He watched the Syrians, Saad and Mahdi, emerge separately. Both were in their forties, which made them old by jihadi standards, and dressed in business suits that looked more expensive than they were. Marković knew this because he had supervised their purchase himself, just as he had chosen the clear-lens glasses and overnight bags. The men had trimmed their beards and now resembled middle managers for some modestly successful business, or academics at one of the lower-ranked colleges.

A few meters behind them walked Baba and Fouad, the shadows. Both came from the northern suburbs of Paris, the banlieues where immigrant unemployment was high and opportunities for advancement were few. Fouad, the Algerian, was Muslim, although far from observant, while Baba, the Senegalese, was a Christian from that country’s Casamance region. The two men were not close, but managed to work well together. Marković preferred dealing with Fouad because he didn’t feel compelled to talk about God quite as much as Baba did. Every two years, Baba made a pilgrimage to Popenguine, on Senegal’s Atlantic coast, where he prayed before the Black Madonna and asked her to intercede on his behalf and that of his extended family. How Baba balanced his deep Christian beliefs with a capacity, even a propensity, for extreme violence was one of the mysteries of his particular brand of worship. But then Marković, a devout member of the Serbian Orthodox Church, was hardly in a position to criticize the contradictions of others, not with all the blood on his own hands.

Marković had not informed Baba and Fouad that he would be present for the handover, if only as an observer. His appearance had altered since last he’d met the two operatives. He was now bearded, and his hair was a few shades darker. Up close, they might have recognized him, but not from any kind of distance. He wasn’t sure what they knew of the Vuksans’ current situation, but he had seen no reason to enlighten them if they were ignorant of it. Both Baba and Fouad were shrewd, which was why they’d been entrusted with the care of the Syrians; but if they became aware of the Vuksans’ problems, the smart move would be to walk away, and Marković couldn’t afford to let that happen. Their eyes scanned the crowd, always returning to the Syrians. Fouad struck Marković as the more uneasy of the two, but he was by nature a nervous animal. Baba was always calmer. Even when he was hurting another human being, he remained implacable.