De Payns breathed out, keeping an unconcerned look on his face while his mind did cartwheels. The operation that would see the passports handed over and the transaction videotaped at Lambardi’s apartment was not going to happen. It was going down now, at Bar Luca, and it was being run by the Turks and someone hiding in the corridor. The CZ was an option for de Payns, but only ever in self-defence. The French secret services didn’t do shoot-outs. The DGSE’s trademark was cool, ruthless, untraceable.

De Payns lifted the Adidas bag onto his lap and patted it. ‘Right here.’

Lambardi’s tone was apologetic. ‘I have to go alone.’

De Payns looked over at the tall Turk.

‘Come on,’ the migration agent urged. ‘By the time this is over, we’ll have three million euros, my friend. I promise.’

De Payns didn’t like it. He shook his head slowly, wondering how to turn the situation around without revealing himself. As he paused, the main door of the bar opened and Shrek, his face hidden by a blue cap pulled low, entered. He was not a tall or handsome man and was very good at seeming innocuous.

De Payns avoided looking at his colleague and kept his eyes on Lambardi. ‘You really want to do this, Michael?’ he asked. ‘You’re a little drunk.’

‘Pfft!’ said Lambardi. ‘You French are so serious.’

In his peripheral vision, de Payns could see Shrek leaning on the bar and ordering a drink. To Lambardi he said, ‘It has to be tonight? It feels rushed.’

‘It’s okay for you, Alain, but I need the money.’

‘You need it this badly?’

Lambardi reached for the backpack. ‘Try getting divorced in Italy. They nail you to a fucking cross, amico.’

De Payns pulled back slightly and unzipped his pack, revealing the yellow manila envelope with the French passports. His training emphasised that an officier traitant—an ‘OT’—always kept control. No target ever led a DGSE operative around by the nose.

‘We do this together,’ said de Payns in a low voice, ‘or I don’t do it at all. Tell your friends I’m an arrogant French bastard.’

The tall Turk bristled with impatience. Lambardi, looking desperate, said, ‘Please, Alain. I need this, or you and I are in big trouble.’

De Payns drew Lambardi’s small leather waist pack towards him across the table, folded the manila envelope and pushed it into the bag. But he didn’t return the waist pack.

‘Once they have what they want, you have no leverage,’ said de Payns. ‘You tell them I don’t do business in bar urinals with people I don’t know. They can give you the money, and you and I can do our deal at your flat. I know and trust you, Michael. But this Murad? He’s your problem, mon pote.’

Lambardi chewed his lip. The tall Turk edged forward.