The new Gare de Mons was a sweeping temple of white concrete, as if the old LAX flying-saucer building had had a love child with the Sydney Opera House. De Payns alighted from the Intercity train he’d caught from Brussels, having taken the Thalys from Paris, and walked the clean Belgian concourse to the taxi ranks outside. He gave the address of the Hôtel Saint Georges, selected for its location off the main streets and paid for in advance with cash through a travel agent in Paris, claiming his wallet had been stolen and he’d had to revert to his emergency cash. He checked in as Sébastien Duboscq and went to the third floor, where he did his sweeps of the room. He observed the street from his window and looked for people sitting in cars and service vans that seemed to be doing more parking than servicing.

He switched on the TV, which received Belgian and French services, and lay on the double bed. He’d called Raven from Paris two days before, introduced himself and told her he was going to be in Brussels later in the week. He’d asked if they could meet in Mons to discuss some translation work for his website. His adrenaline was now elevated. This was the ‘action’ work that the Y Division was created to do, and de Payns had been trained specifically for the task. Yes, he could drive fast, use firearms and make bombs. But accessing a human’s life, becoming part of it and betraying the trust created with that person, was on another level. It was difficult to initiate, hard to maintain and, if the target was protected in any way, it was dangerous. In order to appear calm and natural, an OT had to be meticulous and hard-working. It was like the proverbial duck on the pond—just because the effort was hidden from view, it didn’t mean there was no frantic paddling beneath the surface.