However, for once Scorpia had got their intelligence wrong. No sooner had we arrived at Charles de Gaulle Airport than we were informed that Vosque was not in the city after all. He had gone on a five-day training course, meaning that we had the entire week to ourselves. Hunter wasn’t at all put out.
“We need a rest,” he said. “And since Scorpia’s paying, we might as well check ourselves in somewhere decent. I can show you around Paris. I’m sure you’ll like it.”
He booked us into the luxurious Hotel George V, close to the Champs-Elysées. It was far more than decent. In fact, I had never stayed anywhere like this. The hotel was all velvet curtains, chandeliers, thick carpets, tinkling pianos and massive flower displays. My bathroom was marble. The bath had gold taps. Everyone who stayed here was rich and they weren’t afraid to show it. I wondered if Hunter had brought me here for a reason. Normally we would have stayed somewhere more discreet and out-of-the-way but I suspected that he was testing me, throwing me into this gorgeous, alien environment to see how I would cope. He spoke excellent French; mine was rudimentary. He was in his late twenties and already well travelled; I was nineteen. I think it amused him to see me dealing with the receptionists, the managers and the waiters in their stiff collars and black ties, trying to convince them that I had as much right to be there as anyone… trying to convince myself.
It was certainly true that we both deserved a rest. The journey into the rainforest and out again, the death of the Commander, the shoot-out that had followed, our time in Iquitos, even the long flight back to Europe had exhausted us, and we both had to be in first-rate condition when we came up against Vosque. And if that meant eating the best food, and waking up in five-star luxury, I wasn’t going to argue.
We had adjoining rooms on the third floor and both spent the first twenty-four hours asleep. When I woke up, I ordered room service… the biggest breakfast I have ever eaten, even though it was the middle of the afternoon. I had a hot bath with the foam spilling over the edges. I sprawled on the bed and watched TV. They had English and Russian channels but I forced myself to listen in French, trying to attune myself to the language.
The next day, Hunter showed me the city. I had done more travelling in the past few weeks – Venice, New York, Peru – than I had in my entire life, but I loved every minute of my time in Paris. A few of the things we did were obvious. We went up the Eiffel Tower. We visited Notre-Dame. We strolled around the Louvre and stood in front of its most famous works of art. All this could have been boring. I have never been very interested in tourism, staring at things and taking photographs of them simply because they are there. But Hunter made it fun. He had stories and insights that brought everything to life. Standing in front of the Mona Lisa he told me how it had once been stolen – that was back in 1911 – and explained how he would set about stealing it now. He described how Notre-Dame had been constructed, an incredible feat of engineering, more than eight hundred years before. And he took me to many unexpected places: the sewers, the flea markets, Père-Lachaise Cemetery with its bizarre mausoleums and famous residents, the sculpture garden where Rodin had once lived.
But what I enjoyed most was just walking the streets – along the Seine, through the Latin quarter, around the Marais. It was quite cold – spring had still not quite arrived – but the sun was out and there was a sparkle in the air. We drifted in and out of coffee houses. We browsed in antique shops and bought clothes on the Avenue Montaigne. We ate fantastic ice cream at Maison Berthillon on the Île-St-Louis. Curiously, this was where the founder members of Scorpia had first come together – but perhaps wisely there was no blue plaque to commemorate the event.
We ate extremely well in restaurants that were empty of tourists. Hunter didn’t like to spend a fortune on food and never ordered alcohol. He preferred grenadine, the red syrup he had introduced me to in Venice. I drink it to this day.
We never once discussed the business that had brought us here but we were quietly preparing for it. At six o’clock every morning we went on a two-hour run together… It was a spectacular circuit down the Champs-Elysées, through the Jardins des Tuileries and across the Seine. There was a pool and a gym at the hotel and we swam and worked out for two hours or more. I sometimes wondered what people made of us. We could have been friends on holiday or perhaps, given our age difference, an older and a younger brother. That was how it felt sometimes. Hunter never refered back to our conversation in the jungle, although some of the things he had said remained in my mind.
We had arrived on a Monday. On the Thursday, Hunter received a note from the concierge as we were leaving the hotel and read it quickly without showing it to me. After that, I sensed that something had changed. We took the Metro to Montmartre that day and walked around the narrow streets with all the artists’ studios and drank coffee in one of the squares. It was just warm enough to sit outside. By now we were relaxed in each other’s company but I could tell that Hunter was still agitated. It was only when we reached the great white church of Sacré-Cœur, with its astonishing views of Paris, that he turned to me.
“I need to have some time on my own,” he said. “Do you mind?”
“Of course not.” I was surprised that he even needed to ask.
“There’s someone I have to meet,” he went on. He was more uneasy than I had ever seen him. “But I’m breaking the rules. We’re both under cover. We’re working. Do you understand what I’m saying? If Julia Rothman found out about this, she wouldn’t be pleased.”
“I won’t tell her anything,” I said. And I meant it. I would never have betrayed Hunter.
“Thank you,” he said. “We can meet back at the hotel.”
I walked away but I was still curious. The more I knew about Hunter the more I got the feeling that there were so many things he wasn’t telling me. So when I reached the street corner, I turned back. I wanted to know what he was going to do.
And that was when I saw her.
She was standing on the terrace in front of the main entrance of the church. There were quite a few tourists around but she stood out because she was alone and pregnant. She was quite small – the French would say petite – with long fair hair and pale skin, wearing a loose, baggy jacket with her hands tucked into her pockets. She was pretty.
Hunter was walking towards her. She saw him and I saw her face light up with joy. She hurried over to him. And then the two of them were in each other’s arms. Her head was pressed against his chest. He was stroking her hair. Two lovers on the steps of Sacré-Cœur… what could be more Parisian? I turned the corner and walked away.
The next day, Vosque returned.
He lived in the fifth arrondissement, in a quiet street of flats and houses not far from the Panthéon, the elaborate church that had been modelled on a similar building in Rome and where many of the great and good of France were buried. Hunter had received a full briefing in an envelope sealed with a scorpion. I guessed it had been delivered to his hotel room by someone like Marcus, who had done the same for me in New York. The two of us went to a café on the Champs-Elysées. It might have seemed odd to discuss this sort of business in a public place but in fact it was safer to choose somewhere completely random. We could make sure we weren’t being followed. And we knew it couldn’t be bugged.
Vosque provided a very different challenge to the Commander. He might be easier to reach but he probably knew we were coming so there was a good chance he had taken precautions. He would carry a gun. He could expect protection from the French police. As far as they were concerned, he was one of them, a senior officer and a man to be respected. If he was gunned down in the street, there would be an immediate outcry. Ports and airports would be closed. We would find ourselves at the centre of an international manhunt.