‘I just asked for a room,’ he said. ‘I didn’t know.’ He dumped his haversack on an armchair and opened a creaky wardrobe. There were some spare blankets in it. He threw them down in a heap on the floor. ‘I have to be in the same room as you, Leigh. I can’t sit outside your door all night.’

‘You don’t have to sleep on the floor,’ she said. ‘We can share the bed. If you want to, that is.’

‘Chris might not be too pleased about that,’ he replied, and immediately wished he hadn’t said it.

She frowned. ‘What’s he got to do with it?’

‘Nothing. Forget it. I’ll sleep on the floor. It’s no big deal. I’ve slept on a million floors.’

‘No, what did you mean about Chris?’

‘Let’s not talk about it.’

‘You’re talking about what happened on the Isolde, aren’t you? What did you think you saw?’

‘Look, it’s none of my business what goes on between you and Chris.’

‘Nothing at all goes on between us.’

‘OK, that’s fine.’

‘It’s over between me and Chris,’ she said. ‘It’s been over for years.’

‘You seemed to be getting on pretty well together.’ He knew he was saying too much, digging himself into a hole and sounding a lot more like a jealous lover than he cared to admit.

She flushed. ‘It wasn’t what it looked like.’

‘You don’t have to justify yourself to me.’ He pulled a bottle of wine out of his bag and started opening it. ‘Want some?’

She shook her head. ‘You drink it. And I’m not justifying myself.’ She sighed. ‘All right, it’s true that Chris wants to get back together with me,’ she admitted. ‘That’s what you saw. But the feeling is definitely not mutual, and it’s not going to happen.’ She kicked off her shoes and reclined on the bed. ‘When it’s over, it’s over. It’s never a good idea to go back.’ She glanced at Ben.

He blew the dust out of a glass on the bedside table and filled it with wine. Knocked it back and filled it up again. ‘I think you’re right,’ he said. ‘It’s never a good idea to go back.’

Bordeaux, France

Earlier that evening

The auditorium was packed and bustling. The lecture was being held at Bordeaux University’s Faculty of Politics and Economics. It was open to the public and people were standing in the aisles. Attendance figures were unprecedented. The organizers couldn’t remember the last time a talk by a rising politician had generated so much intense excitement.

There were police and security everywhere outside under the gentle snow. Barricades had been erected for Philippe Aragon’s motorcade to pass through, and massive crowds had gathered to cheer and wave banners. The police had managed to cordon off the estimated two hundred shaven-headed neo-fascist demonstrators who had come to yell and wave their swastikas in protest. One of them had tried to set fire to an effigy of Aragon before the police had grabbed him and bundled him into a van. A scuffle had broken out, and media crews rushed in to get a shot as three cops were dragged away bleeding and a dozen more battered protesters were arrested.

Henri Juste, the University Chancellor, smiled for the cameras as he walked out from behind the heavy curtains and made his way across the stage. Behind the podium, Aragon’s Party slogan L’Europe R ED ECOU VERTE stood fifteen feet high on a giant screen. It encapsulated Aragon’s policies perfectly. A new Europe, a rediscovered land. Ecological. Green. Filled with hope and promise. The flags of the united European states were on display. In the wings and the control centre above the auditorium, armed security personnel scrutinized monitors and scanned the crowd.

Now, ranks of officers gathered tensely on standby behind riot shields, batons and tear gas at the ready. Well away from the trouble, television crews and newspaper reporters were out in force and hoping for blood.

Juste reached the podium. He raised his arms and the hum of excited chatter from the packed theatre dwindled. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began. ‘Our speaker tonight needs no introduction. No modern political figure has ever risen to prominence or gathered such overwhelming public support so surely and so quickly. He has been hailed as the Brussels JFK. A pioneering environmentalist architect. A philanthropist who has personally donated millions to protect the underprivileged. A tireless campaigner for the improvement of educational standards. At forty-one, the youngest ever candidate for the Vice-Presidency of the European Commission. His audacious policies and progressive vision of a truly integrated Europe, and his goal to rid Europe of its dependence on nuclear energy, have placed him firmly at the forefront of European politics. Ladies and gentlemen: Philippe Aragon.’

The Chancellor stepped away from the podium and extended his arm as Philippe Aragon walked confidently out onto the stage. A hundred cameras focused. Five hundred people were on their feet. Tall and elegant, the young politician was wearing a well-cut suit and no tie. He waited until the applause had dwindled, and then he began his speech.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I thank you for coming here tonight.’ Behind him on the high screen, the big slogan disappeared and the crowd murmured as a new image flashed up. It showed the far-right protesters outside. Shaven heads. Swastikas. Ugly faces frozen in expressions of hatred.

Aragon smiled. ‘And I also want to thank our neo-Nazi friends outside for showing up.’ He let this register for a beat, and then went on. ‘By their very presence here tonight they help me to make my case. Ladies and gentlemen, we are told we already have an integrated Europe.’ He paused again as the crowd laughed. His smile was gone now. He swept the audience with his eyes. ‘The truth can be seen all around us,’ he said. ‘Europe is sinking under a tide of nationalistic fear and greed. But we can recover her. Together we can build a united Europe. A clean Europe. A free Europe. A Peoples Europe.’

The crowd roared its approval. Behind Aragon, the image of the neo-fascists disappeared and the strident slogan flashed up in its place to mark his words. L’Europe RED ECOU VERTE. The applause got even louder.

Watching on her monitor backstage in a comfortable reception room, Colette Aragon sipped coffee from a styrofoam cup and smiled at her husband’s perfect control of his audience. Party staff and plain-clothed security personnel milled around her. Across the busy room stood Louis Moreau, the former GIGN counter-terrorist police response unit commander whom she’d appointed as her husband’s private head of security. She didn’t have much faith in the government agents. Moreau took his job extremely seriously. The lights glistened on his shaven head as he stood with his arms folded, scrutinizing the bank of screens that showed the crowd from different angles.

Colette stood behind her husband publicly, every step of the way. He was a good man. But privately, she wished he’d give all this up and go back to architecture. It wasn’t just the mayhem and madness of constant travelling and press interviews. Even Philippe hadn’t been prepared for how fast his political career had taken off. Colette knew that as his popularity grew, he would become more of a target. At public events like this, even the heaviest security presence couldn’t guarantee his safety. They couldn’t frisk everyone at the door. All it took was a fascist fanatic in the audience with a pistol in his pocket.

She shivered. She’d never believed that the incident last January in Cortina had been an accident.