Hank checked his watch. It was quarter of ten. He was on his third cup of coffee, having polished off a sandwich jambon and was considering another. He decided to wait until Stratton finished his, although that didn’t look as if it would be any time soon. He’d taken just two bites and the rest was getting cold on his plate. The front of the café was doing a fair morning’s trade, the waiters moving quickly about delivering coffee, croissants and toasted sandwiches; he and Stratton could remain where they were for hours without drawing undue attention.

Stratton had not said a word since they’d left the train. Hank had no inclination to talk either, at least not to Stratton. That was too much like hard work. He wondered what Stratton was like socially, whether he drank and hung out with the guys in bars. Hank was sure Stratton didn’t dislike him. He felt his coldness was a combination of the pressures of command and that Hank was still a stranger, not to mention a foreigner.

Hank looked around at the people in the café with curiosity, the way they dressed, how they talked to each other, their body language. He noted the things that made them different from Americans, how they communicated with their hands and facial expressions for instance. A flush of contentment passed through him. He was actually enjoying himself, as if he were on holiday. Everything was being paid for, he had no responsibilities, no worries concerning the op, and he was with the ground commander himself, which meant he didn’t even have to think, just follow. He would have preferred being more involved in the operation, of course, part of an actual surveillance team, not just a spectator, but all in all he was having a very pleasant time.

Stratton’s cell-phone vibrated in his pocket and he buried the earpiece in his ear, checked the caller ID and pushed the receive call button.

‘Go ahead,’ he said as he took out a street map that was neatly folded to display a couple of square miles just north of the river, with the Louvre bottom centre. ‘No one can make that call but you,’ he said. ‘If you think you’re warm, back off. The rule is, if in doubt, get out.’

Stratton disconnected and studied the map as he hit a number; he then talked calmly into the small mic in the wire that dangled from his ear past his mouth. ‘Alan? Where are you?’ he asked, then listened a moment. ‘Dave thinks Henri might have made him. He’s pulling off. Move up to the south-west corner of Place Vendôme and support Jeff. Henri should be entering the square in the next two minutes . . . The Ritz, that’s right.’

Stratton disconnected and scrutinised the map. His phone vibrated again and he checked the caller before hitting the button. ‘Go ahead,’ he said and listened for a few seconds. ‘If he goes left or straight, leave him. If he goes right or doubles back, you have to take him, but don’t get burned.’

There was a long pause, then he confirmed what he heard: ‘He went left toward Vendôme, is that correct? . . . Okay, out.’

Stratton hit the end button and then a memory dial button. A few seconds later his call was picked up. ‘Jeff? . . . He’s towards you from the north entrance, understood?’

Stratton disconnected and hit another memory key quickly. ‘Brent? . . . He’s into Vendôme . . . That’s right. Hold your position.’

Stratton ended the call and stared ahead as if in intense thought, but he was waiting, holding the phone, expecting it to vibrate any second. It took a couple of minutes before it did.

‘Go ahead,’ he said and listened for a moment, then suddenly looked annoyed. ‘You’re bunching. You can’t get that close if you’re in support . . . I don’t care how crowded it is.That’s two more we’ve lost now.’Another pause to listen, then: ‘No, I’ll do it. Call Brent and Doles. Tell them I’m covering the church at Barres.’

And with that, Stratton pocketed the phone, stood up and tossed money on to the table. ‘Let’s go,’ he said with urgency and Hank quickly followed him out of the café.

They moved along the street at a brisk pace. Hank walked beside Stratton when he could but he had to repeatedly step back to let oncoming pedestrians pass on the narrow, busy pavement. Stratton walked like a dart with fixed determination. Hank had to run around a parked car at one point to catch up with him. He felt as if he could be hit by a grand piano falling from the roof of one of these buildings and Stratton would just keep on walking. They turned a corner into another equally busy street lined with shops. Hank wanted to know where they were rushing to but chose not to ask. Then, as if Stratton had heard him, ‘Henri did a double-back behind a group of people leaving a shop. Jeff was following too close and got burned. So did Joe who was backing too closely.’

‘He knows they were following him?’

‘No, but if he sees either of them again he will.’

‘If he’s doubling back maybe he already thinks he’s being followed.’

‘Not necessarily. Doubling back is a standard anti-surveillance move. Anyone who’s been in this game long enough checks who’s behind them just about every time they take a walk, on or off duty. Recognise anyone behind us?’

Hank wasn’t sure if Stratton was kidding or not. He looked back as they walked and checked the dozens of people behind them. Parked cars were crammed along every inch of pavement both sides of the street. Stratton sidestepped through a gap between two and crossed the road. Hank looked forward again, saw Stratton was over the road and hurriedly caught up.

‘We’re not as good at this as we should be,’ Stratton continued when Hank came alongside him.‘Six experienced guys could do this task all day without getting burned.We’ve already lost four.’

The phone went again. Stratton didn’t break stride as he answered it. ‘Yes.’ He listened for a moment then: ‘Okay, that’s good. Move out of the area. Your day’s finished.’

Stratton disconnected and speeded up a little. ‘Jeff now thinks that when Henri did his double-back he was actually doing a pass of the meeting point. He just doubled back again past a café. That’s twice he’s passed it. Odds are we’ll house him there any minute. We’re gonna have to cover one end of the street while Brent moves to the other until Henri goes static and the rest of the team can move into position.’

‘How far?’ Hank asked.

‘Rue Cambon. Just around this corner.’

They continued at a brisk pace to the next junction where an old church took up one corner; it was built back from the road so that the corner itself was a small open square, a relief of space from the claustrophobic streets. Stratton crossed into the square and stopped on the corner where Rue Cambon continued on its narrow course for a couple more hundred yards towards Rue de Rivoli. Stratton studied the street, which was comprised of shops, a couple of bars and a café. Hank kept behind him, looking around, trying to act natural, seeing if there were any familiar faces, friendly operatives or otherwise.A pretty woman in sexy tight pants walked by and looked at him, oozing lasciviousness. He realised he was staring and quickly looked away. And then he could not resist looking back to watch her shapely rear.When he turned back Stratton had gone. A rush of panic popped inside his chest before he caught sight of Stratton heading down Rue Cambon and he sped off to catch up.

Stratton reached the next crossroads, the last before Rivoli a hundred or so yards away. Hank moved in behind him and took a peek up the street. He could see a small café on their side of the road with a couple of tables outside. Across the street from the café was a sign that read ‘La Concorde Hotel’. Stratton stepped back around the corner and hit a key on his phone.

‘Brent? He’s at one of the outside tables of the café, opposite La Concorde Hotel . . . That’s right . . . Let me know when you’re set up and we’ll pull back.’

Stratton checked around the corner once again then stepped back. ‘Henri’s at the café,’ he said to Hank. ‘With a bit of luck it’s the rendezvous. Brent’s going to get a covert camera visual from inside the bookshop on the corner.’

Hank nodded and stepped back out of view of the café. This was fun. He was in the thick of it and buzzed by the prospect of watching a meeting between a French intelligence officer spying for the Algerians and a Brit military intelligence officer spying for the RIRA. Out of the blue he thought about Kathryn. He hadn’t spoken to her for almost a week. If everything went well he would see her and the girls before the end of the day. All the team had to do now was video the Brit when he arrived and record the meet. If he got here in the next half-hour they could be home by early evening. He must remember to pick up a couple bottles of French wine, some expensive stuff. Kathryn would like that. Perfume of course would be much smarter. He would try and make love to her tonight, see if he could mend some bridges. It had been three weeks since they last rolled in the hay. He wanted very much to get the relationship back on track. All it needed was some extra effort and understanding on his part to smooth things between them.

He checked his watch. It was five minutes to ten.

Most of the details in the pack involved operations the undercover detachments were mounting and the locations of recent wiretaps and secret observation posts, but it also included the names of two informers within the IRA’s command structure. Bill was sentencing those men to death. Like Bill, they knew the risks they were taking. Indeed, it was possible that one day it could happen to him. And there was the problem for him. Like the sword of Damocles, it was difficult to live with that aspect of the job hanging over him and getting more dangerous each time he provided information. Either because of that danger or simply because he was getting older and wiser, life was becoming more precious to him.

In recent months Bill had grown increasingly concerned with the way the RIRA command was using the information he provided. There was always a danger that if they mismanaged the information it could send up flags as to the possible existence of a spy within British military intelligence. That would release the hounds. The RIRA command was sometimes sensible about allowing the detachments some successes against them so as not to arouse suspicion, but not often enough in Bill’s mind.The favoured ploy was to continue certain operations RIRA learned the Brits were aware of. It was like a pantomime of terrorist activity to keep the watchers occupied while RIRA conducted the real operations elsewhere. The incident that triggered Bill’s alarm bells was the bungled kidnapping attempt of Spinks. He was concerned that RIRA’s obsession with capturing a Pink would tempt them to push the envelope a little too far. Bill blamed himself as much as them though. It was a warning to him that despite his importance he had to take more responsibility for his own security. Included in his package for Henri was a criticism of that kidnapping operation, his fears of information mishandling, and a request that he be allowed to hibernate for a while, years perhaps. If they did not agree he would consider imposing it himself. They couldn’t do much about it. He was an ace in a game where RIRA had so few. But taking charge of his own destiny like that had its dangers.There were those who might not be very understanding.

Bill reached for the window to close it before leaving the room. As he did so he happened to glance down the street. What he saw made him lunge back into the room in utter horror. Fear ripped through him. His breathing quickened as his heart rate soared. Nausea overcame him and he barely managed to hold the vomit down.

He stood there for several seconds, trying to regain control. He could have been mistaken.

He moved around to the far side of the room and then, with his back flat against the wall, he stood on tiptoe to look out on to the street. His view was obscured by the balcony and he inched from side to side until he could fit the road junction between the window frames in the door and the rails.

There was no mistaking it. It was Stratton.

Bill watched Stratton move back around the corner and out of sight.The horrific implications made him giddy with fear. His immediate thought was that Stratton was here to kill him. It would make perfect sense. He knew Bill by sight and he would want revenge for Bill’s part in Spinks’s kidnapping attempt. Bill knew only too well that Stratton was a killer. There were his four official kills, but then there was McGinnis, the IRA sniper, who was found with a broken neck in Warrenpoint the night Stratton was there with his team. There was no proof, of course. But the tout on the border near Bessbrook Mill was different. Bill knew it was Stratton who was responsible because Bill had been there that very night; he couldn’t say anything because he wasn’t supposed to have been. Bill was spying on a meeting between an RUC Special Branch detective and the very same tout. Bill did not know who the tout was at that time, only about the meeting and his existence and he wanted to find out his identity. But unbeknown to Bill, Stratton was also watching the meeting.When the Special Branch officer left, Stratton followed the tout a few hundred yards and killed him. At the time, Bill could not understand why Stratton had killed a tout who was effectively working for the Brits. It was only several months later that he learned the tout had not only been trying to squeeze more money from the Brits for his information and threatened his Special Branch handler with his life, but had also been behind a series of killings of Brit soldiers on shore leave. They were lured to an apartment by his accomplice girlfriend and then murdered. One airman was found dead with his throat slit and his testicles cut off and placed in his mouth. As far as Bill was concerned the bastard deserved everything he got. What truly peaked his curiosity was whether Stratton was acting on his own or working for King Henry. King Henry was a metaphor borrowed from the occasion when Henry II, speaking in anger, commented that the country would be best served if Thomas à Becket were gotten rid of, whereupon four of his knights, who had overheard, rode off and killed him. The point of the metaphor being it was not a direct order, merely a whim from on high.

Bill was afraid he had made Stratton’s dreaded hit list. He grabbed his stuff and hurried to the door. But he stopped in his tracks. Something about the scenario did not add up. He forced himself to consider the facts calmly.Things may not be quite as they appeared and an overreaction could be disastrous.

To begin with, it was possible that it was a coincidence and Stratton was on holiday or on a completely unrelated job. Bill quickly threw out that notion as ridiculous. Stratton had been looking up the street, towards the café, partly concealed around a corner. It had to be assumed he was trying to get a look at the café and therefore Henri without being seen. If Stratton knew Bill was in the hotel he would not have exposed himself. Stratton was far too good an operative for that. Bill knew him by reputation only, although of course he had seen him several times on his visits to the detachment. Bill felt confident enough of Stratton’s professionalism to conclude that if Stratton wasn’t watching the hotel then no one was. Stratton was watching Henri in the café, which would support the supposition that he was not alone and part of a surveillance team. Bill contemplated the possibility that they did not know he was the person meeting Henri. If they were suspicious of him he would have been placed under surveillance and followed from London and they would be watching the hotel. The fact that it was Stratton down in the street supported this conclusion: they would never have sent anyone Bill would recognise. If they did not know Bill was meeting Henri then they did not know who was. But did they know there was a spy in MI5 who reported to Henri, a French spy? And did they know Henri was reporting to the Real IRA? That was a leap to assume, but nonetheless it should be considered.

Bill went through the points again to make sure there weren’t any gaping holes in his logic. He was satisfied. Now he had to consider what his next move should be. Obviously he had to get away and back to London, but he could not leave the hotel and risk bumping into Stratton. Stratton was out front, but there was no rear exit to the hotel. The back opened out into a courtyard in the centre of the block and the exit from the courtyard was Rue Cambon, virtually smack opposite the café. Bill then considered Henri. He should contact him somehow.That might help both of them. Henri would leave the café and draw the team away from the area. It would also give Henri an opportunity to escape the country and avoid a nasty interrogation that might produce a description of Bill.

Bill checked to see if Henri was still seated outside the café. He was. Bill searched the desk drawers and found the telephone directory. He glanced through the window to check the spelling of the name on the front of the café and then found the number. He felt for his cell-phone in his pocket and stopped. That would be stupid. He couldn’t use the phone in the room either. Any landline phone in Europe could be traced to another. But he knew how to use a phone and chill the trace. There was always a risk, but the present situation made it acceptable. He went to his door, listened a moment, then opened it to check the landing was clear. He stepped into the corridor, pulled the door behind him without closing it, and went to the stairs that spiralled for several floors in both directions. Someone left a room above, closed a door and walked across the corridor and into another room. Bill quickly and quietly moved down the carpeted steps to the floor below and paused again. Beyond an arch was the reception. Against the wall on Bill’s side of the arch was a public payphone. Bill moved to it, staying tight around the corner out of sight of the receptionist who was sitting in a chair with his head at counter level reading a magazine. Bill lifted the receiver, placed a coin in the slot and dialled the number.

It rang for a moment, then a man’s voice answered.

‘Bonjour, monsieur,’ Bill said. His French was slow but workable. ‘Je voudrais parler avec l’homme qui est assis devant votre café. C’est très important, s’il vous plaît.’

The voice asked him to wait a moment. If the call was traced it would be impossible to say who could have made it, as long as Bill remained unseen, that is. At the worst all they would have was a description. Unless they knew they were looking for Bill it would do them no good.

‘Come on, for fuck’s sake,’ Bill mumbled, willing Henri to get off his arse and go to the phone.

‘Oui?’ came Henri’s voice.

‘It’s me. We can’t meet,’ Bill said, and then before Henri had a chance to say anything or hang up, Bill continued urgently, ‘Listen to me carefully. You are being watched at this very moment by British military intelligence. Do you understand?’ Bill could imagine Henri’s shock as he digested this information, with all its horrendous implications. If he had a family, he didn’t any more. If he had a house, it was gone, as were all his possessions. If he wanted to escape he could never contact a friend, lover or family member ever again without running the risk of capture or even assassination. In one sudden bolt out of the blue, life, as he knew it, was over.

Henri did not answer but Bill knew he was still on the end of the phone. He could hear him breathing.

‘Henri? Do you understand me?’

‘I understand,’ he said, sounding quite calm.

‘One of them is standing on the first corner as you turn right out of the café on your side of the road. He is six feet tall, early thirties, strong build, wearing a camel-coloured coat and dark trousers. Do you understand?’

‘Yes . . . And you?’

‘I don’t know yet,’ Bill said.

‘Good luck to you,’ Henri said after a pause.

‘And you too.’

The phone went dead. Bill replaced the receiver and carefully checked the receptionist was still in his seat. He then hurried back up the stairs, into his room where he closed the door. He went to the window and looked down on to the café. Henri walked out and stopped on the pavement. He calmly buttoned up his coat, turned to his right and walked down the street.

Stratton turned to see Henri walking away. He hit a key on his phone. ‘He’s towards the Place de la Concorde. Did you see him with anyone?’

Brent quickly explained about the waiter and that he had not seen anyone else, although he could not see inside the café from his location. Brent’s immediate concern was what Stratton wanted him to do next.

‘Standby,’ Stratton said and paused to think. Several questions presented themselves: what did the waiter want? Had Henri suspected he was being followed and cancelled the meeting? Was the stop at the café another anti-surveillance move? Could he now be on his way to the actual rendezvous?

Stratton focused on Henri. If the Frenchman suspected he was being followed they had blown it anyway. If not, Stratton wanted to house him. The solution was a straightforward one at that point. ‘He’s heading west on Mondovi, which will bring him out on Rivoli, north-east corner of Place de la Concorde. Cover it,’ he said to Brent on the phone then disconnected. If Henri gave the slightest hint he knew he was being followed Stratton would pull off. Henri would walk them around all day otherwise.

‘Hank,’ he said and Hank gave him his full attention. Stratton indicated the only man walking away up the street across the junction. ‘That’s him,’ he said.

‘Henri?’ Hank asked, surprised.

‘Follow him. Stay well back. The road turns left at the end and leads to Rivoli, the main street. He can’t go anywhere else except inside a building. If he enters a building, carry on past and memorise the location. Don’t be obvious. Act natural. Wait for me on Rivoli. Got it?’

‘Got it,’ Hank said, a ripple of excitement passing through him.

‘If for some reason I or no one else hooks up with you on Rivoli we’ll meet back at the café where we had breakfast. You remember where that is?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go,’ Stratton said, and Hank set off.

‘You’re just a tourist,’ Stratton added as Hank headed across the junction to put himself on the opposite sidewalk to Henri.

Hank gave a thumbs-up without looking back, his eyes focused on Henri.

Stratton watched them both for a moment. Henri was halfway to the corner.

Stratton then set off along Cambon towards the café. As he walked he punched a number key on his cell-phone.

‘Brent. Hank has him on Mondovi. Call Clemens. He should be somewhere on the Place de la Concorde. Henri should be on Rivoli in less than a minute.’

Just as Hank set firm his contingency plan, Henri crossed the road and headed directly for the restaurant. Hank slowed down, quickly formulating a new plan if Henri went inside. Henri stopped outside and faced the menu in the window, his back to Hank.

Hank stopped. He didn’t want to pass Henri if he could avoid it. He had just a few seconds to think. He was outside an apartment block with a glass door that led into a lobby. Hank stepped into the doorway. If Henri doubled back, Hank would head into the lobby and up a flight of stairs he could see until Henri passed.

Henri appeared to read the menu for a moment before continuing on towards Rue de Rivoli.

Hank waited until Henri had passed out of sight beyond the corner before leaving the doorway; he walked up to the restaurant as if to inspect it himself while casually looking down the street. Henri was halfway to Rue de Rivoli. Hank set off after him.

Henri raised something to his ear as he walked. It was a cellular phone.

Hank pushed through the cross traffic and headed down the steps.

The density of people in the confined tunnel, shuffling in both directions, made it difficult for Hank to move any quicker than the flow. He twisted and sidestepped, pausing only to avoid full-on collisions. He reached a row of metal doors and pushed on through and down a sloping corridor, which suddenly opened out into a crowded hall. He stopped on the edge and looked around, eyes locking for a second on to anyone who resembled Henri before moving on.Then he saw him, slipping a ticket into a turnstile, removing it from a slot the other end and passing through.

Hank hurried to the ticket windows and chose one that had just two people waiting in front of him. Money he told himself and dug into his pockets to find some notes. Ignorant of the cost of a ticket he chose the largest bill and clutched it, willing those ahead of him to hurry up. He checked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Henri heading down a tunnel the other side of the stiles. When he looked back there was no one between him and the ticket window. A man attempted to step in front of him but Hank barged him aside. The man spat something in French but Hank ignored him and faced the ticket person behind his window.

‘Uhh, anywhere. Your furthest journey,’ Hank said quickly.

The man in the ticket office shrugged and responded tiredly in French but was not forthcoming with a ticket.

‘The end of the line, okay, buddy? I just wanna go for a ride.’

The man shrugged again, this time with his mouth and jaw in a deformed expression that appeared to signal he was baffled.

‘Look, pal. Just give me a friggin’ ticket to anywhere, okay. Anywhere, for chrissake!’

Hank looked back at the turnstiles and considered jumping them, but there were doors the other side that activated only with the use of a ticket - he wouldn’t get through. Then a woman in the line behind him explained something in French to the ticket officer, who shrugged again, rolled his eyes and punched several buttons. Two tickets popped out of the machine. Hank shoved his bill under the window, grabbed the tickets, and hurried to the turnstiles. The ticket person called out after him but Hank was too focused to think about his change.

Hank put the ticket into the slot in the turnstile. It popped out the other side and he snatched it up and pushed through the doors.

Hank hurried along the tunnel, threading past the people like a slalom, and came to a sudden stop where it divided into three more tunnels with signs advertising different destinations.

‘Shit!’ he exclaimed.

He chose one, ran to its mouth and looked into it. Dozens of people were strung out along its length, the end disappearing in a bend. Hank felt frustration welling up in him. People pushed passed him to enter the tunnel. He was about to turn back to check another tunnel when he caught a flash of what looked like Henri at the far end. He wasn’t sure if it was the Frenchman, took a second to make a decision and went for it. He moved quickly along the tunnel, bashed into more than one person without apologising, and hurried on.

He arrived at a flight of stairs and hurried down them. A short tunnel at the end led on to a crowded platform. He remained on the corner, standing on tiptoe to search the sea of heads. A train burst out of the tunnel beside him and the brakes screeched as it slowed to a stop. The doors opened and he saw Henri step into the centre doors of a crowded carriage.

Hank pushed his way along the platform to the closest end of the same carriage and jumped in as the doors closed.

The train started off and entered the tunnel.

Hank craned his head to catch a glimpse of Henri, who was standing in the middle holding on to a rail, staring ahead. He looked calm and relaxed.

Hank felt sweat trickling down his temples. A woman beside him watched him. He wiped the sweat away with the sleeve of his jacket and she looked away.

Hank took stock of the situation and considered what he had actually achieved by this spontaneous piece of activity. It was quite probably a pointless exercise since he had no phone - not that it would work in the métro anyway - no map and he had no idea where he was, and once off the train couldn’t follow Henri by himself even if he had that equipment. The smart thing to do was to get off at the next stop and find his way back to the rendezvous point. He decided that was what he would do.

He glanced through the glass door beside him that led through to the next carriage and to his surprise there was Clemens looking directly at him. Clemens gave him a quick smirk.

Hank never thought he’d be pleased to see that ugly face. He looked in Henri’s direction then back at Clemens. Clemens nodded. The train suddenly popped out of the dark tunnel and into a brightly lit station. It came to a stop and the doors hissed open. Henri remained where he was. People got on and off, the doors closed and they moved off again. Hank checked Clemens was still in the other carriage.

Hank settled down and made an effort to relax. He dropped his shoulders and rotated his head a little to ease the tension. The carriage between him and Henri was crowded and he didn’t feel exposed. The next move would be Clemens’s.

The following stop a seat became vacant beside Hank and he took it. From where he was sitting he could just about see Henri’s legs, and Clemens’s.

The train stopped several more times. At Bastille Henri stepped off. Hank followed and watched Henri move with the crowd towards the exit at the end of the platform. Clemens passed him and he tagged along behind. As he walked up a flight of stairs a man brushed passed without a look. It was Brent. Hank felt even more comfortable and settled into the rear of the surveillance snake. All he had to do was keep Brent or Clemens in his sights.

Henri did not leave the métro station and instead led them through several tunnels to another platform, where a train had just arrived. Hank saw Brent step into a crowded carriage and so he chose the one behind where he could see him through the connecting doors. He couldn’t see Henri but that responsibility was no longer his.

Two stops later, at Gare d’Austerlitz, Brent climbed off the train. Hank followed him along several tunnels and up an escalator that led out into daylight. Brent turned a corner several yards ahead of Hank. When he caught up to it a short corridor led to a row of swing doors across the far end. Hank pushed through and found himself in a cavernous hall crowded with people, small shops and rows of ticket counters. It was a mainline station and the platforms were beyond a long row of double doors the other side of the hall. Hank had lost sight of Brent and stopped to look around.

A hand grabbed his arm. Hank jerked around to see Clemens.

‘Where’s Henri?’ Clemens asked quickly, eyes searching anxiously.

‘I don’t know,’ Hank said. ‘I haven’t seen him since we changed trains on the subway.’

‘He’s doubled back, the slippery bastard. This place is a fucking maze. What about Brent?’

‘I lost sight of him when he turned into here.’

‘There’s another platform level below. Through that way,’ Clemens said, pointing at an archway. ‘I’ll check the platforms on this level.’ And with that he moved off across the hall.

‘Clemens,’ Hank called after him, but Clemens didn’t hear or chose to ignore him and kept on going.

Hank didn’t like this. It was all beginning to feel out of control. He wished Stratton would turn up and take charge. What was he supposed to do if he did see Henri? He had no form of communication. Clemens was wrong in sending him off by himself. Last time it made sense. Stratton had given him clear instructions. His gut instinct this time was to ignore Clemens. But then he would be in a negative position come the debriefing. If he went off alone this time at least he could blame Clemens. He headed in the direction Clemens had indicated and through the archway that led to a descending escalator. He skipped down it and into a grimy, grey, concrete hall with a low ceiling, much smaller than the main station and not nearly so crowded.The combination of supporting pillars throughout and various foyers offering such items as flowers, magazines and tourist paraphernalia gave it a labyrinth effect and obscured visibility of most of the hall. Hank made his way through it, checking in all directions. Then he caught sight of Henri heading up an escalator the other side of a row of ticket turnstiles.

Hank looked back the way he had come, hoping to see the others, but he was disappointed. He searched for his tickets as he approached the stiles and pulled them out of his pocket. He had no idea which of them would work, if any.There were no doors on this barrier and he could jump over if he wanted to. He shoved one of the tickets into the machine and the turnstile sprung open.

Hank pushed on through and headed for the escalator.

It took him up on to a long, open-air platform with tracks on both sides and a handful of people hanging about. Dirty brick buildings occupied the centre and Hank walked to the corner of the nearest one and checked along both sides of the platform.

Hank didn’t need to search for long. Henri was halfway along one of the platforms, standing near the edge in full view. Hank stepped back behind the building and looked towards the escalator, hoping to see Brent or Clemens appear.

A train pulled into the station.When it stopped the doors automatically opened and Henri stepped inside. Several people emerged from the escalator but there were no familiar faces.

It was decision time again. Hank didn’t feel comfortable at all about getting on the train this time. It could be going to Poland for all he knew.

A door klaxon sounded. It was now or never. His instincts called out for him to stay put, but something else ordered his legs to get moving and jump on board as the doors closed.

It was a double-decker carriage with only a handful of people aboard. There was no sign of Henri, but then he had climbed on the other end. Hank hoped some of the guys were on another part of the train but somehow he didn’t think that would turn out to be the case this time.

He walked up the steps to the top deck and moved along, holding on to the rails as the train slowly left the station lurching from side to side. He stretched to peer down into the far end of the lower deck, where he caught a glimpse of Henri.

Hank sat down where he could see the side of Henri’s head if he leaned forward but where Henri would not be able to see him if he looked up.

The train cut through the city. Hank checked his watch. It was ten forty-two. He calculated that he could afford to stay with Henri for an hour. If Henri got off he might follow him for a bit, or simply go on to the next stop and catch a train back the way he had come. If Henri was still on board in an hour Hank would get off anyway and back-track to the rendezvous point. He had a list of the team’s phone numbers in his pocket and would call Stratton and report where he last saw Henri. Hell, out of the whole team he was the only one who had kept sight of him. Even if he didn’t see Henri make a meeting he might still get a pat on the back for trying.

Hank was content with his plan and watched the backs of buildings as they sped past. An endless scrawl of graffiti seemed to run in one long connected strip of fractured colour on both sides of the track. The stations were much further apart than on the métro. At the first stop, ten minutes later, an elderly woman got on and sat the other side of the carriage from Hank. He leaned forward to see if Henri was still there and saw him talking into his cell-phone.The doors closed and the train shunted off again.

As the train pulled into Juvisy, twenty minutes later, Henri remained in his seat. A handful of people got on and a man took the seat directly facing Hank. He was squat, broad shouldered and powerful looking, muscle-bound but not sculptured like a professional bodybuilder. He was naturally hard, a product of strong genes and a tough occupation, a labourer, Hank decided. A thick scar tracked from his right eye down to his throat and his hands were huge and calloused. Hank wondered where he was from. His hair was jet black and his skin tanned and weathered. He was dressed in a worn, cheap, ill-fitting suit and a pair of seasoned, black work boots with white parachute cord for laces. The man sat quietly, unmoving, looking straight ahead, like a troll. Only once did he look at Hank with his slow, large, expressionless eyes and when Hank looked at him he turned away.

As the train pulled out of the station someone sat behind Hank. Hank casually turned to look back but not enough for his peripheral vision to catch sight of whoever was behind him. The elderly woman was still seated opposite clutching her handbag. Hank suddenly felt uneasy. He reasoned it was a combination of being alone in a strange country under strange circumstances and heading further away from the city. He looked at the station map above the window and saw the next stop was a place called Savigny sur Orge. Hank had a rethink of his plan and decided to get off at Savigny and head back to the city. He could do no more on his own and felt he should never have gone this far.

Ten minutes later the train started to slow.The track ahead was curved and Hank could see the small station. As the leading edge of the platform passed the carriage he checked the sign. It was Savigny. He leaned forward to check on Henri and saw he was on his feet and standing at the door. Hank stopped to rethink again: should he just let Henri get off, give him time to head along the platform, then when he was out of sight get off himself? Or should he wait until the next stop? What the hell, he thought. As long as Henri did not see him it couldn’t do any harm to follow him for a bit. He was still twenty minutes short of the hour deadline he’d given himself.

As the train slowed Hank sat back to wait until it had stopped completely and allow Henri off the train. Suddenly a powerful arm wrapped around his throat and yanked his head back over the seat so brutally Hank thought his neck was going to break. He could barely breathe, his eyes bulging as the flow of blood was restricted. He grabbed the arm but it was like a block of oak. Then a blow as if from a sledgehammer slammed into his gut. The gnarled man opposite was on his feet in front of him and cocking back his huge fist for another punch. Hank kicked out but the squat man kneeled on Hank’s crotch and powered his fist into Hank’s chest with such force it cracked several ribs.The arm around Hank’s neck released him, but only so that it could grip Hank’s head, turn his face towards the window and slam it into the coach frame. Hank saw stars and felt consciousness slipping away. The blow was repeated and blood splashed across the window. Another blow struck him in the gut and he felt the strength drain from him. His brain was closing down communications with the rest of his body. He could see the bloody window frame move away from him once more, then close in again at speed. There was a loud crack and everything went dark and silent.

The train stopped and the doors opened. Henri looked up to see the two men drag Hank from his seat and along the aisle past the elderly woman, who could do nothing, but watch in utter horror.They pulled Hank down the stairs, took an arm each and lifted his limp body out of the train. The biggest of the men, the one who had been seated behind Hank, lifted him easily on to his shoulder and together they walked casually down the platform, Henri in front, sombre as an undertaker. The handful of people in the station took little notice or couldn’t care less about what appeared to be a drunk being carried home by his workmates.

No station staff were on duty at the turnstile as Henri led them through. The two powerful men followed, each pausing to slide his ticket into the machine and push on through.

They trooped down a flight of steps into a short, litter-filled tunnel, which led out to a small car park in the centre of the sleepy town. They walked to a van that looked as if it had seen many miles over many years. The squat man opened the back; Hank was thrown on to the dirty floor and the door was closed. Henri climbed into the passenger seat and the squat man into the driver’s seat. A moment later the van was driving out of the car park. The large man in the back rolled the unconscious Hank on to his front, took a length of cord and tied Hank’s wrists together. He looped the line around Hank’s neck, pulling on it so that Hank’s arms bent further up his back, and then bent Hank’s feet back and tied the line around his ankles. Hank lay trussed up better than a turkey, blood bubbling from his mouth as he breathed, the rest of his face bloody from the gash across his forehead. The large man sat back on a box, produced a packet of non-filter Gitanes from a pocket, lit one and handed it to the driver. He lit another and offered it to Henri, who declined with a polite wave. As the two men puffed on their cigarettes, filling the van with smoke, Henri opened his window.