‘You start shaking your tail at every American who comes near,’ he continued, ‘with the intention of milking them for new data – the airmen in the bar and at the dance, the major you took riding. Don’t look at me like you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, lady.’

He had a tongue in his head full of venom. I leaned forward, hands flat on the table.

‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘You are the Communist. You and Bertin are both MGB Soviet agents. You are the one who chased me out of Serriac on your motorcycle, aren’t you? Admit it.’

‘You’re right, lady, I did.’

‘And the note. You put the note on my windscreen to scare me into running back to Paris, didn’t you?’

‘That was Bertin. He wanted you gone from anywhere near the air base. But you’ve got it all upside down, lady. Think about it. You are the interfering bitch who set up the visitor session at the air base, so don’t even bother denying it. I heard that you were the one who made it happen.’

I nodded.

‘You arranged it,’ he said, ‘so that your Commie hardliner comrade – the headmistress – could damage the US aircraft and runway.’

Fear circled inside me, fear of what his words meant.

‘No,’ I said. I could hear the jagged edge to my voice. ‘It’s not true. You’re lying.’

Let him be lying. Please. Let this hard-muscled murderer be a lying bastard as well.

‘Was it you or Bertin who drove the van in Paris that smashed into my car?’ I demanded. ‘The one that crippled my brother?’

This time he laughed long and loud, turning heads. ‘No. Is that what he’s told you?’

‘Did you shoot at me on the farm?’

‘Listen, bitch, if I’d shot at you, you’d be dead.’

Silence sat between us on the table. Just the grind of traffic and the clink of glasses chafed at it. I kept my face still, eyes flat and expressionless.

‘You,’ I said again, ‘are an MGB Soviet agent.’

He pushed his big square face close up to mine. To a passing glance we might look like lovers.

‘Lady,’ he hissed at me, ‘I am CIA.’

He had to be lying. Had to be. This time I was certain of it. Because if he wasn’t lying it meant that André was and I couldn’t bear that. But even as I told myself that Piquet was a lying bastard, something started to unravel in my head. Things started to make more sense.

‘And Bertin?’ I asked.

‘CIA.’ He flashed a vicious smile at me and I wanted to reach across the table and rip it off his face.

‘The pair of you? Both CIA?’

He nodded, grinning at me.

‘Why should I believe you?’

‘Believe what the fuck you want, lady.’