Then thrusts a hand into the pocket of his newly purchased jacket, fingering the hard plastic of the memory card. Slowly he pulls out the card and looks at it again. It looks so small and insignificant.

Alexa saved his life when she took him to her doctor in Shatila. Had him roll it up in a condom and swallow it like a drug mule, then he fished it out of a toilet in McDonald’s. He carefully puts the card back into his pocket again and walks out into the drizzle on unsteady legs.

He tries to keep up his pace, partly to keep warm and partly because he doesn’t trust the map – he doesn’t trust he’ll be on time. He can’t be late for this meeting.

Brussels is grey and gritty. Not exactly the type of city that impresses you right away. But all that grey is soon mingling with antique stores and chocolate shops, small cafes, a square full of restaurants and something that looks like it might soon turn into a Christmas market. Suddenly, a winding street opens up onto another small square and there on the other side of it sits the massive Palais de Justice, as solid as a fort, a tangible reminder of the consequences of the law.

Brussels seems to be under siege. He saw it in the subway yesterday and down in the city earlier today. Military vehicles parked on the side streets, police and soldiers patrolling everywhere. It makes him nervous, but probably it’s just related to what happened in Paris. He read about it before he flew here: all of Europe is on high alert.

But as he slows down and stares out over the small square, he freezes in his tracks. Two soldiers in red berets carrying heavy guns stand just outside the glass elevator, which connects the lower part of Brussels to the higher level where the court is located.

He checks the time. Fifteen minutes to go. He looks at the soldiers again. They’re chatting with each other, but he can sense their alertness. Should he simply walk by them?

He looks at the time again. Twelve minutes to go. If there are guards posted down here, what does it look like in front of the courthouse? Probably they’ve put extra resources everywhere.

‘They’re not looking for me,’ he whispers quietly to himself. ‘They don’t know who I am.’

Ten minutes to go. Had he arrived earlier, he might have been able to find an alternative route and avoid using the elevator, but now he has no choice. He hesitantly starts to move along the edge of the square towards the elevator, stress pounding his head.

The soldiers have moved to the centre of the square, and he pulls his hat down over his ears and turns.