He scanned the still-quiet street as he stepped onto the pavement, sipping his coffee. He seemed to be clean. After a ten-minute walk, de Payns turned east into the precinct of railway stations and bus terminals and walked to the vast entrance of Napoli Centrale. Inside the double doors, Naples’ main railway station was buzzing. He moved to the cigarette machine and bought a packet of Marlboros with change, ensuring there was no one either on the ground level or the mezzanines looking down on him. The Centrale had a modern interior of the type that would have surveillance cameras. It was something that couldn’t be avoided in most European train stations, especially in the major terminals that serviced trains from other countries. De Payns pulled on his cap and, crossing the concourse, waited in the ticketing queue behind an Italian woman who yelled into her phone. He put on a smile as he reached the counter.

‘One to Marseille—standard, thanks,’ said de Payns, speaking in English to further misdirect any tails.

‘To Marseille leaves at nine twenty-five. One stop, Milan,’ the woman told him.

De Payns paid for the ticket in cash and wandered to the platform, where he found a seat that let him see both ends of the platform, then lit a smoke. It was one of the guilty pleasures of Italian train travel that they still allowed smokers on the platforms.

His carriage was second-to-last and had only ten other passengers in it—mothers with kids, Nonna and Poppa and a bunch of schoolgirls who seemed to be returning from a weekend in Naples.

As the train pulled from the station, he thought about what had happened in Sicily. How far back had the Sayef Albar people been on to him? That polite Pakistani he saw on the ferry to Palermo—was that a hand-off from Lambardi to his handler? And was the handler Murad? Sayef Albar must have been told that de Payns had French passports. Had Lambardi been ordered to confirm this?

De Payns realised he’d been holding his breath. He let it out in a hiss. He suspected his adversaries knew more than him, and he didn’t like it; he had to build up his own side of the story. How had Shrek known to call off the operation? Was his Alain Dupuis identity compromised? Had Shrek got out of Bar Luca without the cops or the terrorists grabbing him? Where had they slipped up?