It was Friday afternoon and de Payns had an operation to get back on track. He’d let Raven drink too much and perhaps he’d been too friendly. Whatever the combination, she’d divulged too much about her brother at their last meeting and then suddenly pulled back.
She was scared, justifiably so, and if he couldn’t palm off the contact to someone else he’d have to find a way to resurrect it himself. He trained across town and found an internet cafe in le Marais from where he sent an email to Raven, telling her he was in Belgium again and asking if she would be available to see him. Then he took the Metro to the Left Bank and, after three stops, ducked into another internet cafe. He opened the Sébastien Duboscq webmail and found a response to his email, logged at eighteen minutes after he’d sent it. She was keen, and his heart sank as he read her suggestion that they borrow a friend’s boat on Saturday and explore the canal. He’d wanted to spend the weekend with Romy and the boys, walking through the markets, watching Patrick play soccer, buying new school gear for Oliver. But if the Raven situation wasn’t rescued now, they might be too late to stop whatever the Pakistanis were cooking up.
He sent an email: See you at 11, at the marina? I’ll call as I approach, Seb.
He headed home earlier than usual, picking up flowers on the way. It was a cliché but sometimes it worked. As he opened the apartment door he could hear kids yelling and running. He intercepted Oliver and got a hug, then continued to the kitchen, where he found Romy, wineglass in hand. He got a tipsy kiss from his wife, a little wetter than usual. Ana Homsi was on the Juliet balcony, finishing a smoke. She stepped in and gave de Payns a one-two on the cheeks.
‘I hadn’t realised before,’ said his wife’s new friend. ‘Romy says you were a fighter pilot in the air force?’
‘A lifetime ago.’ He smiled while Romy poured him a glass. ‘I’m a pen-pusher now. It takes a lot of managers to keep one plane in the sky.’
‘A pen-pusher who gets to wear comfortable shoes,’ she said, raising her glass.
‘Casual Friday.’ He returned the toast.
They took the kids to one of their local cafes and ate an early meal, which mainly consisted of feeding the children the most expensive cheese toast in Paris. De Payns knew that when they got home, the boys would want bowls of cereal anyway. When Ana snuck onto the footpath for a cigarette, de Payns broke the news that he had to work over the weekend. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t do this unless I had to.’
Romy handled her disappointment better than most, resting her chin on her hands and looking at him with those green eyes that saw more of him than anyone else. ‘Patrick’s playing striker. He’ll be sad that you’re not there to see it.’
‘Really?’ he replied. ‘That’s fantastic. I wish I could be there.’
‘I’ll film it.’
De Payns felt deflated. Some of the privations of his occupation could be offset against the greater good, but he would never retrieve the moments lost with his boys. He changed the subject. ‘What’s this about my flying?’
‘Oh, nothing. Ana wondered what you do to stay in shape, and I had to point out that you’d served—you know, in combat.’
He didn’t say anything. He smiled and reminded himself that the DGS had no flags on this woman or her husband. He had to relax, let his family life be a family life.