Without warning

tourist trade. Monique steered her into one such venue, grabbing a table near the door, which Caitlin immediately rejected in favour of another where she could sit with her back to the wall and watch the entrance and the street.

‘Does this place have a toilet out the back?’ she asked. ‘Do we have access through the kitchen?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Monique with a shrug of her shoulders. ‘I come here sometimes, but I’ve never had to ask. Why – do you need to go?’

‘No. But we need another exit. Indulge me and ask them.’

Monique rolled her eyes, which Caitlin took as a good sign. She was throwing off her shock, reasserting herself. Still, she did as the American asked. While she chatted with the owner, Caitlin sat and leaned up against the red- brick wall. Faded posters of beach scenes in New Caledonia had been tacked up around the cafй and they looked mighty inviting. She felt her head swimming with exhaustion and forced her eyes open, gesturing to the one waiter and asking for a double shot of espresso.

‘I’ll teach this tumour to mess with me,’ she muttered to herself.

After the violence at the hospital, and an hour or more on the run, she could have wept with relief at being able to just sit somewhere comfortable and warm, where people weren’t hunting her. Nine other patrons were scattered about in ones and twos and such conversation as she could hear was all about la Disparition. She ignored it as best she could. The cafй smelled of baking bread, fried garlic and roast lamb. A man at the table next to her supped at a bowl of soup in which floated big white chunks of fish meat and black mussel shells. He tore small pieces of bread from a baguette and dipped them into the stock, washing it down with a glass of wine poured from a bottle with no label. Caitlin’s stomach rumbled in protest and saliva leaked into her mouth. Her coffee arrived just as Monique returned.

‘There is a convenience out the back. You have to go through the kitchen and they do not normally allow it, but I have told them you have just been diagnosed with cancer and they relented.’

Caitlin favoured her with a crooked half-smile. ‘Nobody wants to disappoint the cancer girl. Good work, Monique. You’re learning.’

‘I am.’ She nodded, even seeming a little pleased. ‘The toilet is in a separate block, in a small yard that opens onto an alleyway. The alleyway runs in both directions, linking up with Bobillot and Rue du Moulin des Pres.’

‘Damn,’ whistled the American. ‘You could do this for a living, sweetheart.’

She spooned a single sugar into the coffee and threw the drink down in one go.

‘I ordered some toasted sandwiches – croque monsieur,’ said Monique. ‘I thought you would want something simple.’

‘And fast,’ Caitlin added, dropping her voice. ‘We have to get to the apartment as soon as we can, and see if I can contact anyone from my shop.’

Two straw baskets arrived, brimming with thick, toasted white bread wrapped around ham, gruyere cheese and French mustard. Two glasses and a bottle of house wine landed next to them, a nameless vin blanc. Monique poured herself a glass and drained it in two gulps before filling Caitlin’s and refilling her own. Dark half-moons stood out under her eyes, which were puffy and red from crying. Her hand shook as she poured, but not so much that she spilled any.

Caitlin took a careful sip of her own but was more interested in the food. The bread had been dipped in egg and pan-fried in butter, with more melted cheese drizzled on the outside. Her eyes watered with the intensity of flavours as she bit into a moist, heavy slab. Right then it seemed like the finest meal she had ever tasted. She wanted to close her eyes and savour each moment, but her training demanded that she continually scan their surroundings and the entrance to the cafй for any threats. Apart from the heart attack she was holding in her greasy hands, however, there was nothing.

They ate in silence for five minutes, chewing through their meals and sipping at the wine. Unspoken, but lying between them like a dead curse, was the fate of Monique’s friends. She had not mentioned them again, but Caitlin could tell they were on her mind. She didn’t raise the issue herself, not wanting to unsettle the precarious emotional balance that Monique seemed to have achieved. There would be time for that later. Perhaps.

She ordered another coffee and paid for the entire bill when it came, but didn’t finish her wine. Even a few mouthfuls had left her feeling light-headed and dizzy. It would have been luxurious to stay in the cafй for a few hours, drinking and smoking Gitanes as though all was right with the world, but Caitlin hauled herself to her feet as soon as she’d downed the second espresso. ‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Let’s go.’

The American headed out through the kitchen towards the rear of the cafй. The owner nodded and tutted and tried to look as sympathetic as he could for the pretty cancer girl. The kitchen was cramped and narrow, with crammed shelves running all the way up to a high ceiling. A woman in a stained apron gave them a querying look but the owner, her husband most likely, shushed her with one word: ‘Cancer.’

Caitlin shut her eyes for a few seconds before pushing open the flyscreen door and stepping out into the small darkened car park. A single pallid globe struggled to illuminate the courtyard, in which two scooters and a battered old van were parked. She had shifted the guns into easy reach, but there was nothing in the scene to alarm her.

‘Well, my Spidey senses ain’t tingling,’ she told Monique, who gave her a weird look in return. ‘We’re fine,’ she explained.

Two blocks later, she found a couple of bicycles chained to a cast-iron railing in front of a white, Moorish- looking tenement, and was pondering how to break the chains when Monique admonished her.

‘Please, Cathy… sorry, Caitlin. Bicycles? Look at them. They are not expensive models, no? The people who ride these do so because they cannot afford a car. Do not steal them, please. They will not be insured. You will only be spreading more misery.’

Caitlin’s irritation at the scolding was transitory. She was feeling quite ill now, and was coming to think she would need Monique to get through the next couple of days if she was unable to make contact with Echelon. It was better that the girl was feeling more confident, even if it meant she’d be less malleable and, frankly, more of a pain in the ass. ‘Fine,’ she conceded. ‘No bikes. But we’re gonna need some wheels soon. If we get caught out in the open on foot we’re dead.’

They resumed their journey towards the 14th Arrondissement, walking against the flow of one-way traffic along the Butte-aux-Cailles, which was alive with throngs of younger Parisians, all of them wealthy and well dressed, hopping from bars to clubs and restaurants as if this were a normal evening with a warm spring in the offing. The