‘Drops will be on Monday or Thursday, mornings. If there’s a white gommette on the advertising poster at the corner of Quai de Béthune, we’re armed. Okay?’

De Payns nodded, still not looking at Valley.

‘And the director will want some progress, so can you give me a date that you’ll talk with our friend?’

‘Tell him within the next forty-eight hours,’ said de Payns.

And without another word Jim was on his feet, walking away.

The de Payns’ apartment was off the Avenue du Général Leclerc, a trendy but not too expensive part of the Montparnasse district. The main window of the living room opened onto a Juliet balcony that rode slightly higher than the trees. It wasn’t large enough for a chair, but de Payns liked to sit on the windowsill, feet on the balcony, looking over the treetops to the north, at the monolith of the Montparnasse Tower. The tower resembled the black slab in 2001: A Space Odyssey. Too conspicuous in the Paris context, something that ran against his instincts.

‘Could you get Patrick from karate?’ asked Romy from behind him in the kitchen. She’d been talking about her family coming to town and the graduation ceremony. He’d barely heard a word. He swallowed his mouthful of above-average Bordeaux, stubbed out his cigarette and turned back to face the room. Romy wore faded jeans and a tight tank top. Some Parisiennes were winter women, and others were summer. Romy was definitely summer.

‘And we need butter,’ she said as he grabbed her by the waist and kissed her neck. She didn’t spill a drop from the measuring jug she’d filled with milk. De Payns lingered against her shapely derriere but she batted him away, warning him not to be late for Patrick.

The streets were busy as he walked around the block to the old church hall where sensei John—a West African man in his late twenties—was finishing up with a karate class of about thirteen primary school kids. They were stretching on the mats, following the sensei’s lead. Patrick was on the far side of the group, where a pile of heavy bags and headgear was stacked, and de Payns saw that his son had noticed him but didn’t break his concentration from the teacher. He also felt eyes on him. Turning slowly, he locked gaze with an Arab woman of around forty, with no hijab and dressed like a Parisienne. She was with another group of parents but she smiled at de Payns and walked towards him.

‘Alec, I think?’ she said, as she reached him. She was confident and well spoken, with no accent. She was also very attractive. ‘You’re Patrick’s dad, right?’

‘Yes,’ said de Payns, forcing a smile.

‘My boy is Charles. He and Oliver are friends at preschool.’