Forty-one

Five minutes before midnight, a dozen armoured police vehicles screeched through the narrow streets of Anfa, and braked hard outside the Omary Mansion.

With sirens blaring and the sapphire lights whirling against a moonless night, fifty officers charged out of the vehicles and over to the house. Forcing apart the great arabesque gates, they surrounded the building, and set about battering open the main door.

Roused by the noise, Hicham Omary clambered out of bed and paced over to the window. Five minutes later, still wearing pyjamas, he was standing in the garden, in handcuffs.

‘What’s going on?’

‘Shut up and stay quiet!’ shouted the chief officer.

Just then, a sergeant hurried out of the building, a kilo-bag of fine white powder in his hand. His superior grinned.

‘You are under arrest,’ he said.