Webb hastily stepped forward and said a few quick words in French to the concierge. He made an exaggerated gesture, waving a hand at Bowman and shrugging as if to say, What can you do? I’ve got to work with this idiot for a living. The concierge smiled. His expression visibly relaxed. Webb gestured to the document and tapped his watch. A clear signal. Emphasising that the job was urgent. His body language said: We’ve got to get these papers signed. Can you help us out? Bowman watched his colleague with surprise. The quiet, shy soldier had completely transformed himself into a chatty, cheerful French delivery driver.

The concierge picked up the phone and dialled a number.

Lang answered on the fourth ring. The concierge addressed him in a grovelling tone of voice, telling him about the couriers, the important papers. There was a pause before Lang barked something inaudible. Then the line clicked dead. Raymond replaced the receiver. Looked up.

‘You may go up,’ he said in English, for the benefit of Webb’s colleague. ‘Monsieur Lang, he will see you.’

‘We will have to wait upstairs,’ Webb pointed out. ‘For the other parties to arrive. We must have all the signatures before returning the papers to the office.’

‘Bien. Not a problem. This way, please, messieurs.’

They followed him across the foyer, towards a bank of private lifts reserved for the building’s wealthiest residents. The concierge touched a master key card against a magnetic reader below the control panel and selected the eighteenth floor from the touchscreen display. The leftmost lift doors pinged open, and then Bowman and Webb stepped inside the gold-decorated car. The concierge trotted back to his station. The doors slid gently shut.

The soldiers kept their heads low as they rode upwards, shielding their faces from the security cameras.

‘What the fuck was that about?’ Webb said icily.

‘I forgot the name of the company,’ Bowman muttered. ‘It’s no big deal, mate.’

‘You almost blew the op.’

‘It was a mistake,’ Bowman said in a low voice. ‘Won’t happen again.’

‘You’d better hope not.’

‘What did you say to that guy?’ asked Bowman.

Webb glanced at him, a flinty look in his eyes. ‘I told him it was your first day on the job,’ he said. ‘And probably your last, too.’

The lift announced their arrival on the eighteenth floor with a strident ring. Bowman and Webb stepped out into a private landing. Bowman had studied the floor plan during the flight to Nice and the layout was instantly familiar to him. Two doors on the right led through to the emergency stairwell and a maintenance room. There was a service lift on the left side of the landing, next to a storage compartment.

At the far end was the front door to David Lang’s apartment.