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jabbers away to his brother, it sounds like they’re planning something, the driver is nodding. They carry on like I’m not here, they’re probably calculating the compensation they think they’re entitled to. Entitled . . . that’s a fucking laugh. From time to time, the little guy turns to me and yells something. I catch a couple of slang terms: “dosh”, “divvy up”. Where the fuck they learned them, I’ve no idea, they’ve hardly been in the country twenty-four hours. Who knows, maybe the Turks have a gift for languages. Not that I give a shit. Right now, the best thing I can do is look confused, play it cool, nod my head and give them an apologetic smile. We’re coming in to Saint-Ouen, traffic is light, we’re in the clear.
    The banlieue flashes past. Jesus, the big Turk has got some pair of lungs on him. With all the shouting, by the time we get to the lock-up, the air in the car is unbreathable, it feels like he’s just getting to his Unified Theory of Everything. The little guy yells at me, asking the same question over and over, he’s demanding an answer, and to show he’s serious he flashes an index finger and taps it against his closed fist. Maybe it’s an offensive gesture back in Izmir, but here in Saint-Ouen it’s a different matter. The gist is obvious enough, it’s intended as a threat, the best course of action is to nod my head and agree. I don’t feel I’m being dishonest, because things are going to be sorted out soon enough.
    Meanwhile, the driver has got out of the car and he’s struggling to open the padlock on the metal shutters of the garage. He twists the key this way and that, comes back to the car looking puzzled, he’s obviously thinking back: when he locked up, the key was working fine. He turns back towards the car and stands there sweating while the engine runs. There’s not much chance of us being spotted on this dead-end road in the middle of nowhere, but even so I don’t fancy hanging around for ever.
    As far as they’re concerned, the padlock is just one more unexpected hitch. One too many. By now, the little guy is almost apoplectic. Nothing has gone according to plan, he feels conned, betrayed – “fucking French bastard” – the best thing I can do is look baffled, this whole thing about the lock not working is bizarre, we tried it yesterday and the garage door opened. I calmly step out of the car, looking surprised and confused.
    The magazine of a Mossberg 500 holds seven rounds. Instead of yelling and screaming like a pack of hyenas, these arseholes would have been better off counting the spent rounds. They’re about to find out that if you don’t know shit about locks, you’d better know a thing or two about arithmetic. Because once I’m out of the car, all I have to do is walk slowly as far as the door to the lock-up, gently push the driver to one side – “Here, let me give it a go” – and when I turn, I’m perfectly positioned. There are just enough bullets to quickly aim at the driver and put a 70mm shell in his chest that flings him back against the concrete wall. Now for the little guy. I turn slightly and feel a sense of relief as I blast his brains out through the windshield. See the blood spurting. The shattered windscreen, the side windows dripping blood, I can’t see anything else. I step closer to inspect the damage: his head has been blown to pieces, all that’s left is his scrawny neck and his body, which is twitching still. Chickens run around after they’ve had their heads chopped off. Turks are much the same.
    The Mossberg makes a hell of a racket, but the silence afterwards!
    There’s no time to lose now. Unload the two bags, dig out the right key to open the lock-up, drag the big brother into the garage, roll the car in with the kid inside in two neat pieces – I have to roll it over the other guy, but it doesn’t matter, he’s not going to make a fuss now – pull down the metal shutters, lock it and it’s done and