Briffaut hung up before the woman could answer. Then he stood up, adjusted his tie, and walked out into the sunshine, passing through the side security gates and heading north to the greenery of the Stade Huvier. He bought a baguette with salami and cheese and a cup of coffee, and sat at a table with an umbrella. Six minutes later a portly subcontinental man in an expensive suit and dark sunglasses wandered over to the coffee cart, bought a cup and sat at Briffaut’s table. They pretended they didn’t know one another.

‘Monsieur Roche,’ said the man in an undertone, stirring his coffee. ‘It’s been a while.’

‘Thanks for joining me, Monsieur Sharif,’ said Briffaut, as a woman with three dogs walked past. ‘We had a high-level defection this morning.’

‘Who?’ asked Sharif.

‘Philippe Manerie.’

Sharif stopped stirring and looked over the top of his sunglasses at Briffaut. ‘That’s a little higher than just high level.’

‘He’s been playing both ends against the middle for a number of years,’ said Briffaut.

‘France and Pakistan?’

‘Yes,’ said Briffaut, biting into the baguette. ‘But we think he sells out both of us to the Israelis. He’s disappeared as of this morning and we assume he’s in Islamabad. That’s certainly where all his best material has come from recently.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes,’ said Briffaut, finishing the baguette and sipping the coffee. ‘We want you to know that even as he feeds us intelligence from Pakistan, we consider it damaged goods. Just so we’re clear.’

‘Understood,’ said Sharif.

‘You might find this interesting,’ said Briffaut, pushing a bank account number across the table.

Sharif took the paper and slipped it into his jacket.

‘Have a good day,’ said Briffaut, and he left, taking his coffee with him.

CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

CHAPTER

SIXTY-FOUR

De Payns was not supposed to have a CZ 9mm from the Company at his residence, and Briffaut had asked him to return it. After lunch, de Payns descended to the armoury and small gun range in the bowels of the Bunker, where Zac often had interesting videos playing on his TV and all the best gossip in the building.

‘Please sign it in,’ said de Payns, passing over the handgun. ‘It’s about two years overdue.’

Zac brought out his Tupperware box of macarons and de Payns took a raspberry one. There was a handgun viced in place on Zac’s workbench, lights focused on it.

‘What are you working on?’ asked de Payns, nodding at the gun.

‘Blanks. They wreck a weapon. Put too many of those rounds through and I have to break them down, rebuild them. They go through thousands at Cercottes.’

‘Blanks?’ echoed de Payns, chewing on the biscuit. ‘Hadn’t really thought about it.’