buffeting inside the sidecar wasn’t enough, Marc managed to bang his face on the briefcase, tearing off the blood clot around his missing tooth.

More by luck than judgement, Henderson slowed down enough to steer around the sharp corner without even brushing the kerb. Marc pushed his feet against the bottom of the footwell and clutched his bloody chin as he manoeuvred himself back into the seat cushion facing forwards.

‘Have they gone?’ Henderson asked breathlessly, as he took a quick right into a side street, followed by a left on to a much gentler hill.

‘I shot one,’ Marc explained, as his tongue fought the blood in his mouth. ‘The other obviously didn’t fancy his chances.’

Henderson looked pleased and he eased off the throttle until the bike was cruising. It was heaps quieter than when they’d been going flat out.

‘Have you got something to wipe your mouth?’ Henderson asked.

‘Just looking,’ Marc said, as he reached into the pigskin bag and found the square of cloth in which he’d originally wrapped Director Tomas’ food. He wiped his face before rolling up a corner of the cloth. Then he pushed it into the gap where his tooth had been and bit down to try and stop the bleeding.

Henderson pulled on to a wide boulevard. Marc looked around and realised that they were near the centre of Paris, in the Government quarter. The tall building on one side of the road had burned out in an air raid and moonlight shone through a stone façade with nothing but air behind the shattered windows.

‘You did great,’ Henderson said. ‘The one you shot, do you reckon you killed him?’

‘Maybe,’ Marc said uncertainly. ‘It was like he stopped moving and the bike carried on.’

‘Are you OK about it?’

Marc nodded. ‘You think I care about Germans after Hinze ripped my tooth out? So what now?’

‘Potente has four or five hours’ advantage over us and he’ll have an easier time getting through the German lines than I would.’

‘So why didn’t we go straight after him?’ Marc asked.