The hot water washed away the traces of Clement Vinier and the odour of Pakistan. He stepped out of the shower at the safe house, dried off and dressed in the Alec de Payns clothing that he’d left home in a week earlier. He splashed on some cologne, collected his home-life watch, keys, wallet and phone, and headed for the street. It was mid-afternoon in Paris, thanks to the time difference with Pakistan. De Payns used two changes on the Metro—where he put the battery back in his phone and fired it up—finally coming out at Port-Royal. He was very careful when coming back from countries such as Pakistan or Iran, because of the reach of their intelligence services and the number of well-trained people they could mobilise in Paris. He’d already used one Company-run IS to clear him to his safe house—as insisted upon by the Company with returning OTs—and remained vigilant as he made for home.
He picked up a bunch of flowers from the woman who ran the local cafe-bar and carried the peonies in the crook of his arm as he made his way up the stairs. His heart pounding as he got to the door of the apartment that Romy’s savings was helping them to afford. The Ministry for Defence owned residential properties all over Paris to allow people earning government wages to live in one of the world’s most expensive cities, but the best apartments went to the ‘Hot and Cold Waters’, the military and intelligence officers who awarded themselves the red collar pip of the Légion d’Honneur and the blue ribbon of the National Order of Merit. They dominated the Ministry-subsidised apartments in the seventh, fourteenth and fifteenth arrondissements. Such apartments were referred to as the Hot and Cold Water buildings, in reference to the red and blue strings worn around the occupants’ suit collars, when not in military uniform.
He unlocked the door and pushed through, holding the flowers in front of him. He padded down the hallway and started talking, hoping to surprise Romy and the boys. But there was no one in the kitchen and the TV wasn’t on in the living room. The curtains were drawn, making it quite dark.
‘Romy!’ he said, dropping his pack on the floor. His heart picked up and his breath rasped in his own ears as he checked the bedrooms and bathroom. No one. He checked wardrobes and the broom closet in the hall. Picking up his phone, he hit Romy’s number and waited. It rang out, ending with her voice asking him to leave a message.
‘Fuck!’ he said, casting around, his mind buzzing with possibilities. Grabbing his keys, he walked to the elevator and caught the lift to the basement, where their VW Polo was parked. He walked around it, looking for damage. He touched the hood—it was cold—and looked through the windows to see if there was anything out of place in there. Romy had the car keys.
He took the elevator back up to the ground floor and burst out onto the footpath, making another call to her. Still no response.
He walked the block and a half to a collection of neighbourhood boutiques and cafes. Romy and the boys weren’t in their usual cafe and Valerie, the woman who ran the small épicerie where they bought newspapers and milk, hadn’t seen the de Payns family that afternoon.
He walked the block, trying Romy’s number again. Nothing. His blood pressure rose, the fear rising along with it. He paused as he walked north through a leafy street behind their apartment, and above the traffic he heard the chanting of young kids. He followed his ears to an open door at the church hall. It was a Saturday afternoon, which meant karate with sensei John. Inside the hall parents were sitting around the walls on fold-down wooden chairs, and in the middle of the floor a bunch of young kids in white canvas gi yelled in unison as they ran through their kata on blue and white mats. In the first row of kids he caught sight of Patrick’s blond head. His son had that serious look on his face, lips pursed as he concentrated, mouth wide as he roared back at sensei’s prompts. A spitting image of de Payns himself at the same age. A hand waved from along the watching parents and de Payns’ eye was drawn to his wife, smiling and beautiful, while his youngest—dark-haired Oliver—mimicked the kata from the sidelines.
He tried to make his legs move towards Romy and Oliver, but his thighs felt like jelly. He was frozen, a wave of emotion moving up and through him like a drug. He was overwhelmed—he’d been running through a list of plans and contingencies for dealing with his kidnapped wife and here they were, and here he was, stranded in the midst of his neighbourhood life. It was too much. He longed to be elsewhere—to be sitting in Big Nose’s bar with Templar and Shrek, drinking in a place where he belonged and he could be himself. Before he could make himself leave the doorway, Oliver was in his arms, yelling, ‘Papa!’ so loud that the mothers laughed.
He picked up his son and swung him around so no one could see his emotional state.
‘I love you, Ollie,’ he whispered, as he held him. It was the best he could do.
‘Dad, can I do karate and soccer?’ asked his five-year-old. ‘Mum won’t let me.’