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Back The Frenchman
Chapters (76)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  3. DEDICATION
  4. AMIN
  5. PARIS
  6. … TWO YEARS LATER
  7. CHAPTER ONE
  8. CHAPTER TWO
  9. CHAPTER THREE
  10. CHAPTER FOUR
  11. CHAPTER FIVE
  12. CHAPTER SIX
  13. CHAPTER SEVEN
  14. CHAPTER EIGHT
  15. CHAPTER NINE
  16. CHAPTER TEN
  17. CHAPTER ELEVEN
  18. CHAPTER TWELVE
  19. CHAPTER THIRTEEN
  20. CHAPTER FOURTEEN
  21. CHAPTER FIFTEEN
  22. CHAPTER SIXTEEN
  23. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
  24. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
  25. CHAPTER NINETEEN
  26. CHAPTER TWENTY
  27. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
  28. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
  29. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
  30. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  31. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
  32. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
  33. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
  34. CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
  35. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
  36. CHAPTER THIRTY
  37. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
  38. CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
  39. CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
  40. CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
  41. CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
  42. CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
  43. CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
  44. CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
  45. CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
  46. CHAPTER FORTY
  47. CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
  48. CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
  49. CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
  50. CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
  51. CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
  52. CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
  53. CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
  54. CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
  55. CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
  56. CHAPTER FIFTY
  57. CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
  58. CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
  59. CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
  60. CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
  61. CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
  62. CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
  63. CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
  64. CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
  65. CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
  66. CHAPTER SIXTY
  67. CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
  68. CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
  69. CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
  70. CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
  71. CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
  72. CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
  73. CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
  74. CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT
  75. CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
  76. EPILOGUE

‘Midday?’ asked de Payns.

‘Yeah,’ said his boss, tapping his temple. ‘Head check.’

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER

TEN

The rain started as de Payns emerged from Austerlitz Metro station. He walked several blocks to the changeover house and let himself in with his security protocols. He moved past the apartment’s small kitchen to a wall of lockers, stopped at Number 9 and entered his code. The door sprung open and he pulled out a manila envelope with the name Alain Dupuis on the front. He placed the Alain Dupuis SIM, wallet and wristwatch in the envelope and returned it. Then, from an unlabelled envelope he removed a Nokia phone in three pieces, a set of keys, a wristwatch and a wallet. The life of Alec de Payns, in one envelope.

He entered the small bathroom and washed his face, relishing the sensation of cold water on his skin. He had one last IS to perform before he was clean enough to walk into the family home. At the end of missions, this was the IS that agents wanted to skip, but they all knew it was potentially the most crucial. This was the ‘last mile’ that they’d been trained for at Cercottes, the DGSE farm outside of Orléans where Action Service and Y Division people were trained. This was the final ring of security that kept the bad guys from their families, and it had to be done with absolute precision.

He travelled on the Metro, pulling the pieces of the Nokia and SIM from his pocket and assembling it. The screen came to life, and the Nokia screen showed him a message was waiting. It was from ‘R’, asking if he would be home for dinner. It had been sent the day before. He thumbed in yes, and looked up and down the carriage. He walked in the rain without an umbrella—umbrellas were too easy to follow; so easy that most secret services used them as signals and nothing else. He travelled on the left side of the street, from where he could look into the front seat of the parked cars. He zigged and zagged and ended up outside his apartment at 7.38 p.m.

The de Payns’ apartment was in a classic nineteenth-century Parisian building with a high-security main entrance, good locks on the doors and a small underground car park. By habit, de Payns circled the building, doing a final look around before entering, checking the letterbox and using the stairs to reach the second floor. Outside his apartment, he leaned his forehead against the door, breathing in the typical smells of mealtime in France’s largest city. He could identify Tunisian, Lebanese, Indonesian and Tamil cooking, but no stewed rabbit or steamed mussels. He felt himself start to relax.