Forensic work on the phones and faces would only occur once they were back in Paris. That’s where the jigsaw would be put together and they’d decide how to access the MERC. ‘I think we have enough for now. Those hard drives been swept?’

Templar and Brent nodded.

‘Okay, let’s play it out today. No more patterns for the ISI to follow.’

De Payns’ central concern on these operations was avoiding patterns, especially around places like the MERC. It was precisely the kind of thing that he would look for—a group of outsiders driving around a classified site. They do it once, it’s a coincidence; they do it twice, it gets your attention; do it three days in a row and you’re on them like flies on shit.

They’d entered the VIP’s world for four days in a row, at different times and different angles. They’d been smart, patient and professional, never entering the route at the same place at the same time. If there was an overwatch on the VIP, de Payns was certain they hadn’t given themselves away. It was now Friday morning and with the recon product in the can, and seats booked on a flight the next day, there was no reason to push their luck.

‘Okay,’ said Templar, biting into the croissant. ‘You want us to split up, blend in?’

‘Yeah, why not,’ said de Payns, knowing that his friend was sensing something. Templar’s gaze shifted to look over de Payns’ shoulder, and then there was a smile on his face so gormless it could only be for public effect.

De Payns turned slowly. Two official-looking Pakistani men stood over them. Not friendly, not hostile, just watching.

‘Nice day, gentlemen,’ said the slimmer and taller of the two, in fairly good English. He was a hawk-faced forty-year-old in a well-cut brown suit and mid-price shoes.

‘Good morning, monsieur, how are you?’ replied de Payns, not offering his hand. ‘Parlez-vous Français?’

‘Un peu,’ said Hawk-face. ‘But English is better.’

De Payns kept his smile. ‘You from the government? Did we ask too many times about how drunk we’re allowed to get?’

The Hawk paused slightly but then smiled. ‘We are used to our French friends wondering about our alcohol laws.’

De Payns offered his hand. ‘Don’t mind my friend,’ he said, nodding at Templar. ‘He’s a piss-head.’

Hawk’s English wasn’t that good. ‘Major Dubash,’ he said, offering de Payns a card.

As he took it, de Payns saw the green shield of the Inter-Services Intelligence, the ISI. On the green shield was a silver markhor—a native mountain goat—with a snake in its mouth.

De Payns didn’t hesitate as they shook hands. ‘Were we speeding again? We did that in Poland a few weeks ago. We get carried away …’