Patrice Labarre couldn’t believe his luck. Normally, the French financier’s trips to Geneva consisted of endless meetings with people begging him to invest in some hare-brained scheme, and barely any time to devote to the city’s more enjoyable pursuits.

So far this visit had followed the usual pattern. He’d spent his whole morning listening to two very well-bred but also very dim Englishmen trying to convince him that all they needed were a few tens of thousands of francs to fund an expedition in the Arabian Gulf that was guaranteed to reveal a hitherto undiscovered oilfield that would make them all millionaires. Labarre was already a millionaire, but from the slapdash presentation the two men had made to him he doubted they’d be joining him any time soon. They hadn’t even suggested taking Labarre to lunch at one of the restaurants along the Quai de Mont-Blanc to wine and dine him—probably, Labarre guessed, because they couldn’t afford to—so, after wishing the Brits goodbye and good luck, he’d had to make do with returning to the Hôtel des Bergues and eating alone.

He was now free for the afternoon, and was content to spend it indulging in working his way through the hotel restaurant’s selection of miniature, Michelin-starred desserts, until he noticed a woman sitting at the bar that ran the entire length of the long room watching him. She was the kind of woman who demanded attention. She was perched on a high stool and her whole body was visible over the shoulders of the few other diners who were still lingering at their tables. Her hands and forearms were covered by long, black silk gloves. She wore no necklace or earrings.

They stared at each other, neither breaking eye contact for a full minute as a smile started to curl the edges of the woman’s lips.

Labarre took one last bite of his air-light profiteroles and made his way over to the bar.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselle,’ he said.

‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ Anna replied in her deep, trans-European accent.

‘What is your name?’ Labarre asked.

‘Cosette,’ Anna replied.

‘I don’t think so,’ Labarre said, looking her up and down. ‘I think you’re more of a Fantine.’

‘Then that’s who I shall be.’

‘And what brings you to the Hôtel des Bergues?’

Anna took a sip of her Martini, still keeping her eyes fixed on Labarre’s as her hand reached out for her narrow-stemmed, wide-brimmed glass, brought it to her lips, and returned it to the bar.

‘Boredom.’

Five minutes later they were in Labarre’s suite.