Lucas must have heard the door. He eased silently out of the bedroom, put his finger to his lips and came over to embrace her. She kissed him and pressed herself into his arms. Lucas had no idea what she did for employment; the idea of his ever finding out was anathema to her. He was a good man, and she couldn’t predict how he would react if he knew the truth. She had been a soldier before, and that hadn’t fazed him, but she operated in a world of grey now, when it had been black and white before. She wasn’t prepared to take the risk, even if her silence—and often her dishonesty—was a heavy price to pay.

He trusted her. He had flown to Paris two days ago, taking a sudden leave of absence so he could care for an ailing relative. They had two weeks. That would be a safe enough margin to leave before he returned to London.

His trust ran deeper than leaving the country because of an unexplained phone call from the other side of the world.

She disengaged herself and crossed the room to the open doorway. The bedroom was beyond. It was as charming as the rest of the apartment: a large double bed with a handmade quilt, a vintage rug on the floor, art on the walls—Rothko prints—and a dim lamp in one corner.

Beatrix stepped into the room. There was a crib next to the bed. Lucas had had it delivered from Printemps du Louvre and he had chosen well. It was wooden, painted white and with oblique legs that were reminiscent of vintage design and looked in keeping with the apartment’s decor. The baby was wrapped in a swaddle, a tight bundle that enclosed her arms and legs. She was sleeping, her soft breathing the only thing that Beatrix could hear.

She stared at the child, almost unaware of the hand on her shoulder. Lucas was next to her.

She had been thinking about the child ever since she had handed her over to Lucas when they had met at the apartment. She was the reason that she had left Venezuela through Trinidad. She couldn’t risk taking her through the airport, and, more to the point, she needed a passport for her. The only risk that she had taken was to ask the Group’s stringer in Port of Spain to provide her with two new passports: one for her and one for the child, together with a birth certificate and the associated documentation that would prove that she was Beatrix’s child.