Kale saw him, from a doorway further along the Rue de Pavie, stepping into the street. He opened the door of his car, parked below one of the naked black trees set along the edge of the cobbled pavement, and slipped in. The exhaust roared and the car pulled away, heading toward the end of the street, then turning right into the Square Ambiorix, where the Saturday night traffic sped past the edge of a small deserted park. Across the street from Kale a florist’s shop was closing up for the night, and a workman with a red woollen hat slouched past with his hands in his pockets, not noticing Kale standing in the shadow of the doorway. He stood there, not feeling the cold, for another thirty minutes or more, just watching the street. A row of terraces, doors opening straight on to the pavement, stone and brickwork façades with tiny stone balustrades and wrought-iron Juliette balconies. A profusion of chimney pots leaning at odd angles on the slate roofs. It was a quiet street, most of the terraces converted to offices, a modern block of flats, Residence Ambiorix, casting light from the only lit windows, at the far end of the street. Beyond the square and the park, the boulevard ran down to the Berlaymont about half a mile away.

Finally Kale moved away from the shelter of the doorway and pulled up his collar against the rain. He crossed the street and walked down to Gryffe’s door. He pressed the bell-push and heard a buzzer somewhere in the stillness inside. No sound of footsteps came from behind the door, and there was no light around the edges of the blinds on the windows. He rang again and waited a further few minutes until he was satisfied there was no one at home. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly eight, and he turned and walked back, away from the lights of the Residence Ambiorix.

This was a part of Brussels that was on the way down. A seedy tobacconist’s was still open on the corner of the Rue de Pavie and the Rue de Gravelines. Through the lit window Kale could see an old man with a face like a lost battle sitting on a stool behind the counter reading a magazine and smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. A half-empty bottle of beer sat on the counter. The old man caught only a glimpse of the mean face peering in at him out of the darkness, and he stared back uneasily.