At the bottom of the stairs he paused in front of the ground-floor door. The door opened into the hallway to the hotel’s rear exit, which meant it was not in the line of sight to where his followers had sat in the lobby. However, he was more concerned with a night reception woman standing at the desk as he emerged from the stairs. If she was an asset for the ISI, she would call them immediately. He couldn’t control that.

He looked at his watch—twenty-six seconds till ‘go’. Pulling back the fire door, he peered out into the lobby—one person checking in, occupying the reception woman. He slipped sideways into the hallway, and as he walked he saw a cleaner to his right who was looking straight at him. De Payns smiled and walked swiftly down the hallway to the door at the end, which stood like a beacon. His heart banged, every touch of his feet on the lino sounding like an alarm. He walked past an opened door which held all the cleaner’s equipment, and then he hit the horizontal locking bar on the door and pushed through into the loading bay area. There was one night-light over the receiving stage, but the rest of the turning area and the rear lane were dark. As the door swung shut, de Payns looked down the hall and saw the cleaner had come into the hallway and was peering at him.

He was on time but there was no car, no support team. He walked to the kerb and looked both ways, even though it was a one-way street.

Darkness, no movement.

Behind him the door creaked and de Payns turned. The cleaner stared out. He was in his early fifties, short and fit-looking. De Payns looked the man in the eyes, and saw fear. It was a sensible reaction because de Payns was calculating whether he could reach the cleaner and incapacitate him. As de Payns read the distance—about eight metres—the cleaner smiled; he had no French and de Payns had no Urdu. De Payns edged towards him; all he had to do was get his foot in that door and get his hands on the cleaner before he yelled.

De Payns edged closer—six metres—and the cleaner found some English. ‘Your bag,’ he said, holding out something in his hand. It was hard to see. He got to four metres and dropped his case, ready to pounce, when he realised what was in the man’s hand.

‘For the bag,’ said the man, offering de Payns’ leather name tag from the wheelie. De Payns breathed out with so much relief that he almost choked.

‘Fuck,’ he said, wiping spittle from his mouth. He reached out and took the name tag, returning the man’s scared smile. De Payns realised his face must have been a neon sign of impending violence.