“But that wasn’t the plan, Bilel,” I said, my voice frayed with genuine anxiety. “We’ve gone over this many times. You were adamant – as was I – that a woman would come to meet us. You told me we would be safe. How many times have you told me nothing is more important than my safety?”

“Listen to me,” he said, his tone hardening. “You’re going to shut up for a minute and let me speak. It’ll be a snap. When you arrive at the airport in Istanbul, buy two one-way tickets for Urfa.”

Urfa? Going there was suicide. It was controlled by Isis.

“I think you’re being unreasonably hard on me,” Mélodie said. “All I ask is that you respect what you’ve been promising me… At the first sign of difficulty, you abandon me. That’s just great.”

Bilel’s tone changed. I’d never seen him like this before. “Do you think I’m an idiot? From now on, you’re going to shut up. I’m part of a terrorist organisation. You can’t talk to me like that. Don’t you know who I am? I command 100 soldiers every day. I haven’t even told you a quarter of the truth. I’m wanted internationally; that’s why I can’t even go to our cities in Turkey. I can only travel to Iraq. I’m 38, and you and your friend can’t bring me down. You’d better tread lightly.”

The conversation came to an abrupt end. I tore off the hijab and rose to my feet. I called my editor-in-chief and explained. She told me that the story had to end here. Urfa was too big a risk. Two French journalists sent to the region by a radio station had just been freed after 10 months of captivity at the hands of Isis. The next morning, we flew home.