While Frasier and Sturt had reluctantly accepted the trade-off in risk, Sturt’s deputy, Charlotte Rocard, asked him to specify the ‘product’ from Falcon. What do we have now that we didn’t have before this operation? De Payns listed a possible sighting of Murad, the elusive commander of Sayef Albar’s Europe operation; confirmation that al-Qaeda considered the going rate for a genuine French passport to be around six hundred thousand euros; and evidence that Sayef Albar had an operation in Sicily, not just a representative such as Michael Lambardi.

When the debrief was over, de Payns helped the Company’s artist sketch a facial likeness of Murad, or the man he thought was probably the Sayef Albar commander.

He finished typing and reached for his coffee, realised it was cold. Then he hit ‘save’, logged out of his DGSE account and switched off the computer screen. It was now 5.53 p.m. He’d written his report in a little over two hours, which was relatively fast. He stretched, picked up his pack and made for the elevators. He wanted nothing more than a smoke and to shuffle around the house aimlessly for a few days. The deaths at Bar Luca and the requirement to recall them in minute detail were exhausting. The elevator’s down-arrow chimed and someone cleared their throat. He turned and saw Dominic Briffaut, still strong in the neck and back, despite being well into middle age.

‘Could we have a word?’

It wasn’t a request. Briffaut held the elevator door, and when they were both inside he hit the button that would take them to the management’s parking level.

They said nothing in the elevator, as per the protocol. They walked through the underground garage to an area adjacent to the mechanics’ station, Moroccan hip-hop pounding out of a Bluetooth speaker. Briffaut paused beside a fire hose and grimaced at the music.

‘They could use that at Guantanamo,’ he mumbled, pulling a pack of Camels from his inside jacket pocket and offering one to de Payns.

‘The ID people at the DO are freaking about those passports,’ said Briffaut, lowering his voice as a man and woman exited the elevator and walked to a blue BMW. ‘They’re unusable?’

‘I don’t know how often the bins are cleared,’ said de Payns. ‘But I never handed them over. I certainly destroyed them.’

Briffaut nodded.

‘We sure Commodore is dead?’

De Payns looked at him. ‘I didn’t verify it. I couldn’t.’

There was silence between them—Briffaut hadn’t cornered him for a smoke and de Payns waited for him to get to the point.

‘Now it’s just you and me,’ Briffaut said at last, ‘who fucked us down there? Any idea?’

De Payns shook his head. ‘Perhaps Commodore was always a useful idiot for Sayef Albar …’ He let the sentence hang.

‘Or?’ asked Briffaut.