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course?’
    ‘Yes.’
    The old man leaned back in his chair. His brown cardigan fell open revealing a black cummerbund over the top of his evening trousers.
    ‘You’re very young. I was expecting someone older.’
    ‘I’m twenty-five.’
    The old man had a soft charming voice and smiled each time he spoke. ‘We’re sending you to Aix,’ he said. ‘There’s a flight leaving Paris at nine o’clock tonight. When you arrive, go to the Eurocar rental desk and a car will be waiting for you in the name of Michael Leavy. Brossard is staying at this address.’ He handed T a sheet of ruled paper with a handwritten address. ‘He should arrive there tomorrow. He drives a Peugeot.’
    ‘Yes, I know. A ’77. White.’
    ‘He will stay in the residence adjoining the boys’ school, which is the address I’ve just given you. In a week or two he may move on to Villefranche or Nice. I don’t know what you’ve been told. I mean, I don’t know your modus operandi .’
    ‘I’ve been briefed,’ T said. ‘It’s up to me, when and where.’
    ‘I see. Well, let me just say one thing to you. This individual is old but he is a fox who knows perfectly well how to go to ground. If he gets your scent, he will disappear and, believe me, you won’t find his tracks. We mustn’t let that happen.’
    ‘Right.’
    Why did I have to come here? Why did he want to see me? Is that all?
    And then, as if he had spoken aloud, the old man said, ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I asked to see you. It’s against our rules. But I feel I should be honest with you. Our friends haven’t told you that you’re the second man to try this mission. Am I right?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘A week ago we sent someone from this same commando to kill Brossard. We knew exactly where he would be at a certain date. Our information was correct. He was there. In Salon de Provence, as a matter of fact. The person we sent was someone like yourself, young, trained, knew what he was doing. We don’t know what happened. But we know he’s dead. He was shot and his car was tossed into a ravine. We’d given him a false passport like yours. It wasn’t on his body. The statement – you know about the statement?’
    He now took from the manila envelope a large typewritten sheet of paper and held it up. T nodded.
    ‘It disappeared. It wasn’t found with the body. We’ve had a discussion about this. Apparently, your friend the Inspector hadn’t informed you about it. That’s why you’re here tonight. I know it’s up to you when and how you do it. But I felt you should be told – everything. You must kill him on your first attempt. You may not get a second chance.’
    He stood up. ‘Thank you for coming. And don’t forget.’ He held up the typewritten sheet. ‘This must be found on his body. People must know why we did it.’
    He paused. T heard voices in the outer hall.
    ‘Those are my dinner guests.’ The old man took off his brown cardigan and picked up a dinner jacket which was lying on the leather sofa. ‘If you’ll come this way, I’ll let you out by the rear entrance. There’s a service stair. Sorry about this. People usually arrive late. These guests are early.’
    The back stairs were dark and narrow. The flight was at nine o’clock. He would have to take a taxi to the Hotel Terminus to pick up his bag, then go straight out to Orly.
    On the Boulevard St  Germain it was raining. He started to run, looking for the nearest taxi rank. He was lucky. There were two taxis waiting. It was only when he was sitting in the taxi, crossing over to the Right Bank, that he began to think about what he had been told. And about the Inspector. Why didn’t the Inspector want him to be warned? Why ask? Flics always lie. What Pochon said was, ‘This man is seventy years old, he’s been hiding out for forty odd years. He’s not expecting you. He never was one of the hard ones in the milice , he was a paper shuffler, the head of the second section. He