Bijar slept away the afternoon, the sounds of the waves on the beach bringing him a peaceful sleep. When he awoke shortly after 5 p.m. he was very hungry. He phoned ahead for an early dinner and arrived at six on the dot. He may have been on holiday, but he liked to be prompt. He ordered the fish curry, a tribute to his childhood visits to this part of the world, and asked for a glass of water. The Arabian Sea sparkled and rolled, its pale green colouring a natural wonder. He thought about Scimitar and what he’d do differently next time. Paris was so close to success that he’d been shocked to watch the events unfold on CNN, the shoot-outs and the involvement of French special forces. Saint-Cloud was part of one of the largest water supply systems in the world and it had been mere minutes away from becoming the deadliest piece of public infrastructure on the planet. Even those who survived the dose of ETX would have overwhelmed the French hospitals and driven people from that city in their millions. Chaos, societal meltdown, distrust in the French government and endless insurgency. They’d come so close.

Bijar wouldn’t fail again. He had a working bioweapon secured in a secret location and he wouldn’t again use a commercial operator such as Murad, whose connections in Sicily had been the loose thread that, when pulled, brought the entire operation undone.

And Aguilar. The French spy they called Aguilar. Bijar could feel his pulse quicken just thinking about how that arrogant, entitled Frank seduced his own sister and walked into the heart of Islamabad to meet him for dinner. The gall of the French secret services was quite something, and when he and the Colonel were ready to relaunch a new version of Scimitar, they would do so in a way that eliminated any exposure to France or the DGSE.

The waiter poured a glass of water and Bijar thanked him, noticing his lighter skin shade—a feature of the Pakistanis on this coast.

He remembered how his sister and father would toast each other; how they would cook up a plan and laugh and say, I’ll drink to that. Bijar had never had one mouthful of alcohol in his life, but he smiled at the memory of his family and, raising his glass, mumbled to himself, I’ll drink to that.