He was misdirecting because he didn’t want to discuss his own personality. What he called his shut down was a state that he’d practised since school—the ability to block out everything that was redundant and extraneous and bring one hundred and ten per cent to the task at hand. It was what had made him a good rugby player despite not being the most muscle-bound student at his school. Dr Marlene was right; it was the quality that elevated him so quickly to fighter jets. He owed everything to that ability and the price he paid was exhaustion, emptiness, social isolation. A sortie out of Dijon Air Base might last a total of four hours; an operation in the DGSE could last between a week and a month. The mental strain was acute. Sometimes he wanted to sleep for a week; other times he wanted to stand in a bar and get shit-faced, both alone and with the clan.

Both, but neither.

‘How are you sleeping?’ she asked.

‘With one eye open,’ said de Payns.

Now she laughed. ‘How’s your marriage? Does she accept what you do?’

‘She accepts what I do and that’s the only reason I have a marriage,’ said de Payns. ‘She needs this chat more than I do; she can’t talk about this with anyone.’

De Payns was surprised at himself for bringing Romy into the mix. It was unusual for him to be candid about his marriage with the shrinks and Romy was forbidden to discuss details beyond saying that her husband worked for the Defence Ministry. She had no wife or girlfriend to unburden herself to. She was not allowed to see a counsellor, was not allowed to reveal anything about her own husband.

Marlene nodded. ‘Panic attacks?’

‘No.’

‘Blackouts?’

‘No.’

‘Rage, aggression? Unwarranted, I mean.’

‘No.’

‘Road rage?’

‘It’s Paris, not Copenhagen,’ he said. ‘If you’re calm on Paris roads, you’re on drugs.’

She flipped the compendium shut. ‘Final question—how many hours do you sleep each night?’

‘Seven and three-quarters,’ he said.

‘You seem fine,’ she said standing. ‘Tired, but fit. My number’s in the Company system. You ever want to talk, let me know.’

He shook her hand and watched her leave the office, wondering if perhaps he should have told the truth about his sleep problems. She might have some pills for that.

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER

TWELVE

De Payns sipped on his third coffee and nibbled on the edge of a macaron that Zac, the Y Division armourer, had offered him from a Tupperware box. Armourers always had interesting hobbies and Zac’s was baking. Zac was an ex-Legionnaire who ensured that the firearms and other devices distributed to Y Division operatives actually worked when they needed to. De Payns was standing in Zac’s basement workshop watching him work on a suppressor held in an elaborate vice.