Farek knew the Old Port well; he had cause to, having used it for most of his adult life in one way or another. If she had elected to leave by sea, and from such a place, it meant she had done so to avoid being seen by Farek’s spotters at the air terminal and passenger port. In doing so, she had taken enormous risks… but risks she must have decided outweighed any reason for staying. That could only mean one thing: she wasn’t coming back.

He nodded at the fat man.

Bouhassa moved over to Abdou, his breath whistling in his nose, balancing himself carefully on his feet as if he were about to take a plunge off a high board. He flipped the industrial glasses down over his eyes and grasped Abdou by the hair, jerking the man’s head backwards. Abdou shrieked, eyes bulging as he finally realised what was about to happen. Like many in the city, he would have heard the stories of what happened to men who crossed Sami Farek, and the part that the fat man Bouhassa played in their despatch.

It was called swallowing a shot.

He tried to speak, but the words in his throat were cut off as the gun barrel with the silencer was thrust into his mouth. There was a crackle of breaking teeth and the prisoner gurgled and shook his head, fighting against the pain and terror. But Bouhassa was too strong. He pulled Abdou’s head right back, forcing the gun deeper and deeper until his knuckles were pushed hard against the man’s teeth and Abdou’s Adam’s apple bulged against the skin of his throat.

In the background, the cargo plane increased power and hurtled down the runway.

‘Do it,’ Farek commanded.

The shot was muffled, and would not have reached the outside world, even without the silencer or the airplane’s roar. Bouhassa quickly withdrew the gun and clamped Abdou’s mouth shut, noting with what appeared to be distaste a few spots of blood on the sleeve of his djellaba, and a trickle of urine as the dying man voided his bladder.