Palermo was in darkness as de Payns emerged onto the street and immediately crossed the road to enter another small street. His IS validated that he was not being followed, and he walked eastwards for ten minutes, towards the port. The bars became louder, the footpath patrons drunker as he neared the bay. He veered south slightly to a ‘rupture’ route at the Palermo Centrale. De Payns had discovered the 1870s railway station as he’d walked to the Botanical Gardens to assess a huge Moreton Bay fig tree used as a dead drop. He liked the Centrale because there was an entry that passed through a post office—creating another passage obligé.

The post office was lit up although the services booths seemed to be closed. De Payns pushed through the doors and walked across the lino floor towards the exit. As he did, he kept his peripheral vision alert for followers and parking cars. He seemed clean. The exit took him directly onto the Centrale platforms and he walked down one towards the police station in the main building. There were no more than thirty people milling around but it was enough to create a distraction for a follower, when you factored in the alignment of the pillars. He stuck with the flow of people and, having passed the police station entry, turned hard left into the main entrance foyer. From there he skipped down the main steps and disappeared into the dark streets, heading east for the ferry terminal and for home.

He paused at the pedestrian traffic lights at the impressive boulevard of Via Crispi. To his left, the hulking dark blue shape of a ferry loomed at the terminal. He asked a woman walking beside him with two children if it was the Naples ferry and she confirmed that it was, adding that it departed in thirty minutes.

De Payns veered off to the right as the pack of tourists moved left onto a large concrete apron leading towards the ferry. Keeping to the shadows, he walked towards the berths south of the ferry terminal. The lights played on the smooth water and de Payns smelled diesel and sewage. It was always like this—when he was anxious, he smelled everything.

An African man fished and smoked on the wharf, a bottle of wine keeping him company. De Payns walked away from him, southwards around the curved quay. When a large trawler was between him and the fisherman, de Payns took the pieces of his phone from the pack and threw them in the harbour. He paused and positioned himself for a see but not seen look around his environment. It was important not to look furtive. A disco beat pounded out of a bar and bounced on the water. He walked south again, broke down the CZ and disposed of it in separate pieces into the greasy Mediterranean.