But Jeanette hadn’t been joking when she had said she didn’t notice the briefcase anymore, and unless they were updating its closely guarded contents, or running a drill with the mock codes and protocols it also contained, she almost forgot it was there. Thus the briefcase was not the subject of the lieutenant’s thoughts as she read the decrypted e-mail from the European Space Agency to the minister and decided that Mr. Marchelier would probably want an immediate update on its contents.

Standing up, she nodded at the two dangerous-looking members of the French Secret Service who made up her security detail while she carried the case, and walked through the main door, heading toward the club’s concierge desk. They were behind her in an instant, maintaining a respectful distance and an ever-watchful eye on her as she asked to use the club’s printer, transferring the now decrypted report she has just received to an SD card and plugging it into the printer’s side.

* * *

The minister was engrossed in a lengthy article about Pascal Mercier’s Night Train to Lisbon when Jeanette walked up and stood just out of earshot, awaiting permission to approach. Though he did not look up, he noticed her waiting. As was his way, he finished the paragraph he was reading, smiled a moment at a particularly erudite simile, and then looked up at his expectant assistant. At a wave of François-Xavier’s hand, she stepped forward and whispered in his ear, handing him a report as she did so. He nodded, took a minute to flip through the multi-page report as she stood patiently at his shoulder, and then asked: “Has the navy confirmed this?”

“Yes, sir, their comments are at the bottom. It appears to be benign enough, but I thought I’d let you know there will be a bit of a show tonight when they enter the atmosphere.”

“Oui, Jeanette, merci beaucoup pour votre diligence.” he said, and she nodded to him with a polite smile and turned to walk away. The Frenchman read the report again. Apparently they were going to have quite the fireworks display tonight. He checked the probabilities of landfall and their relevance to France and her protectorates and nodded. Nothing to be afraid about, but still, something of interest.

“Bonsoir, Monsieur Le Minister.” said a voice and François-Xavier looked up, smiling as he took in the visage of Sir Stephen Packsley, a colleague of his from across la Manche and without hesitation rose to his feet to greet his sometime acquaintance.

“How are you, Sir Stephen?” said François-Xavier, his English impeccable if heavily accented, “I didn’t know you were staying in Paris or I would have suggested we had dinner together.”