The Colonel nodded at the thug in a black business shirt who’d thrown Amin into the chair. The man walked to a table behind Anita and turned on a lamp, revealing a battery-powered drill. Black Shirt picked up the drill, and walked around to stand in front of Anita. Her eyes grew huge as the thug hit the trigger, testing the spin of the drill bit. The motor whined.

‘This Frenchman,’ said the Colonel, as the drill slowed. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Amin, shaking his head. He’d imagined what it would be like to be caught, but he’d never thought about what he would say.

‘Don’t know?’ The Colonel smiled. ‘You don’t know who he is? Or you don’t know a Frenchman?’

Amin opened his mouth to reply but no sound came out.

‘I’ll give you a clue. He’s a tall, handsome blond man with nice suits. Speaks with a French accent.’

‘Aubrac,’ croaked Amin. ‘Marcus Aubrac, from Paris.’

‘What does he do?’

‘Aerospace. More on the finance and investment side, but well informed.’ Observing Anita’s eyes, which were wide with terror, he added, ‘My wife knows nothing about this.’

The Colonel stood, dropped his cigarette and ground it into the concrete floor. Then he walked over to Amin. ‘What did he want from you?’

‘Not much,’ said Amin.

The Colonel nodded at his sidekick, who brought the drill to full revs then kneeled and drove the bit into the top of Anita’s bare foot. She arched her back as the drill bit exited the sole of her foot in a flurry of blood and flesh. Amin struggled against his restraints as the thug withdrew the spinning drill bit. He looked at Javed, whose face was flooded with tears, his accusing eyes boring into his father.

‘Stop, please!’ Amin begged. ‘I’ll tell you everything.’

The Colonel returned to his desk and lit a cigarette as Anita’s blood ran across the concrete. ‘Okay, so talk.’

‘I told Aubrac about the fuel loads, and the weight and the range of the RA’AD II.’

‘The test telemetry?’

Amin shook his head. ‘I couldn’t download it. I memorised the summaries, though, and I believe that was enough for the French to reverse-engineer the performance.’

‘How did he contact you?’

‘ProtonMail,’ said Amin.

‘And then?’

‘He’d give me a burner phone number to call—it was always different.’

The Colonel nodded. ‘And then?’

‘We’d meet at a bar or a cafe, always on the afternoon of the final day of the conference.’

‘What did you tell him about the project?’

Amin hesitated, unsure what the Colonel was asking.