It took Frend a moment to recall the name: Fouad, the missing man from Paris, the one Radovan suspected of betraying the two Syrians to the French. Frend had long known of the Vuksans’ activities in the area of people smuggling, particularly the movement of high-value individuals, but as with most of their affairs, he had managed to keep his distance from the particulars. Unfortunately, he no longer had that luxury. Had the Vuksans consulted him on the matter, he would have advised against consorting with suspected terrorists. It was depressing, he thought, that he might even have been required to offer such counsel.

‘Who found him?’ said Frend.

‘The Turks, we believe,’ said Ilić. ‘They tortured him to death in a basement in Marseille.’

‘And how did Radovan react to this?’

‘He has made contact with the Turks through an intermediary. It seems Fouad claimed to be working alone with an American handler, and exonerated Spiridon and Radovan of any involvement in the failure of the operation.’

An American intelligence handler: that was curious, thought Frend. Had the Americans then fed the Syrians to French intelligence? It was unlike them to give up a prize so easily, but a new order prevailed in Washington. Islamist plots were of less interest than the maneuverings of the Chinese and the mischief of the Russians.

‘That vindication is good news,’ said Frend.

‘Not good enough to absolve us of responsibility for trusting Fouad to begin with,’ said Ilić. ‘The Turks still want their blood money.’

‘Then you may have to pay it.’

Ilić looked at Frend as though he were a fool.

‘Paying won’t make any difference,’ he said. ‘By now, the Turks must be aware that we’re running out of friends. They wouldn’t have dared target Fouad otherwise. If we pay them the money, they’ll still kill us as an example. If we don’t pay them, they’ll kill us for not paying and as an example. Therefore, we don’t pay.’

‘But they won’t stop looking for you,’ said Frend.

And what about me? he thought. What do I tell them if, or when, they come for me?

‘We’re working on it.’ Ilić patted Zorya on the shoulder. She stood, pulling the hood closer to her face with its drawstrings.

‘Tell Radovan I’ll be in touch again tomorrow evening,’ said Frend.

Ilić nodded, and guided Zorya toward the door.

‘Let’s go talk to a Dutchman,’ he said to her.

But Zorya did not move.

‘Wait,’ she said.

III

My yesterdays walk with me. They keep step,

they are gray faces that peer over my shoulder.

William Golding, Free Fall

Chapter XLIX