‘Call me the Colonel,’ he said with a smile, and they debriefed for most of the day. Manerie was cooperative, but he realised the Colonel—who was otherwise very professional—was taking no notes, a curious departure from intelligence procedure.

‘So what are your plans for me?’ asked Manerie after lunch, when he thought he had forged some affinity with his new colleague, whom he assumed was ISI.

‘We have something special,’ said the Colonel, and left it at that.

The third day came and Manerie was surprised to find that the Colonel wanted to discuss his assets.

‘We have to get our cards on the table and trust one another, yes?’ said the Colonel. ‘You have all these watches. Are they stolen?’

Manerie wanted to say, Keep your nose out of my luggage, but thought better of it. ‘No, not stolen. They’re a mobile asset.’

‘If you work for me, I have to know your bank accounts,’ said the Colonel. ‘You must understand this—you are a traitor to France, and so you’d understand that I am extra cautious.’

They went back and forth a few times, but Manerie was reluctant to hand over his banking details and the Colonel finally let it go.

Manerie spent that night in bed wondering how he was going to make money and live in Pakistan. He couldn’t go anywhere else because the Company would find him and either kill him or lock him in a cell at Évreux for the rest of his life, slowly milking him of every piece of intelligence he could remember. It would end badly. People like him did not get their day in court.

After breakfast the next day he and the Colonel were driven to the south of Islamabad, to a large security compound. Manerie saw a sign with the word ‘Agricultural’ in it. It looked like a research facility. They got into an elevator, but instead of going up it plunged several floors below ground, the board lighting up at B5.

‘Time to meet your new colleagues,’ said the Colonel.

They walked along a corridor that smelled of bleach and Manerie was ushered through a doorway. As he entered he was seized by two thugs. He hip-threw the one on his right, driving the younger man into the concrete. But another materialised and the two assailants wrestled him to the damp concrete floor. Subdued, Manerie was strapped to a bolted-down chair. He tried to protest but a piece of duct tape was slapped across his mouth.

In front of him the Colonel had taken a seat at a desk. To his right, in the shadows, was a second man, also strapped to a chair and gagged. Murad!

Manerie’s heart pounded against his chest; he strained against the shackles and tried to yell through the duct tape.

A smaller, thinner man, obviously not military, walked into the room. Despite his panic, Manerie noticed the mustard-coloured cardigan and ugly pants.