ELEVEN YEARS PREVIOUSLY…

      THE ONLY THING that distinguished this man from everyone else on the bridge was his stillness. His collar was turned up against the wind of a typical Parisian autumn and his hat was pulled down to his eyes. Nobody noticed him. Then, with one deep sigh, he marched through the fog towards the Île St Louis. / hope nobody will have to die today, he thought.

      He reached a familiar wooden door. A sharp jab with his elbow snapped the old lock and he slipped through unobserved. Around him was a small courtyard he didn’t bother to inspect. Instead, he eyed the fourth floor of the adjacent building. Drizzle slicked the drainpipe when he clasped it, but he heaved himself up, strong and persistent. He hauled himself on to the balcony, careful to land silently, and drew his gun. It felt familiar yet horrible in his grip. It’s just a precaution, he told himself.

      After only a moment, he burst through the flimsy balcony doors. “Levez les mains!” he shouted.

      An elderly man sat proudly at his desk among piles of papers. “There’s no need to speak to me in French, Ian,” he announced with just a hint of an accent as he raised his hands above his head. “And there’s no need to point a gun at me. If you’re going to shoot, shoot. If not, let’s talk.”

      “You should have run further away, Doctor.”

      “Where could I have gone that NJ7 wouldn’t find me?” Still the gun pointed at the doctor’s head, but neither man blinked. Dr Memnon Sauvage rose slowly and edged round his desk.

      “You know I can’t come with you,” he continued. “What I’ve done can’t be undone, no matter what Hollingdale does to me.”

      “Turn round and put your hands behind your back,” the other man replied flatly.

      “How’s Helen?” The doctor stayed facing the way he was. “Has the baby been born? It must be any day now.” Despite huge effort, Ian Coates’s face flickered.

      “Ah,” exclaimed Dr Sauvage with a dry smile. “Congratulations. A father for the second time!”

      Ian Coates was scowling now, trying hard to detach his anger from his trigger finger. “Do as I say or I will shoot you.”

      “Go ahead. Shoot me,” Dr Sauvage snapped back. “Then NJ7 will never know what France is capable of.”

      “Then turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

      “So you can march me back to London? Back to NJ7? Back to your wife?”

      At that, Coates slapped his hand viciously across the old man’s face. The blow sent him straight to the floor.

      “Hollingdale can do nothing without me,” barked Dr Sauvage, spitting blood. “Tell him that! And tell him this: the day he finds out what I’ve done will be the day it kills him.”

      Ian Coates