Beatrix took a taxi to Paddington and then caught the Heathrow Express to the airport. She went to the British Airways desk and bought a ticket to Paris with a credit card in the name of Francine Zimmer, the third legend that she had used in the past week. She checked in, the staff photo card in her purse announcing that she was an executive for an advertising agency with clients across Europe. She bought lunch in the airside concession, bought a novel from WHSmith, and waited to board her flight.

The flight was uneventful. Beatrix passed through immigration without issue, then went to the train station and bought a Paris metro carnet. She took the train into the city, emerged at Châtelet and crossed the Seine. She descended into St Michel and took the southbound train to Porte d’Orléans. She was vigilant throughout, not expecting to be tailed but drilled to be aware of the possibility, her vigilance given extra edge by the knowledge that to be discovered in Paris now would be fatal for her career. The train pulled into Denfert-Rochereau station. Beatrix waited until the doors started to close before she leapt out of her seat. She pressed them open just enough to squeeze through onto the platform and looked back into the carriage as the train slid into the tunnel. A few people gazed at her, no doubt wondering about her sudden urgency, but there was nothing that might have indicated a frustrated tail. She crossed the platform and waited for a train to take her in the opposite direction.

She was as confident as she could be that she was not being followed. She felt comfortable enough that it was safe to make her way to her destination.

The apartment was in the Marais, within walking distance of the Place des Vosges, the Picasso Museum and the Opera Bastille. It had been built in the early 1800s and was located in a quiet, secluded courtyard with trees and plants, paved with period cobblestones. Beatrix unlocked the door and climbed to the second of the four floors. She unlocked the door and paused on the threshold. The place was owned by an interior designer who made a little extra cash by letting it on the side. There were small and intimate rooms, each with wooden shutters and an oak floor. Large windows overlooked the courtyard, and the furniture was a charming hodgepodge of eighteenth-century pieces supplemented by flat-pack items from Ikea and Habitat.

Beatrix gathered herself. She was nervous.