He kept walking away from the fisherman towards a rubbish bin in the shadows back from the quayside. He pulled two of the passports from his pack, tore them up as best he could given the plastic and the chips in them, and deposited the pieces in the bin. With his eyes on the fisherman he walked towards another bin fifty metres up the wharf. There he destroyed two more passports. Just twenty metres further along was a commercial dumpster, in near darkness. He ripped up the last passport and threw it in the dumpster, along with the envelope and Lambardi’s waist pack. He’d usually make a better spread of a destroyed document, making it almost impossible to find or identify, but time was short—he had to get on that ferry.

He walked back along the quay to the ticket office, emerging into the fragrant evening air a few minutes later with his ticket. From there he headed to the large timetable board affixed to the side of the administration building. De Payns reached into his pack and grabbed a red sticker with a cross marked through it, then placed the red sticker at the bottom right of the timetable. The support team would see that sticker and understand that de Payns was okay, but the operation was paused and he was leaving.

De Payns looked over his shoulder as he walked across the wharf apron towards the ferry. He could see a slow-moving vehicle’s roof above the concrete bollards that surrounded the port precinct. A loudspeaker made a beeping sound, followed by a male Italian voice making an announcement; then the same voice in English announced the night sailing to Naples. Passengers were advised to please board the vessel immediately.

As he reached the ferry’s stern ramp, the seamen were readying to raise it and commence the night sailing. Relieved, he was about to board when, above him an old Italian leaned over a railing and barked at the seamen to stop. De Payns glanced to where the older man was pointing, and saw a vehicle pulling to a stop a hundred metres or so across the wharf apron. A door opened, and the top of a man’s head was visible. Then he was hurrying towards the ferry, accompanied by two more men. De Payns tried not to stare but he needed to identify them—they looked local. Probably not Sayef Albar, he concluded, but maybe police?

He turned away, handed his ticket to the purser, walked up the ramp and turned back to the quay, where his elevated position revealed that the two men were younger, and they were hugging the older man in an affectionate farewell. The older man turned and walked up the ramp, carrying an overnight bag.

As the stern ramp started lifting into place, de Payns felt slightly relieved but entirely unrelaxed.

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER

FOUR