(1) Salah Abdeslam, captured in Brussels four months after terrorists killed 130 people in Paris.
Pizza en famille for the Belgian-born French national of Moroccan descent.
Italy-Belgium-France-Morocco: already enough national toppings for a Multicultural Mega-Feast. But instead of Buy One Get One Free from Boy On Moped with cool box for pillion, it was the Brussels robocops who rang for Salah Abdeslam, pinned him down and delivered him into custody.
Nearly as many days on the run as the number of people killed in the shooting-and-bombing in Paris on Friday the Thirteenth (November 2015).
Salah of the somewhat salacious mouth – small but full. Intelligent eyes, don’t you agree? Looking at that photo – if not issued by Europol, we’d most likely say ‘metrosexual’ and move on.
So was it sexy, trafficking a carload of suicide bombers before divesting yourself?
DNA of your sweat matching moisture in the bomber’s vest subsequently found abandoned. How did that happen? Instead of going forward with the backpack, did you back/drop out at the last minute, shrivelled and incapable, wracked by failure to fulfil your god-given destiny?
Or maybe-just-maybe you were humane enough to be horrified at the death and destruction already wrought upon others?
Secretly, you might have planned it that way all along: double agent known only to himself; loyal only to your own narcissism; keen to betray as many people as possible.
Every which way, surely some sort of Gethsemane around midnight in Paris; through the wee small hours a Jacques Brel of a night of soul-searching, while you tramped the streets of the eighteenth arrondissement, waiting for a car to pick you up at 7am in Boulevard Barbes, and on to Belgium.
And is it true you didn’t tell your friends at first, then threatened to blow up their car when they demurred at driving you to Brussels?