De Payns sat up fully awake and checked the bedside clock: 2.09 a.m. His heart was racing, banging in his chest, and he knew from his dry throat and the sweat on his brow that he’d been panting in his sleep again. Romy had complained about it; apparently it was unnerving to lie beside a person who sounded like they were running the 1500 metres.
He slipped silently from the bed that Romy had readmitted him to and crept into the hall. The sounds of nothingness roared in his ears and he noticed he was holding his breath. Forcing himself to breathe evenly—just like he’d been taught as a fighter pilot almost twenty years ago—he reverted to panting and had to steady himself against the wall as he swooned.
‘Jesus,’ he whispered.
He couldn’t access his dreams, which wasn’t unusual for these turns. Whatever triggered him into such a state was buried deep and never revealed itself, much to the annoyance of Romy, who wanted the details of his nightmares. There can’t ever be details, he’d told her. My career is over if anyone finds out about this. He knew she didn’t accept that position; Romy held the view that being wife and mother gave her a status in his life every bit the equal of France; if anyone should have access to her husband’s dreams, it should be her.
As he slowly got his breathing under control, snapshots cycled through his mind: the drunks at Saint-Lazare, the Metro platform lighting, Oliver’s wide-eyed astonishment as he stared at his father. His wife’s revulsion. As he focused on Romy’s appraisal, a damp, low-level fear took hold. He tried some self-talking, telling himself that everyone was safe, his kids were unharmed, but the paranoia rose in him like milk on the boil. Pushing off the wall, he tiptoed to the end of the hallway where there was a small vestibule with a dresser that contained car keys and phone chargers. De Payns reached down behind the oak dresser cabinet and pulled out a black CZ 9mm handgun taped behind the cabinet and checked it for load and safety as his eyes adapted to the dark. He had never kept a handgun in the house until his run-in with Manerie. He’d been required to do a session with Dr Marlene afterwards because a person had died in front of him: a Dutch activist named Heidi Winnen. But he’d foxed the doctor, and any deeper benefit he might have gleaned from the woman was lost as de Payns concentrated on ensuring he’d not be placed on medical leave.
He was on autopilot as he held the CZ vertically beside his right cheekbone, not even acting consciously. He peered closely at the two deadbolt latches on the front door and slowly put his ear to the doorjamb, white noise rushing through his head, pulse banging in his temples. The door seemed okay, and he moved away, creeping down the hall to the boys’ room. When they’d moved into the apartment, there were enough rooms for the boys to have one each, but they’d elected to sleep together in the large bedroom that had its own balcony and French doors that looked over the internal courtyard.
They were both sleeping, Patrick under his PSG quilt and Oliver still sleeping with the Wiggles. He checked the French doors and then had a quick look inside their wardrobe. Then he checked on Romy and padded to the kitchen.
He put his pistol on the counter by the sink and ran tap water into his hands, burying his face in the coolness, splashing his hair and feeling the liquid run down his back and hit the floor. Turning off the tap, he saw himself reflected in the window above the sink. He took stock of what he saw: a man still fit enough to run and fight, and in good shape for someone who was no longer young. But his face—usually an effective tool in charming and influencing people—was a mask of worry, his eyes sunken and his cheekbones more pronounced than usual. The scratch running vertically under his left eye was small but noticeable. He looked hideous.
Turning away from the sight of himself, he grabbed the CZ and padded across the large living room with its high ceilings, checking on the two banks of French doors that opened onto a balcony overlooking the street. He selected the sofa against the wall—the one that faced the TV screen—and sat on it carefully, his gun on his lap, his breathing becoming calmer but his mind still racing. He thought about how quickly Briffaut had twigged to what was going on in his family; that suggested it was a common theme of Company marriages. But de Payns didn’t want to be a useless husband and absent father. He didn’t want to be a danger to his family, or look dangerous to them, as he had at Saint-Lazare. Didn’t want to make a mistake. Didn’t want to bring the Russians into his life zone. Didn’t want Romy and the boys confined to an anonymous house in the provinces, enrolled at schools under new names.
He didn’t want to be Paul Degarde.
Romy appeared to his right, moving through the darkness in a white calico nightdress, her blonde hair tousled and her athletic body moving efficiently across the polished boards.
‘It’s me, it’s me, it’s me,’ she said, quite firmly and loudly as she approached and sat beside him, knowing not to spook him.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She reached slowly for the pistol and took it from his hand, placing it on the other side of her. ‘We all safe?’
‘Yep,’ he said, croaking slightly.
‘Want to talk about it?’
‘No,’ he said.
‘Want to come to bed?’
‘No,’ he said.
She put an arm around him and brought her face close to his. ‘That nightmare again?’
He shrugged. ‘Can’t remember.’
‘Something happen at work?’
‘No, I guess I just couldn’t sleep,’ he said, his facial muscles hardening so he couldn’t smile it off as he so often did.
Romy’s eyes looked huge and dark in her oval face. ‘Are you okay?’ she asked. She turned slightly and he could see her tears welling, and he realised what she was thinking.
‘I’d never do that,’ he said.
She looked at him.
‘Never,’ he said.