‘Assume that they know everything,’ Luc replied.

Sitting alongside Kell in the passenger seat, Amelia shook her head and said: ‘We’ll never get to François. They’ll kill him or move him in the next forty-eight hours.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Kell replied, but it was baseless optimism. Unless Elsa could trace the origin of Luc and Valerie’s communi- cations more precisely, their hopes of success were slim. He suspected that François was being held within a five-mile radius of Salles-sur-l’Hers, the village in Languedoc-Roussillon where Arnaud had dropped Vincent in the cab, but without accurate coordinates it would be like droning caves in Tora-Bora. Vincent was their only hope, but with only two specialist surveillance officers at his disposal, Kell’s chances of following him to the crash meeting were near non-existent. How could he expect Harold and Elsa, two tech-ops specialists given only a basic grounding in surveillance techniques, to tail CUCKOO without being spotted?

Up ahead, Vincent had hung up on Luc and was already making plans to disappear.

‘Listen,’ he said to Harold. ‘That was my boss. I need to get to a train station as quickly as possible. There’s been a change of plan.’

‘I thought I was dropping you in London, sir?’ Harold replied, enjoying the role. ‘Cleared my whole day.’

‘Just do as I say,’ Vincent told him, his faultless English now punctuated with rage. ‘You’ll get paid just the same.’

Amelia, listening alongside Kell in the pursuing vehicle, turned up the volume as Harold responded: ‘All right, all right. No need to lose your rag. You’re the one changing his mind, mate, not me.’ His voice was muffled by road noise and static, but the words were clear enough. ‘Salisbury OK for monsieur? Trains run from Tisbury as well if you prefer.’

‘Just take me to the closest train station.’

About a quarter of a mile further along the road, Kevin Vigors was travelling in advance of the cab with Danny Aldrich. They were coming into Wilton when Kell contacted them on the radiolink.

‘You hear that?’

‘We heard it,’ Vigors replied.

‘Harold’s taking CUCKOO to Salisbury. If he tries to get clear of us, that’s where he’ll do it.’

‘Sure.’

All night, Kell had tried to anticipate how CUCKOO would behave in the aftermath of his exposure. His instinct would be to return to French soil as soon as possible. But how? In addition to the major London airports, there were airlines running flights to France from Southampton, Bournemouth, Exeter and Bristol. It was unlikely that Vincent would go direct to St Pancras without first trying to shake his tail, but he might pick up a Eurostar to Paris at either of the two stations in Kent, Ashford or Ebbsfleet. There was an option to hire a car and to drive it on to the Eurotunnel service at Folkestone, but Vincent would assume that SIS had access to number-plate recognition technology and would quickly be able to identify his position. A train south from Salisbury would take him to the cross-Channel ports.

‘You think he’ll take the train?’ Amelia asked.

‘Let’s wait and see.’

On the outskirts of Salisbury, the cathedral spire drifting right-to-left across the windscreen as Harold negotiated a roundabout, Vincent announced that he needed to find an ATM. Three minutes later, Harold had pulled into a lay-by opposite a branch of Santander in the centre of town.

‘Can you wait here, please?’ Vincent asked him, leaving his suitcase and laptop on the back seat as he opened the door.

‘It’s a double yellow line, mate,’ Harold replied. ‘How long are you gonna be?’

There was no answer. Harold could only watch as the Frenchman crossed the road, stepped around an elderly couple, and joined a short queue at the ATM.

‘I’m parked outside a cinema,’ he announced. ‘Mock Tudor, branch of Black’s beside it.’ Harold was talking into the void of an empty car, and hoped that the commlink was working. He put in an earpiece and twisted in his seat, trying to get his bearings. ‘I’m in a parking bay at the side of the one-way system, looks like the street is called New Canal. Got a branch of Fat Face behind me, Whittard’s coffee next door.’

Amelia’s voice came through with a burst of static. ‘We have you, Harold. Tom’s coming around the corner. I know exactly where you are. Confirm CUCKOO’s position?’

‘Across the road, taking some cash out at Santander. He’s left everything on the back seat. Suitcase, laptop. Only thing he took was his wallet.’

‘What about a passport?’ Kell asked.

‘I’ll have to look.’

‘Is he wearing the leather jacket?’

This from Aldrich, who was parked with Vigors in the market square only three hundred metres away.

‘Affirmative,’ Harold replied. The leather jacket contained a tracking device that he had sewn into the lining the previous morning.

‘He’ll take it off,’ Amelia muttered.

And so it proved.

Think, Vincent told himself. Think.

He put three successive cards into the ATM, taking out four hundred pounds on each. His heart had pounded him into a sweat of fear. He felt the distilled anger of a shamed man and wanted to find Amelia, to destroy her as she had destroyed him. How long had she known? How long had they all been playing him?

Think.

Stuffing the last of the money into the hip pocket of his jeans, he looked to the right. Past the local cinema, just a few doors down, was a branch of Marks & Spencer. It would be open on a Sunday and he could perhaps find an exit through the back. The cab was behind him and he turned towards the driver, who wound down his window and peered out.

‘What’s that mate?’

Was he one of them? One of a team of ten or twelve surveillance officers now scattered around central Salisbury? Vincent had to assume that everybody was a threat.

‘I want to buy a sandwich in Marks & Spencer,’ he shouted across the road, gesturing towards the store. ‘Can you wait two more minutes please?’

He heard the driver’s response: ‘Mate, I told you. I’m not allowed to stop here,’ and, for a moment, Vincent wondered if Amelia was the only one in town, the only one following him. There were so many questions in his mind, so many variables to contend with. He recalled what Luc had told him on the phone. ‘Assume that they know everything.’ It was all so degrading, so hopeless and sudden. Vincent tried to remember what he had been taught at the Academy, but that was long ago and he found it difficult to think clearly. They did not prepare me for this, he told himself and began to blame Luc, to blame Valerie, because the whole operation had been crazy right from the start. How did they ever think they were going to get away with it? Was he going to be the fall guy? Would they wash their hands of him now?

Think. The doors of Marks & Spencer were automated and Vincent found himself in a long, strip-lit room of nightdresses and skirts, of Salisbury housewives, bored kids and trudging husbands. He followed signs upstairs to the men’s department, turning around on the escalator so that he could look back at the shop floor in the hope of spotting a tail. Was Thomas Kell here? Vincent had warned Luc on the ferry, warned him about the threat from Stephen Uniacke. That was what was now so infuriating. All of his hard work, all of his talent and emotional investment in the operation wasted because Luc had been slack. How had they allowed themselves to be duped like that? He’s just a boring little consultant, Valerie had said. You’re getting paranoid. We’ve been through his phones. We’ve looked at his computer. The Englishman is clean.

Vincent reached the top of the escalator, wondering how long it would take the taxi driver to come after him. They could just arrest him for not paying his fare. He found socks, a pair of underpants, some deck shoes, a pair of denim jeans, a red polo shirt, a black V-neck sweater and a checked sports jacket. Cheaply made, ugly clothes, he would look bad in them, not his style or even the style of François. He bought a small leather shoulder bag, paying for everything in cash. There was a food section downstairs and Vincent bought a sandwich, because he did not know when he would next be able to eat, and also a litre bottle of water, swallowing at least a fifth of it before he reached the counter. He was so thirsty. The constant sense of apprehension was like a sickness stretching his skin. The staff kept smiling at him, even a young mother tried to catch his eye. Nothing could have been further from Vincent’s mind. He knew that he hated women again, despised them, because you could never trust the way a woman talked to you, what she said with her face. Their words meant nothing. Even mothers lied. He told himself: I am no longer François Malot, but it was like sloughing off a skin that was still caught up in his soul. I am Vincent Cévennes and the game is up. They are coming for me.