1. One Day in Paris
   

Pavel Weiss strode out of the Gare de l'Est, blinking in the bright May morning sunshine, unbuttoned his cashmere coat, and paused to take in the busy scene.

No matter how often he came to Paris - the sounds, the sights, the smells - it was always so exhilarating!

The great boulevards stretching into the distance, lined with shops and tall apartment blocks; cars, taxis, omnibuses rushing past, horns tooting; workers scurrying to their offices; cafés spilling over with customers sipping their cafés crèmes, maybe even an early Absinthe, perfect for people-watching.

Clutching his valise tight, he crossed the main street onto the Boulevard Strasbourg, heading for the Hôtel d'Algérie, the little pension he'd booked before he departed from Istanbul.

Was that really three nights ago? The sleeper train across Europe made it seem longer - forever stopping, shunting, reversing, waiting. Belgrade, Vienna, Strasbourg and on and on.

Back in Istanbul he'd dined at the Pera Palas Hotel - eating a wonderful sea bass in parchment - then boarded the train at Sirkeci Station at ten and taken refuge in his first-class compartment.

That dinner, with a pricey Gewürztraminer to accompany the fish, was an extravagance, he knew. A luxurious ritual for this monthly trip to Paris. Expensive, yes, but the twenty-four hours he would now spend here would be anything but pleasant. A rock-hard bed in a flea-bitten room, a meagre meal in a backstreet tavern, and a lot of worn shoe leather just to make sure he wasn't being followed.

That thought spurred him to grab the rail of a passing trolleybus, as it slowed to take a turning, and leap aboard. Pushing his way into the crowd, squeezed together on the rear platform, he scanned the street for anyone trying to catch up with him.

Nothing unusual. No frustrated "watcher" stepping out of cover, wondering how they'd lost their prey.

Pavel smiled to himself as the trolleybus rattled along. His tradecraft was instinctive - ingrained. Well, of course, just as it should be.

He owed his life to the training he'd been given by the British all those years ago when war had broken out, turning Europe into a bloodbath. One he'd been lucky to escape with his life.

Still alert, he waited for the trolleybus to stop. Then - just as it pulled away again - he leapt off and slipped away down a side alley.

Just following his sense of direction, Pavel began to zig-zag his way back through the maze of narrow streets towards his pension.

Stopping every now and then to glance behind him - checking the reflection in a café window perhaps - just to be certain nobody was following. Just to be sure.

So exhausting, this constant surveillance. But not for much longer, he knew.

Pavel had been lured out of retirement because the money had been most welcome, even needed. But come September he would be out of the game - at last! - and, with a bit of luck, already safely ensconced in his little cottage in beautiful Provence.

Yes, money would be tight, but how perfect such a life in southern France would be!

Rising late, café au lait and croissants in the village café, lunch on the terrace, maybe a spot of boules in the afternoon in the square. Then dinner under the stars, the overwhelming scent of jasmine in the night air.

No more criss-crossing the continent, switching identities, constantly looking over his shoulder... always at the beck and call of some distant handler.

Though, truth be told, this current assignment had not been too arduous.

Just once a month, pop down to the main post office in Sirkeci, pick up a "package" and deliver it to the unnamed - of course - contact here in Paris.

Then a quick return to Istanbul with whatever they gave him. Glorified postman, that's all he really was! But no postman in the world earned what he did.

Who knew what was in those packages? Pavel certainly never looked, though he'd been in this business long enough to guess. Cash? Jewels? Gold? Drugs? And, even more valuable, secrets?

Not his concern at all. He was just a courier. His job was to simply deliver, not to ask questions. And that's exactly what he did.

Now he took a turn into an even grimier street and spotted a faded hand-written sign on a door: Hôtel d'Algérie. He paused, glanced up and down the street.

Not a soul in sight. Perfect.

He would take his room, sleep for a few hours, grab some cheap food.

Then, at the correct time, deliver the package and make sure he didn't miss the express back to Istanbul first thing in the morning.

Now, gripping his precious valise tight, he crossed the street to the hotel.

*

Twelve hours later, and feeling surprisingly rested, Pavel stood in the doorway of the hotel, now dressed in classic French artisan clothes: faded shirt and trousers, battered old boots, a threadbare flat cap.

Over his shoulder hung a tattered canvas bag that contained the package to be delivered.

He leaned out and peered each way down the street. Busier now, even though it was dark: the seedier night-time commerce of Paris clearly well underway.

A rowdy sing-song was underway in a bar opposite, tipsy customers spilling out onto the street, wine bottles in hand.

But no sign of anyone watching him.

He had a route worked out to Les Halles - Paris's great food market, that circled the area and then turned back on itself. It was there that his contact would be waiting.

With one more glance at the busy café, he slipped away into the night.

*

Pavel fought his way through the hectic stalls of Les Halles, past hurrying barrow boys, and burly butchers dragging carcasses from the back of camions; fruit and vegetable merchants stacking crates six feet high.

This market was host to a frantic cauldron of activity as foodstuffs of every kind funnelled into the city. Here, he could see, night was the same as day. And, in the cafés he passed, breakfast, lunch and dinner were being served no matter what the hour, all accompanied by carafes of hearty red wine.

Now, just ahead, through the bustle and activity, he spied his destination: the classic bistro Au Chien Qui Fume.

He stopped dead, then stepped sideways into the shadows of one of the butchers' loading ramps, the concrete floor sawdust-strewn, the air heavy with the smell of freshly butchered meat.

He ran his eye over the dense crowd that sat outside the café, looking for his contact.

But strange - not a sign of him. He took out his pocket watch, checked it: yes, midnight. On the dot. Slipped it back into his pocket. This was indeed unusual.

And he didn't like "unusual".

Some problem perhaps?

And then - a tap on his shoulder.

He spun round fast, one hand gripping the bag tighter and the other coming up ready to defend himself - and then he finally saw his contact standing just a yard away, smiling. Tall, thin-faced.

Pavel moved to one side, so that they both leaned against the wall, staring out at the hectic market scene.

As if not speaking to each other... as if total strangers.

"Eh? You're a little jumpy tonight, hmm?" said the man.

"I don't like surprises," said Pavel.

"Yes. Of course. Understandable."

Pavel nodded towards the café.

"Problem?" he said to the contact. "With our regular spot?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. Saw somebody at the bar I didn't like the look of."

"Best not take a risk," said Pavel.

"Exactly my thought. So, then - what now?"

"This is too public, here," said Pavel, shaking his head. Surprised the contact didn't have a backup plan. "Another café?"

Pavel waited while the man seemed to consider this.

"No. But - I know a place. Follow me."

Pavel saw the man turn and walk away, down the line of loading bays. He waited for a few seconds then casually stepped down from the bay and followed, fifty yards behind, and ten yards to one side, drifting through the crowd as if in no particular hurry.

He saw his contact casually slip around to the back of one of the bays, with the barest of glances back in his direction, before he disappeared.

Pavel followed and found himself in a dark alleyway, the bright lights of the market not spilling down this narrow passage at all.

Twenty yards ahead he barely spotted the shadow of his contact, pausing briefly in a small cone of light from a distant street lamp, waiting for him to catch up, Pavel guessed, as he continued down the alleyway.

But then - he saw another shadow flicker on the wall to one side and he knew instantly...

That shadow did not belong to the contact.

Somebody else was in the alley.

And he realised so many things all at the same time...

He had made a dreadful, terrible mistake in following the contact.

He had forgotten his training - and would now pay a price.

He sensed, rather than heard, footsteps, creeping...