Amin shut down the ProtonMail site, wiped his history and collapsed on the bed. His stomach was clenched like a fist; his pulse banged in his temples. Something was very wrong.

Aubrac had taught him some basic hygiene habits to avoid detection by the Pakistani secret services. First and foremost was to remain calm and never behave like a man who thinks he’s being followed, so for a few minutes he just stared at the ceiling, breathing slowly through his nose, until the jitters had passed. Then he rose and packed his wheelie suitcase, grabbed his blazer and headed for the elevators with his suitcase.

He walked into the pub, one block south-east of the Pan Pacific, just before two-thirty and went to the end of the bar. There were twenty other customers in the pub but he couldn’t see Aubrac. That wasn’t unusual—Marcus Aubrac usually entered a meeting place after him. He ordered a lemonade and before it landed on the bar Aubrac arrived, smiling as usual, dressed in a light-grey suit, no tie.

‘Bonjour, Amin,’ said Aubrac, his pale eyes crinkling with affection.

Amin shook the Frenchman’s hand, trying to match his ease.

As they took a table, Amin realised he still didn’t know what to say. He reflected on the deal he had made with Paris—two years’ worth of inside engineering data on the RA’AD II extended-range missile development, and Amin and his family would receive new identities and French passports. He was five months short of the two years, which would have given Javed the greatest gift—to grow up as a citizen in a rich European country. On his walk to the bar he’d toyed with the idea of asking Aubrac for the help of the French secret services. Could they find out what was up with his wife and her family? But he couldn’t bring himself to ask. He worried that telling Aubrac might result in the French cutting ties with him. The French were not known for sentimentality. He would just have to return to Pakistan on the evening flight and see for himself what was going on.

‘I just wanted to let you know I’ve been called back to Pakistan,’ said Amin, mustering a regretful smile. ‘My mother-in-law is very sick. I have to be at Changi in an hour.’

Aubrac looked briefly at his watch. ‘Family first, my friend,’ he said, gesturing to the barmaid for a beer.

Amin noticed a pretty young woman at the bar staring at Aubrac with a gaze that required no interpreter. As usual, Aubrac pretended not to notice.

‘So, you have anything of interest for me?’ asked the Frenchman.

Amin shook his head. ‘The new fuel loads and compositions are locked in for now and the testing engineers take over for a while. I’ll start seeing telemetry in two, maybe three weeks.’