He arrived early at Tajikan Road, in the north of Kabul, and walked the street in front of the police special forces base. The city of four million was getting busy, a mix of horses and motorbikes, limos and army trucks. One of the biggest markets in Afghanistan was over the road from the base. There were soldiers and police on the street, and even first thing in the morning the thump of a helicopter engine was audible, hovering over the base. It was a fortress and had to be that way; a former police chief from the Taliban era had turned on his former colleagues and decided to work for the new American-backed government. That simple shifting of allegiance had triggered fifteen years of attempted assassinations, bombings and kidnappings of anyone associated with the National Police.

He walked routes to see who was around and who might be interested in him. It seemed clean, and exactly one hour after he’d spoken with Moran, de Payns walked to the main security gate. Before he could get there a local man in an Afghan pakol and a shalwar kameez grabbed his arm. As de Payns tensed, the man told him to relax. It was Moran. They walked through the crowds and down a side street where a black Toyota LandCruiser was parked in the loading bay of a laundry.

‘In here,’ said Moran, opening the rear door.

They clambered into the vehicle and a heavily muscled local man started the car and drove off.

Moran whipped off the hat and struggled out of the knee-length dress. ‘Hate these things,’ he said, as he kicked away the long shirt, revealing pale chinos and a dark polo shirt. He was a solidly built, dark-haired man who obviously exercised.

‘How are you Alec?’ asked the Englishman, holding out his hand.

As they shook, de Payns couldn’t keep the smile off his face. ‘You’re looking younger. You doing yoga?’

‘No, mate,’ said Moran with a wink. ‘Second divorce. Pure joy keeps me young.’

Mike Moran was two years younger than de Payns, and had spent all his post-university life in the SIS. They had known each other as children, when their grandparents used to meet up once a year. During World War II, Moran’s and de Payns’ grandfathers had fought with de Gaulle for the Free French. Moran’s grandfather married an Englishwoman and lived out his days as a bank manager in Southampton. De Payns’ grandfather returned to France with de Gaulle and stayed close to the President and managed his pine forest in the south of the country. For years the families would meet up in Bournemouth over the summer and the tradition was kept alive by Mike’s and de Payns’ parents.

‘We gotta stop meeting like this,’ said Mike. Then his tone changed. ‘What’s up? You okay?’

‘Something’s not right and I have to get back to Paris. Independently.’