They talked through the logistics of it. A decent environment could take a month and the support teams would have a certain amount of rotation—which would mean travelling back to Paris—but the surveillance would be occurring at all hours, so the teams would have to disperse to hotels and pensions, pay in cash and assemble where their gig started each day or night. De Payns noted the sombre atmosphere—they’d been in Islamabad together, escaping detection, but this was slightly different. They were now surrounding a target who had a direct connection to a VIP from a Pakistani bioweapons facility. If there was counter-surveillance around her it would be professional and ruthless.

‘It’ll be fully sanitised,’ said Templar, nodding. ‘They’ll need a Ouija board to know we’re in town.’

When Templar and Brent had left, de Payns turned his focus to the fictive ID of Sébastien Duboscq. Duboscq was not a new ID for de Payns; he’d used it around Europe and in the United States. The legend was that of a pharmaceutical consultant through his company AlphaPharma Consulting, which had offices in Paris —so named because a generic corporate moniker made it harder for opposing intelligence agencies to search for the owners of it. He’d done monthly ‘gardening’ of his corporate front, including visits to his office in the ninth arrondissement, email responses to prospective clients and attending conferences in Germany and the Netherlands. Duboscq’s approach would be a request for Raven’s translation services. He wanted to ensure his clients in Pakistan and some neighbouring Stans could understand his website, so he needed Urdu and Pashto versions. His Sébastien Duboscq persona was well dressed and smooth. He dressed in smart suits and good shoes and appeared unconcerned by money. De Payns had gone through all the photography from Mons and, judging by her expensive taste in handbags and accessories, Raven’s MICE might include ego. She looked like a bourgeois subcontinental woman who might be persuaded to step up to some romance with a sexy Parisian professional. He made a note to get a better haircut and perhaps wear a men’s fragrance … Paco Rabanne, maybe—something that suggested Sébastien Duboscq might be up for some fun but wasn’t desperate.

He took the Metro east, had a shower at the Company flat and selected the dark blue suit in his locker’s wardrobe, matching it with a new white shirt and a pair of brown Bowen shoes from England. Placing his Alec de Payns collateral in one manila envelope, he poured out the Duboscq wallet, effects and phone from another. He put on a slim gold watch and slipped a vintage-looking gold confirmation ring onto his finger.