She hadn’t even denied it. I walked over and slapped her across the face. ‘Where is it? Where’s the transmitter?’

She grabbed my forearm - she had a strong grip - and wiped her face. ‘T’es fou, ou quoi? Why would I let the police know we were at the club? I came to warn you they were there, remember?’

That was true. But her story stank nevertheless. Nobody else had known where I was going, and I didn’t believe that the police were acting on their own initiative. We were white: if they hadn’t known who we were, they should at least have been worried about causing a diplomatic incident. They hadn’t looked in the least bit worried.

I turned my attention back to Isabelle. ‘What are your instructions regarding me?’ I asked her.

‘None,’ she said. ‘I haven’t been in touch with my people yet. And as you can see,’ she added sarcastically, ‘I don’t have any transmitters hidden on me.’

‘So why are you here?’

‘When we met at the Yacht Club, I thought you were British intelligence—’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘Instinct. Then, when you asked to go the Afrospot, I decided to come with you and see. I always enjoy an adventure.’

Despite the slap of a few moments ago, she was smiling. I recognized the sort: she was still under the misapprehension that espionage was a glamorous business. She’d learn the hard way; everyone did, eventually.

‘We were good, weren’t we?’ she said, bringing my hand back up to her face, where I’d hit her. ‘Me driving, you shooting . . .’

‘Is that your idea of kicks?’ I asked, but she was good, better than she could possibly know, because my mind was moving without me being able to control it, moving back many years, to another room.