Rose would be safe. I’d take the rap for the stolen passport; if asked, she’d say I forced her to make the call. But her guilt by association in the eyes of whoever was hunting me was not so easily solved, not even by Nazzar. I knew he’d send an operator to keep tabs on her and her wife – and in all likelihood take them into unofficial military protective custody. That was as much an insurance policy for him as it was for them. If – when – that happened, it would feel like they’d been kidnapped at first, and I was sorry for it. Depending on how things worked out, a new identity, home, job, life were all potentially coming down the line at them. I’d told Rose to take her wife on a surprise holiday, immediately, though I doubted Nazzar would let them leave the country. The brutal fact of the matter was that, irrespective of what ultimately transpired, both of their lives would be changed irrevocably by Rose’s chance meeting with me. She would be protected by the Wing – but at a cost she’d not calculated.

Five minutes to departure.

I revisited the plans I’d made from the hospital bed. In Paris I’d catch a connection to Toulouse. From there I’d hitchhike and walk into the Pyrenees. The winter would be tough, but there would be isolated chalets and retreats abandoned till spring. Breaking into second homes owned by foreigners was a national pastime in France; so much so that the thinly stretched rural gendarmerie were mostly unconcerned as long as no violence was employed. I tried to shake off the cold of the platform and imagined the warm spring sun that would follow the vernal equinox. In my mind’s eye I saw the mountains’ snow caps melting into the streams and lakes where I’d drop a hook at dawn. There was no question that I could sustain myself. Special Forces selection, followed by years of training in a succession of increasingly harsh environments, would see to that. In comparison to Nunavut’s Arctic tundra, surviving the Pyrenees would be a cinch. What would happen when – if – I re-emerged was a question I would have plenty of time to consider.

Three minutes.

The train pulled into the station. Metal ground against metal. Hydraulics wheezed. Doors opened. A guard wrapped up in a blue-black fleece stalked along the platform. I stepped over the yellow line, jostled by the backs and bags of a disorganized family eager to be in the warmth of the carriage.

Of course I could survive. But to what end?