The smell of coffee and warmed pastry brought him around and he squinted through a seismic hangover at the bedside clock: 6.24. His wedding ring sat on top of the clock radio, a symbol between Romy and him. DGSE operatives didn’t wear wedding rings because it left a mark when removed, which could burn the legend of a ‘single’ operative.
Groaning, he rolled onto his back, noticing Romy was not there. For the past six months she’d been waking at five in the morning to work on her thesis before the child rituals began, but now—the thesis having been completed and accepted—it seemed early rising had become a habit.
De Payns winced against the slit of light that poured through a small gap in the curtains and tried to estimate what time he’d arrived home. He’d barely had three hours’ sleep.
The scalding water of the shower felt good on his head, and after a shave he wandered into the kitchen and kissed his wife as she handed him a large black coffee. He could see through her short nightie and he lingered in the kiss, thinking of a possible return to bed before the kids got up. He dropped his hand to her rounded hip but she wasn’t interested.
‘How’s your head?’ she asked, holding two Advils in her hand and offering a glass of water.
Taking the painkillers, he leaned against the kitchen counter, looking through the main windows into the south of Paris. It was going to be a fine day, maybe rising to twenty-five, twenty-six degrees.
She slid a plate towards him on which was a warmed pain au chocolat. ‘Eat this before you take the Advils. And we need some milk.’
He chewed as he walked to the coat rack and grabbed his windbreaker.
‘Two minutes,’ he yelled, letting himself out.
At the entrance portico he performed his daily habit—before venturing out he’d take a look through the glass of the main doors to see if anything was out of the ordinary, such as the presence of sous-marins, or subs—vans or cars used as observation vehicles—or pedestrians hanging about with no pretext. If he saw someone who looked off, he’d first clock their shoes, since footwear was the only thing a follower couldn’t change in a filature. De Payns was always looking for a filature—the professional shadowing of another person.
He bought the milk at the neighbourhood épicerie and returned to the apartment. He drank another coffee and Romy fixed him a fresh pain au chocolat. She was friendly but distant, an attitude he accepted because it was similar to his own style. In Romy’s mind she wasn’t finished with the PhD until after the ceremony and dinner with her parents. She would be distracted until it was out of the way.
‘I have a bit to do today—I’m leaving soon,’ said de Payns, glancing at his plain Omega watch. For their first wedding anniversary, Romy had bought him an expensive military watch, but it spent most of its life in the bedside drawer; a shiny adventurer’s watch was too conspicuous for his work.
‘My parents are arriving tomorrow,’ she reminded him. ‘But my graduation is next Saturday, okay?’
De Payns nodded. The silence lasted one second too long.
‘The ceremony starts at six, and I’ve made an eight-thirty booking at La Bohème,’ she said, looking into his eyes.
‘Sounds great,’ said de Payns, standing and draining the remains of his coffee. ‘I’m really looking forward to it.’
‘You’ll be there?’
He realised she wasn’t being arch; she was worried. Hugging her, he nuzzled her hair and whispered in her ear, ‘I wouldn’t miss it for anything. I’m very proud.’
When he hit the pavement again it was 7.21 and Paris was starting to pump. Delivery vans were double parking and filling the street with West African rap as their drivers ran to building porticos with their parcels; commuters on mountain bikes shouted at drivers and hundreds of pedestrians walked the wide footpaths. The street looked safe, and he caught the crowded Metro south to the interchange then changed to a northbound line which hooked around to Odéon. Catching a bus east, he alighted at a stop in Noisy before wending through an IS into the side street, where a hidden side entrance of the Bunker was situated. He felt alert and a little paranoid, which he put down to the hangover. Even small leaks from intelligence services made people antsy, and the worst affected were the field operatives. The problems in Palermo gnawed at him, not the least because it reminded him of how he’d never resolved the torture-death of Amin Sharwaz, and how it was that the Pakistani engineer was revealed to the ISI. De Payns sometimes wondered if he should acknowledge the true extent of his concern to Romy, but he always stopped short—the day he divulged all to the mother of his children would be the day she pulled the plug on their marriage.