Norkov ran a hand through his longish hair. He chortled harshly. ‘After that we obtained greater security in a block we thought was secure enough.’ He paused and stared at Haut. ‘You see, Al, by all rights Natalia should have been murdered then. Today’s experience is very bad. Could not be much worse if she cannot have children. But, you see, I have a different perspective. She is alive.’

Haut nodded. He was relieved and surprised at this reaction, but claimed later to Cavalier that a ‘download’ had prepared him for a positive reaction from her parents.

Doctors suggested everyone leave the hospital as Natalia would not be operated on for several hours, maybe the next morning, depending on her response to medication. The doctors said they would be in touch to say when they could see her again.

The Norkovs departed under escort from their two bodyguards. Cavalier retrieved his handgun from the Citroën, which they decided to leave at the hospital until the next morning. He and Haut were led by a security guard through a secret tunnel out of the hospital that led them into a narrow laneway leading into Rue Claude Bernard and then up the steep and busy, narrow Rue Mouffetard.

‘My favourite street in Paris,’ Cavalier said, gesturing at cafes and queues at cheese and bread shops. ‘A bit clichéd and privileged. A slice of the city that retarded time. It was like this when I first came forty years ago.’

Ever watchful, they walked through Contrescarpe Square to the high-walled old-fashioned Hotel des Grandes Ecoles on Rue de Cardinal Lemoine, still in the fashionable fifth arrondissement. Cavalier had stayed there many times and felt comfortable in the cosy atmosphere. The walls and gates were five metres high.

They settled into their rooms and met in the hotel foyer at 10 p.m.

‘Let’s go and see the sights,’ Cavalier said, and then laughed at Haut’s surprised reaction. ‘I’m kidding. Pity we can’t walk around. This is a nice location. The Pantheon and the Sorbonne are near. St Germain on the Seine is a ten-minute stride down the hill.’

‘I think we can risk a meal out, can’t we?’ Haut suggested. ‘I haven’t eaten all day. Didn’t even feel like a sandwich on the train.’

‘Okay, let’s go. I know a couple of spots on Rue Mouffetard.’

They left through the big double gates. Just up the road at number seventy-four, Cavalier pointed to a plaque indicating American writer Ernest Hemingway had lived there.

‘You a fan of his?’ an edgy Haut asked, eyeing anyone who came close.

‘Used to be.’

Haut cocked an eyebrow.