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be any coltan or cassiterite. Every e-mail and text they sent demanding justice, every call they made organizing another rally, every website they set up bemoaning human rights abuses – all were made possible by the very misery and exploitation they so vociferously condemned. It was laughable, utterly laughable. Or at least it would be if he bothered to give it a second thought.
    Behind him the hiss of the shower slowed and stopped. Semblaire turned, glancing at his Rolex to check how much time he had. There was a knock at the door.
    ‘ Merde ,’ he muttered. Then, louder: ‘ Moment! ’
    He swept a towelling robe off the floor, put it on and crossed the room.
    ‘O ui? ’
    ‘ Garçon d’étage ,’ came a voice. Room service.
    He hadn’t ordered anything, but he was in the hotel’s most expensive villa and the management were forever sending over complimentary drinks and flowers and sweets, so he didn’t think twice about clicking off the lock and opening the door.
    A pistol jammed hard into his sternum. He started to speak but the woman holding the gun held a finger to her lips. Or rather to the lips of the latex Marilyn Monroe mask she was wearing. She backed Semblaire into the room. Three other figures followed – two male, one female – the last of them closing and bolting the door. All wore masks: Arnold Schwarzenegger, Elvis Presley, Angelina Jolie. They weren’t African, that much he could tell from their bare arms and necks. Otherwise they gave nothing away. Were it not for the gun, the effect would have been comical.
    ‘ Qu’est-ce vous voulez? ’ he asked, trying to keep his voice calm. The woman with the pistol didn’t answer, just pushed Semblaire back on to the bed. The one in the Elvis Presley mask went over and drew the curtains tight shut. Angelina Jolie knelt on the floor and clicked open the Samsonite briefcase she was carrying, removing a tripod and digital video camera. Arnold Schwarzenegger, a short, spindly man with tendrils of greasy hair poking out from beneath the neckline of his mask, walked round to the bedside table where Semblaire’s MacBook was charging. He lifted the lid and turned it on. There was a chime and the screen went grey as the laptop booted.
    ‘ Qu’est-ce que vous— ’
    A hand whipped out and slapped Semblaire hard across the face.
    ‘Shut up.’
    The accent sounded American, with a hint of something else. Russian? Spanish? Israeli? Semblaire couldn’t be sure. In front of him Angelina Jolie, who was darker than the other woman, extended the tripod’s legs and placed it in the middle of the room, slotting the camera into the holding mechanism. She switched it on, opened out the viewfinder and angled the lens down so that it was aimed directly at the Frenchman’s face. On the laptop a screensaver of Semblaire and his family came up, indicating the machine was fully booted.
    ‘Password,’ said Arnold Schwarzenegger, turning the MacBook round.
    Semblaire hesitated. His first thought had been that this was a holdup. They hadn’t touched his wallet, however, which was lying in full view on the end of the bed, and their desire to get into his computer persuaded him this was something more sinister than plain robbery. There was a lot of stuff on there that neither he nor his company would have wanted . . .
    ‘Password,’ ordered the man again.
    ‘Now,’ snapped Marilyn Monroe, lifting the pistol and pressing it hard against Semblaire’s temple. With no choice, he leant forward and started tapping. Schwarzenegger swung the MacBook round, slotted a USB stick into one of the ports and played a finger over the touchpad, exploring the hard drive. Semblaire was scared now, really scared.
    ‘ Écoutez ,’ he began, ‘I don’t know what you want from me—’
    He was interrupted by a muted clatter from the bathroom. The intruders tensed, glancing at each other, the one with the gun tutting and shaking her head as if to say, ‘We should have checked.’