Manerie eyeballed de Payns. ‘In the army we had a saying that went something like: Don’t shit on another man’s security arrangements until you’re one hundred and ten per cent certain of your own.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ de Payns lied.

Manerie made a pained face. ‘Don’t you? You’re bitching at me for catching you before you get to Paris, and yet Operation Falcon is on my radar because it’s clearly been compromised.’

De Payns wanted to protest that it wasn’t his fault, but Manerie would know that. He was here because de Payns was Falcon’s chef de mission.

Manerie leaned in. ‘I have a proposal for you, Aguilar, that I strongly recommend you agree to.’

‘Really?’

‘As of this moment, you’ll report to me on any meeting or conversation you have at the Bunker, or with anyone who works from the Bunker. Understood?’

‘I don’t know this Bunker.’

‘It’s in Noisy,’ Manerie snarled. ‘It looks like an old fort from the outside but many interesting people work there.’

‘Sounds like fun,’ said de Payns, his mind focused on where the director was going with this.

‘Yes, very interesting people, some of whom are probably working for our enemies.’

De Payns could feel his nostrils flaring. The jabber of the cleaner speaking into her phone echoed into the silence between them. ‘You want me to spy on Noisy?’

Jim and Manerie stared at him.

Finally, Manerie nodded slightly. ‘Would this be a problem?’ ‘I work for France,’ said de Payns.

‘But, bien sûr, these are people you trust with your life,’ said Manerie. ‘Can you help me with this problem without loyalties clouding your judgement?’

‘I don’t work for you,’ said de Payns.

Manerie nodded slowly and reached for his satchel. ‘Perhaps we need to define our relationship, non?’ He reached into his satchel, pulled out an 8×10 black-and-white photograph and handed it over.

De Payns looked down and saw a picture of himself in a pale business shirt and dark chinos. It was a sunny day so he was wearing sunglasses. There were cups of coffee on a table in front of him and on the other side of the table was a dark-haired forty-something Caucasian male in a polo shirt. A sticker on the bottom right of the photograph indicated an address in Amsterdam and a date. De Payns handed back the picture.

‘So you saw the date?’ asked Manerie, feigning concern as he tucked the photograph into his satchel. ‘I also have the declarations for that week.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ said de Payns.

‘And no declaration from you, yet this man in the picture is Mike Moran, who works for British SIS.’