The picture was one that the DGS had sent when they’d cleared Ana Homsi of being on a French government database or watchlist. They’d appended a digital photograph from the personnel files of an accounting firm where she’d worked before becoming a full-time mother. It verified that the agent and DGS were talking about the same person. It showed a woman with long dark hair and big round eyes, not unlike Claudia Cardinale in her heyday. He reckoned the picture had been taken eight or nine years ago.

‘She’s not my type,’ said de Payns, standing.

‘You lying bastard,’ laughed Mattieu Garrat, as de Payns retreated down the hallway. ‘That dame is everyone’s type!’

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER

THIRTY-THREE

De Payns started with a run around the Bunker, and just before 10 a.m. he entered the gym in the basement, where he was alone except for someone sitting on a weights bench peering at their phone. He slurped at the bubbler, grabbed some boxing gloves from the gear cupboard and went to the heavy bag. He hit the timer on the wall and it started counting down from three minutes. He took a boxer’s stance, balanced his weight and began slow, throwing jabs, hooks and straight-rights and, keeping his weight evenly distributed on the balls of his feet, bobbing and weaving, making his legs and hips throw the punches.

When the timer buzzed out, de Payns was panting, his legs almost jelly. He gasped for breath, wondering why he didn’t do this three times a week and keep his fitness at a constant level. He was psyching himself into completing two more three-minute rounds, when he heard a voice behind him.

‘Call that boxing?’

Turning, he found Shrek, dressed in a tight-fitting Brazilian jujitsu shirt and shorts.

‘I call that rusty,’ said de Payns.

‘Don’t tell me—you have your annual next month,’ said Shrek, openly amused. ‘I warned you, didn’t I? You can’t be a natural all your life, mon pote. Have to put in the work.’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ said de Payns. He looked like a one-time rugby player who’d once flown fighter jets, while Shrek looked like an academic who would take you to the cleaners in a game of chess. But Shrek had done the work and was a black belt and instructor in Wing Chun kung fu, and de Payns was getting through a pack a day and trying to get fit for his annual check-up. Shrek was right. Any natural ability with his fists probably belonged to a younger version of himself.

‘Come on, let’s see what you’ve got,’ said Shrek, walking to the gear cupboard.

‘I’m not doing one of your sparring sessions,’ said de Payns. ‘You kidding me? I can barely hold my own against the heavy bag right now.’