He’d just spent twelve minutes finding out that he wasn’t clean and now he had around seventeen minutes of natural walking to get to the lobby of the Marriott. From there he’d have a three-minute turnaround, in which time he’d pretend to be going back to his room for the night but instead get into a car and clear the Pakistan border.

The job was to do nothing, to act as if nothing was wrong, when his brain was running several dozen scenarios that involved basements, tractor batteries and pliers. He focused on his breathing once again, keeping the oxygen high and using his brain to put the followers to sleep.

After an eternity he arrived at the Marriott, and checked the time: 6.59 p.m. He had three minutes to make his exfil rendezvous, with a hard cut-off of five minutes. His team was now running a clock and he went straight up to his room. The hotels they used always required rear exit points, which at the Marriott was a long corridor down the side of the kitchen and administration areas, ending in a rear lane with a loading bay, his pick-up point. Now he mentally focused as he quickly packed his suitcase. He thought about the corridor, the fire stairs, and the hallway to the hotel’s rear entrance. He would hurry but not run, and it would take one hundred and thirty-five seconds, from room to pick-up. He knew this because he had walked it in a dry run the day he arrived.

De Payns closed his wheelie case and stood by the door. He checked that his Nokia pieces were in his windbreaker, and he checked he had his wad of euros in his Levi’s pocket. His case was in his left hand, leaving his right free. Breathing out, he opened the door. The corridor was clear. He slipped out, shut the door carefully, and walked to his right, past the elevators, where he dropped the Nokia pieces in the rubbish bin, saving the SIM card. For all his urgency to get out of Islamabad, he might need to contact Raven again.

De Payns walked through the fire door, closed it quietly, and moved down the concrete stairs, the sound of his sneakered feet and his breathing deafening in the echoing space. He concentrated on rhythm rather than speed, which reduced sound, and he covered the ten flights without tripping or shoes squeaking. De Payns felt trapped, as if at any moment he would round a corner and come face to face with the ISI who—according to his red sticker with a cross—were following him with intent.