Thanks to the bad weather and the drama unfolding just blocks away, the street outside ICS’s offices was unnaturally deserted. There was nothing Ben could do about the CCTV cameras. Paris was full of them these days, though public surveillance was still only a fraction of what UK citizens had to endure. He glanced left, glanced right, then quickly scaled the wall and dropped down the other side of it in the Institute’s gardens. He crossed a small lawned area, with a pathway and some ornamental shrubs in large ornate pots, and slipped into the dark shadow cast by a mature elm tree that stood close to the rear of the building. Peering up through the foliage Ben singled out a balconied first-floor window that was just a short leap from the tree’s branches.

Moments later he was there, swinging over the ornate balcony rail and ducking down by the window. There was nothing but darkness inside the building. The window was securely locked. There was little point in messing around with locks, since the moment he ventured inside he was sure to set off the alarm system anyway.

He used the butt of his pistol to break the glass. As expected, the alarm instantly went off. He wasn’t concerned about it being heard from the outside, with a riot in full swing nearby. But a building like this, the security system was certainly hi-tech enough to be internet-connected straight to the police. Ben reckoned he had about ten minutes, maximum, before his presence drew a response.

He crawled in through the broken window, took a small pencil torch from his pocket and shone it around, and saw that he was in a conference room with a large table surrounded by chairs. He made his way quickly into a corridor, along which were rows of offices. The alarm shrilled more loudly in his ears as he made his way deeper into the building. He glanced at his watch. Seconds counted. He came to a stairway. If Julien Segal was like any other CEO in the world, his personal office would be on the top floor. Ben raced up the stairs.

One minute gone.

He came out on a landing with another corridor leading off both ways. If in doubt, turn right. He followed the corridor to its end, checking the little nameplates on the doors as he went. The carpeting underfoot was expensively thick, and fine antiques and paintings adorned the spaces between doors. But none of the nameplates was Segal’s.