‘I don’t know,’ said de Payns, feeling the eyes of his tormentor boring into him.

Manerie sighed and stood slowly. ‘You know what I used to tell the Marxist guerrillas we captured in Africa?’

De Payns shrugged, squinting as he looked up. ‘What?’

‘You lie—you die.’ Manerie crushed his cigarette under his shoe. ‘That was generally the last conversation those Communists ever enjoyed.’

De Payns watched Manerie walk away, the waters of the fountain now seeming very loud.

He woke shortly after 1 a.m. as the rain started. He usually slept lightly before an operation, and he left the bed and padded around the apartment, checking on the boys and the front door. He checked the windows and made sure the security latch on the Juliet balcony was where he’d left it when he went to bed. On the street below he looked for vehicles that were new or unusual, or had people in them. It was dark on the street and, as on most Paris streets, his view was blocked by trees. He stared into the night, questions erupting in his brain. Who had sold them out in Palermo and how much did that person know about Operation Alamut? He wondered about Raven and her motive for inviting him to dinner in Islamabad. Was he really going to walk into that flat with Timberwolf and his ISI thugs? Was he going to go up against the ISI right in the middle of Islamabad?

He shook off the pre-operation nerves and headed back to Romy. He wanted to hold her, as if this could be the last time, but he wanted to do it without scaring her. In the end he lay against her shoulder and listened to the Paris rain and her breathing. He wanted to enjoy the moment, but his mind was racing over the week ahead.

CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER

FORTY-SEVEN

De Payns arrived at Indira Ghandi International at midday and took a shuttle into New Delhi, where he booked into a three-star local hotel that he’d paid for in cash in Paris. He was dressed in sneakers, jeans and a windbreaker, with a sports jacket, trousers and good shoes in his wheelie suitcase. Having checked in, he walked to the quiet greenery of the Mughal Gardens in the downtown area. He built up his Sébastien Duboscq phone and just after 2 p.m. local time called Raven and told her where he was. She sounded excited and he was relieved that her voice didn’t have any of the tightness that indicated coercion.

‘I’m just finishing up in New Delhi,’ he said. ‘Who knew that they speak Urdu and Punjabi up here? I thought it would all be Hindi, but there might be some more work for you, Anoush.’

‘Well,’ she said, ‘there are more Urdu speakers in Pakistan, but there’s still a lot in northern India.’