When de Payns got up to the room he’d booked in Le Trophée, he took one look at the big double bed and was tempted to collapse onto it and sleep for a week. But the sight of the famous Deauville beach through the windows was too much for Patrick and Oliver, and the next thing he knew de Payns was following them across the road and the boardwalk and onto the beach to kick a soccer ball around. Romy sat on the edge of the boardwalk, and when de Payns turned to see if she wanted to join them—she was rather competitive around a football—he saw her glowing in the late afternoon light of the Normandy coast, wrapped in a woollen fisherman’s jumper.
‘You playing?’ asked de Payns, tearing off his shoes and socks, as Oliver insisted he was Messi.
‘I’m enjoying watching my men,’ she said.
De Payns turned back to his boys to hear Patrick announce he was Ronaldo.
‘In that case, I’m Platini,’ said de Payns, swooping in and stealing the ball from Patrick’s feet.
‘Who’s Platini?’ demanded Oliver as de Payns dribbled around him and nutmegged Patrick.
‘You’ll find out,’ said de Payns, whooping with laughter as his boys gave chase across the sand.
■
They ate great seafood at the Bar du Soleil, pulling on jumpers and jackets as the sun reached the horizon and the beach glowed bronze in the cold. They wandered along the boardwalk towards the amusement park, dodging other Parisian families trying hard to relax, until they reached a waterfront carousel in front of the Hôtel de Ville. The boys wouldn’t allow de Payns to avoid the amusement ride, so he bought tickets for Romy and himself and rose to the trot on a wooden horse while music from a century ago clanged out of the old machine. He was transported back in time to his childhood, when he and his sister were taken on holiday to Bournemouth—not because their mother was English but because of their French father’s connections with the Moran family. The two families had been tight in de Gaulle’s inner circle while the Free French movement assumed the role of government-in-exile in London in the early 1940s. Free French Forces was akin to a secret society, with de Gaulle as the grand master and its members swearing lifelong oaths of loyalty; members of the Order of Liberation, as it was called, received the specially struck Cross of Lorraine with the inscription Patriam Servando Victoriam Tulit—By serving the Fatherland, he achieved victory. When the war was won, Eymeric de Payns—Alec’s grandfather—went back to France to manage forestry assets for de Gaulle, and François Moran married into landed nobility in England and raised a family there. Alec de Payns and his sister had spent their holidays in Bournemouth—and sometimes Wimbledon, Twickenham and Royal Ascot—getting to know the Moran clan as if they were family. One of François Moran’s grandchildren was Mike Moran, sworn officer of the British secret service, and Alec de Payns’ friend. De Payns sometimes wondered about the duality of his Anglo-French make-up and if it helped or hindered him in his profession.
By the time they hauled themselves up to their room at Le Trophée hotel, de Payns was so tired and happy that he didn’t even reach in his pocket for a cigarette.
■
The weekend was a blur for de Payns, who’d forgotten how energetic his boys were. They went on a coastal walk north of the town, they ate in trendy cafes, and in the mid-afternoon Romy hired a beach hut called Frances McDormand and bought a sixpack of Heineken. It was relatively warm for winter so the boys briefly braved the cold of the sea and dried off in front of their hut. Romy and de Payns lounged in the sun while the boys kicked their ball in the sand.
‘Why are we called Frances McDormand?’ asked de Payns, looking along the row of little huts.
‘Haven’t you seen all the posters for the film festival?’ replied Romy, looking like she was designed to have her feet in the sand and a bottle of beer to her lips. ‘It’s very famous. They’ll have all the movie stars wandering around here later this year. They’ll probably stay at our hotel.’
‘I don’t know,’ said de Payns with a mock frown. ‘Could be a KGB front.’
She laughed and slapped him on the arm. ‘Don’t tell me—just like Greenpeace, right?’
‘Well, now you mention it …’
They teased one another as they had done when they first met: de Payns a dashing air force fighter pilot and Romy a graduate in economics with first-class honours doing contract research work for OECD and NGO think tanks in Paris. She found his distrust of anything that smacked of communism funny, and it had been a running joke between them for many years. But having graduated from the Sorbonne with a PhD and now with a full-time position at the Tirol Council, he’d noticed she was less playful when it came to economic theory.
‘I’m loving Tirol,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘I love working with people who have such a strong faith in what they are doing.’
‘I’m happy for you,’ said de Payns, taking a sip of beer, eyes fixed on the boys. ‘It’s great to find something you love doing.’
‘Really?’ she asked. ‘You’re okay with it?’
‘Of course,’ he said, surprised. ‘It’s what you wanted. Why wouldn’t I be happy?’
She sighed and looked away. ‘Sometimes I feel the Company changed you. I’m having a hard time recognising you.’
‘Recognising me?’ he repeated, trying to gauge if they were embarking on an official fight or if there was room for a three-point turn.
‘Everything is dark to you,’ she continued. ‘You’re totally paranoid. I talked about it the other day with Ana, and—’
‘You did what?’ de Payns interrupted, now knowing it was going to be a fight. ‘You’ve told her what I do?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Romy dismissively. ‘But, well, she’s not stupid, you know.’
De Payns heard a roaring in his ears and, despite his effort to maintain self-control, shook his head slightly.
Romy continued. ‘You never talk about your job. It’s all just, I work at the Ministry, and, Logistics is such an important part of the military, but you’re always away, and when you are you don’t contact me. Women notice these things, Alec.’
‘Maybe they notice, but that doesn’t mean you have to talk about it.’
‘I don’t talk about it, that’s the problem—and someone like Ana sees that very clearly.’
De Payns was becoming flustered. When Ana and her husband, Rafi, first befriended the de Payns, he’d had her checked with the DGS and found no flags on her. Ana was very sharp and very beautiful, and he’d initially been suspicious of how close she’d grown to his wife. ‘I told you, just tell her I work for the Ministry and I get called away a lot.’
‘Other couples aren’t like us, Alec,’ Romy said, voice even. ‘In normal marriages, you don’t just tell people to think a certain way and it comes to pass.’
‘I don’t see why Ana would be so interested in what I do,’ said de Payns.
‘She doesn’t care about what you do; it’s what you don’t do that gets her attention,’ said Romy. ‘If Ana wants Rafi to pick up a loaf of bread or get the boys from karate, she just rings him and it’s no problem. That never happens with us. Ana has noticed that and she can see I’m not happy about it.’
Alec’s head was spinning; he had a vivid mental image in his head of Paul Degarde killed, his wife raped. He needed to feel safe with Romy, but she was pushing all the buttons he’d warned her about.
‘You told her I don’t contact you?’ he asked, hearing a professional edge coming into his voice.
‘No, of course not,’ she said, still calm. ‘But like I said, she’s noticed.’
‘What does she ask about?’
‘The same thing any friend would want to know,’ she said, her voice hardening. ‘Is Alec away? Can Alec get the boys from karate? But I act like I don’t know what she’s asking.’
‘What the hell do you think she’s asking?’
‘Why we are two wives, but only one of us has a husband,’ said Romy.
There was an icy silence between them as they assessed the line that had been crossed. De Payns slugged on his beer and looked to the horizon, feeling lonely and wishing Romy would take back her words. He knew that was unlikely, though—those words had been years in the making, by the sounds of it. And if she’d meant them to hurt, she’d succeeded.
After a long silence, Romy cleared her throat. ‘Do you realise what it’s like for me not to be able to talk to anyone?’ she asked in a low voice. ‘You disappear for days, the boys can’t talk to you, I can’t get a lousy loaf of bread out of you, and when you do come home, you’re useless.’
‘I’m exhausted,’ said de Payns.
Romy shook her head. ‘You’re useless to me, useless to the boys. All the best of you is given to France.’
De Payns looked at the sand, the fight not in him. ‘I’m trying …’
‘Where is my fun pilot husband and his constant jokes?’ asked Romy. ‘God, you used to make me laugh. These days I get my laughs with my friends and colleagues. I have more fun at one lunch with David and Kris, than I do with my own husband.’
‘David and Kris?’ De Payns shrugged. ‘Who are they?’
‘Exactly,’ said Romy. ‘Why would you know who my boss is? Or who my colleagues are?’
‘I didn’t know you were going out to lunch,’ said de Payns. ‘Or who with.’
‘David is my boss,’ said Romy. ‘He’s a really inspirational thinker about energy economics, and he’s also really funny. And yes, we go to lunch. Colleagues do that.’
It had been a long time since de Payns had been compared to another man, and he was caught off guard. ‘That’s nice for David, but my life isn’t exactly funny these days.’
‘You’ve become a porcupine,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t talk to you anymore. And it’s no use blaming Ana; she’s just the friend who got close enough to notice.’
‘I’m trying to be a good father,’ de Payns protested. He lit a cigarette, blinking back tears, and avoided his wife’s gaze. Then he rose and moved a few steps away. He was alone, solitary, even as he was surrounded by his family.
■
The train from Deauville arrived at Gare Saint-Lazare just before seven on Sunday evening. De Payns had been lost in his thoughts during the two-hour journey into Paris, thinking about Paul Degarde’s family and wondering at his own fate aboard Azzam. Once he was on that boat, he was trapped and at the mercy of fortune, with only some tradecraft to balance the odds.
De Payns walked in front of his family with the luggage, aiming for the Metro platform to take them home. Romy followed, holding the boys’ hands. As he came off the escalator and onto the Metro platform, he passed two drunk men in their mid-twenties, leaning against the tiled wall. As he turned to see if Romy was okay, the drunk in the NY Giants hoodie rose to his feet and circled discreetly behind Romy, pretending to hit her in the neck. De Payns reacted without thinking. Dropping the bags, he ran towards Romy, who was unaware of the action behind her. His adrenaline surged as he punched the hoodie-wearing drunk in the face and then, as the man was reeling from the punch, kneed him in the stomach. The other, larger drunk leaped on him and de Payns hip-threw his assailant to the ground judo-style, the man’s head smashed into the concrete. Grabbing him by the jacket collar, de Payns dragged the semi-conscious man along the ground until his head dangled over the edge of the platform and punched him repeatedly.
There was a squeal as a train approached and then Romy was hitting his back, yelling in his ear, ‘Stop, Alec! Stop! Please, stop!’
Becoming aware of her voice, de Payns emerged from his psychosis. He stared into the scared eyes of the drunk, gasping for breath, then dragged him back onto the platform as the train’s headlight grew larger.
De Payns stood, blood dripping off his knuckles.
He turned to his family and saw two small faces filled with fear.
His wife’s face was filled with disgust.