‘Hang on in there,’ he hissed.

‘I’m trying,’ Dreyfuss said. He was breathing deeply, trying to calm himself. Not much longer, he was thinking. Then I’ll be home. Home and dry. ‘What about the agents you said would be here to cover us? I haven’t seen them.’

‘They wouldn’t be doing their job if you could recognise them. Don’t worry, they were back there near the desk.’

‘But we’re on our own now, aren’t we?’ Dreyfuss whispered noisily.

‘We can manage.’

Their tickets and boarding cards were checked again, and their briefcases put onto a conveyer belt that transported them through an X-ray machine. A man in a suit, a large plastic ID badge clipped to his breast pocket, gestured for them to walk through the metal-detecting gateway, after which he ran a hand-held, more sensitive detector over them. Then his assistant – an only-too-willing assistant, Dreyfuss thought – slid his hands down each man’s suit, under the jacket collar and lapels, down the back, smoothly over the trousers and up along the inside legs.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he said to Dreyfuss with the hint of a smile. Dreyfuss did not smile back.

‘I don’t know about you,’ Parfit said as they picked up their cases and walked on, ‘but I need a drink.’

‘Count me in,’ said Dreyfuss. He was feeling calmer now. The worst was over, wasn’t it? Then it struck him: the last time he had flown had been on a private jet, and the time before that … on Argos. His legs lost their rigidity again.

‘Do you want anything in duty-free?’ asked Parfit, pointing towards the glossy spending mall. Dreyfuss shook his head. ‘I can never resist the malt,’ Parfit said. ‘Coming?’

‘I think I’ll just give my face a splash of water first,’ Dreyfuss said, nodding towards where a door proclaimed itself the gents’ toilets.

‘Fine, I’ll come with you.’

‘People will begin to talk,’ said Dreyfuss.

Parfit looked surprised. ‘You just made a joke!’ he said. ‘That’s more like it. Now come on, and stop looking so damned worried all the time.’

Only one cubicle was in use when they entered the toilets. Parfit gestured towards it and winked, reminding Dreyfuss not to break their cover. Dreyfuss nodded and, while Parfit went to the urinals, stood in front of the gleaming row of washbasins, examining his features in the splashed mirror. He looked fairly dreadful, like some old cancer patient: face pasty grey, eyes dark, cheeks hollow, and sweat cloying his hair. Another man came in and hurried into a cubicle, slamming the door shut after him. Dreyfuss heard him unbuckling his belt.

He ran some cold water and rested his hands in it for a few moments before starting to wash his face. He felt better almost immediately. Parfit was standing behind him, zipping himself.

‘Ready?’

‘Just give me a minute,’ Dreyfuss said. ‘I’ll catch you up in duty-free.’