The Metro journey to the Duboscq apartment took twelve minutes, during which he assembled Sébastien’s Nokia. He cleared the mail at the foyer of his vacant apartment above a restaurant on Rue Godot de Mauroy, and then crossed the road to the offices of AlphaPharma Consulting. He climbed the stairs and entered the tiny serviced space. There was a desk with two chairs and a sofa, and a phone and computer on the desk. Not much, but enough.

He turned on the lights and moved around. He could hear the insurance broker down the hallway yelling into the phone. He sat behind the desk, turned on the computer and leaned back in the cut-price executive chair as he tried to get into his Sébastien Duboscq mindset. He had two of the best field teams in Europe, led by Templar, and they already had Mons wired. If they burrowed deep into Raven’s private life and could confirm the environment was clean of ISI minders and overwatch, de Payns could be there in two weeks. His thoughts drifted to Operation Falcon and the disastrous interview with DGS about the three-million-euro passports. It meant Palermo was still lingering, and Frasier still hadn’t released a final report, meaning there was nothing to give Manerie. He wondered again why it had turned so bad in Sicily, pondering the mystery of the sleek, well-groomed man on the ferry. Had it really been Murad? And if so, what had dragged him out of hiding into what was essentially a field matter? Murad allegedly had ties to Osama bin Laden’s executive and he was suspected of financing sleeper cells in Paris, London, Madrid and Frankfurt. And he’d emerged from his safe haven—wherever that might be—to personally oversee Michael Lambardi on the ferry and then at the bar? Why?

Heels clicked on the parquet floor outside his office and then stopped.

‘Sébastien?’ came a woman’s voice. ‘You there, chéri?’

‘Claire! Come in,’ said de Payns, reverting to Sébastien Duboscq, the suave single guy.

The frosted-glass door swung inwards and Claire, the blonde employee who did ‘all the work’ at the insurance brokers, leaned on the doorjamb. She wore a dark pencil skirt and a loose red blouse that looked like it was meant to conceal her curves but failed.

‘Thought that was you,’ she said, pulling a soft pack of cigarettes from her waistband. ‘You been off adventuring again, Seb?’

‘If you call hard work “adventuring”. In this business the clients are everywhere,’ said de Payns, accepting a smoke. ‘I never stop travelling. You know how it is.’

‘Poof!’ she said, dismissing de Payns’ complaints. ‘Give me one week as a man, I’ll take it. Running around out there, doing whatever I want.’

‘It’s not that great,’ said de Payns, accepting her light.

‘Bullshit,’ said the blonde, as she lit her own smoke. ‘Only a man would ever complain about his own freedom.’