‘Well,’ said de Payns, exhaling a plume of smoke at the underground plumbing, ‘I wonder … Did the conversation go, Youdidn’t bring the passports—bang, bang you’re dead? Seems like a wasteful way to deal with useful idiots.’

‘Or,’ said Briffaut, ‘Murad said to Commodore, You’re drunk, you don’t have the passports and now this French consultant is walking towards us. Too-hard basket.’

‘What if Murad’s final words to Commodore were more like, You brought a French spy into our circle. You’re dead?’

They gave each other a look.

‘I’ve opened an investigation; the director needs a report,’ said Briffaut. ‘Tell me if anyone’s crawling up your arse, okay? You don’t have to take that shit on your own. Promise me?’

‘Promise,’ said de Payns.

They smoked in silence before Briffaut sighed. ‘I need you at Noisy tomorrow. Two o’clock.’

De Payns looked away.

‘Sorry about the timing,’ said Briffaut. ‘I know you need some time with the family, but you can’t duck this one.’

‘What is it?’ asked de Payns.

‘I don’t know much,’ said Briffaut. ‘Marie Lafont has an operation—I think they’re looking at Pakistan.’

De Payns took that in. Marie Lafont was the new head of Counter-Proliferation at the DR, having already made a splash under Christophe Sturt as the BER of the Arabic desk. She was smart and classy, and she liked to be associated with success—she wouldn’t be initiating an operation as a fishing expedition, it would be victory at all costs. But a story dogged her—she’d allegedly once trained for the Y Division but had flamed out. She’d failed to show up for training one morning and when the DGS went looking they found her phones, wallet and car keys on the coffee table in her apartment and no sign of a struggle. The police discovered her days later on the Pont de Poissy, in a fetal position, convinced that the watchers had infiltrated her phones and her apartment. The blue rats had claimed her before the training was even finished, but Y’s loss was the DR’s gain.

‘I see,’ said de Payns. His eyelids were drooping with fatigue. ‘You know I have other IDs to tend to, and two of them have meetings coming up. I can’t be the only candidate for Lafont’s operation?’

‘The only one Lafont asked for, and Sturt agrees,’ said Briffaut, dragging on the smoke. ‘So you’re up. But I’ll tell you what, let’s get through the next couple of months and I’ll find you some extra leave, okay?’

De Payns didn’t argue. Taking extra leave in the French secret services was more theoretical than it was actual. But the offer of it was an acknowledgement you were overworked.

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ said de Payns, smiling.

‘Oh, and make sure you get to the Bunker by midday, okay?’