The rain started as de Payns emerged from Austerlitz Metro station. He walked several blocks to the changeover house and let himself in with his security protocols. He moved past the apartment’s small kitchen to a wall of lockers, stopped at Number 9 and entered his code. The door sprung open and he pulled out a manila envelope with the name Alain Dupuis on the front. He placed the Alain Dupuis SIM, wallet and wristwatch in the envelope and returned it. Then, from an unlabelled envelope he removed a Nokia phone in three pieces, a set of keys, a wristwatch and a wallet. The life of Alec de Payns, in one envelope.
He entered the small bathroom and washed his face, relishing the sensation of cold water on his skin. He had one last IS to perform before he was clean enough to walk into the family home. At the end of missions, this was the IS that agents wanted to skip, but they all knew it was potentially the most crucial. This was the ‘last mile’ that they’d been trained for at Cercottes, the DGSE farm outside of Orléans where Action Service and Y Division people were trained. This was the final ring of security that kept the bad guys from their families, and it had to be done with absolute precision.
He travelled on the Metro, pulling the pieces of the Nokia and SIM from his pocket and assembling it. The screen came to life, and the Nokia screen showed him a message was waiting. It was from ‘R’, asking if he would be home for dinner. It had been sent the day before. He thumbed in yes, and looked up and down the carriage. He walked in the rain without an umbrella—umbrellas were too easy to follow; so easy that most secret services used them as signals and nothing else. He travelled on the left side of the street, from where he could look into the front seat of the parked cars. He zigged and zagged and ended up outside his apartment at 7.38 p.m.
The de Payns’ apartment was in a classic nineteenth-century Parisian building with a high-security main entrance, good locks on the doors and a small underground car park. By habit, de Payns circled the building, doing a final look around before entering, checking the letterbox and using the stairs to reach the second floor. Outside his apartment, he leaned his forehead against the door, breathing in the typical smells of mealtime in France’s largest city. He could identify Tunisian, Lebanese, Indonesian and Tamil cooking, but no stewed rabbit or steamed mussels. He felt himself start to relax.
He inhaled deeply and turned the key in the lock, then slipped quickly through the door and shut it, a security habit he couldn’t shake. Down the hallway, he could hear Romy’s voice. By her animated tone, he guessed she was talking to a female friend on the phone. Probably her old school friend Renée, or her thesis supervisor, Marie.
He rounded the corner and saw her stirring something on the stovetop. She still stirred him, this compact, sexy woman—even now, dressed casually in jeans and a T-shirt, her blonde hair pulled into a hasty topknot—and always doing two things at once. He kissed her on the cheek and she smiled, gestured that she was just winding up the call. De Payns threw his keys and phone on the counter and grabbed a bottle of riesling from the fridge. He poured two glasses and made for the sofa, sinking deep into it with a sigh.
The wine was good and the TV news was on, but muted. One of his wife’s multi-tasking habits. A woman on the screen announced a story and an update scrolled along the bottom of the screen: France will explore new trade deal with Iran—Macron.
Romy rang off, brought her wine over and kneeled on the sofa to kiss him on the lips. When she pulled back, de Payns saw the smile that reached her green eyes.
‘I cooked for two—we must be psychic,’ she said, rubbing a thumb along his forehead.
De Payns smiled. From their first dates, when he was still a fighter pilot, they’d attributed even the smallest coincidence or happenstance to their psychic connection.
‘You okay?’ she asked.
‘Tired,’ said de Payns. Something was niggling at him. He knew what it was but he didn’t want to dwell on it. Not now. ‘How are the kids?’
‘Ready for the holidays to be over,’ said Romy. ‘Oliver is counting the sleeps until school starts. He’s drawn a calendar and everything.’
De Payns chuckled, trying to keep the good vibes going. But he couldn’t do it. ‘Who was that on the phone?’
‘My new friend,’ said Romy. ‘Ana, a mother from Oliver’s preschool.’
De Payns nodded. ‘Ana? When did you meet her?’
‘I’ve seen her a few times at the park and at preschool,’ said Romy, tensing. ‘She’s invited us for drinks.’
De Payns’ pulse thumped in his temples. ‘So, she’s married?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What’s her surname?’
‘Alec!’ Romy’s pretty face darkened.
‘So, she has your number but we don’t know her name?’
Romy stood. ‘You agreed to not do this. We agreed! You set the rules but you don’t manage my every move.’
‘Who initiated the conversation?’ asked de Payns, now committed.
Romy picked up her glass and walked to the kitchen, shaking her head. ‘It’s preschool. The kids initiated a friendship.’
She swallowed some wine and stirred the pot.
De Payns kicked off his shoes and picked up the remote.
‘Don’t,’ said Romy. ‘Please. Not the TV.’
Putting down the remote, he turned back to her.
‘We just got talking because Oliver and Charles are friends. I don’t think anyone initiated the conversation.’
‘Charles? Are they French?’
‘I don’t know. Turkish, maybe.’
De Payns raised his eyebrows.
‘Okay, they look Arabic, but they’re very French. She has no accent.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘I don’t know.’
De Payns nodded. ‘What was the approach?’
Romy shook her head.
‘Has she asked about your husband?’
‘No … maybe I’ve offered.’
‘What have you offered?’
‘That you’re away on business.’
‘With the Ministry?’ asked de Payns, referring to his chosen cover as an administrative person working at the Defence Ministry.
‘No, I didn’t offer that; she didn’t ask.’
‘Did she see the car?’
Romy appeared to be struggling to control her anger. ‘I know this stuff’s important, Alec—I’m very serious about it. But you have to show some trust.’
‘So?’
‘We may have talked at the car.’
‘Did you see her car? Her numberplate?’
Romy shook her head. ‘No. I don’t know if she has a car.’
De Payns tried to smile. ‘If bad people ever wanted to coerce me to act against France, they would probably do it through my family. That’s all.’
It was the wrong thing to say, he saw it in her eyes immediately.
‘You mean, that’s what you do to people? Get to their families?’
An icy silence settled, before it was shattered by a shriek.
‘Papa!’ came the high-pitched sound of a five-year-old boy. De Payns saw a flash of Batman pyjamas and then Oliver was upon him. As he fell sideways on the couch with his younger son in his arms, he thought of Michael Lambardi and wondered what would become of his kids.