Spring must have been late in Paris this year. Surrounding him were tower blocks that seemed to lean out over the pavement. They turned the streets into concrete tunnels that channelled the wind so it blew the litter around his ankles and the dust into his face. This wasn’t the picturesque, historic Paris that so many millions of people love. This was Fontenay-aux-Roses, a filthy and forgotten banlieue on the edge of town. It was also Mitchell’s rendezvous. He crossed into a park and headed towards a garish funfair. It was a flashing, blaring mess, spewing out a cloud of fast-food wrappers and stray helium balloons. In ten minutes, he was to be at the candyfloss machine to receive information on his target. NJ7 contacts had been investigating at the DGSE offices nearby. Mitchell sneaked through the temporary fencing and pretended to smile at the kids who were doing the same. Then he discreetly checked his watch. Early. He walked slowly around the edge of the fair and ended up in the queue for one of the rides.
