A Foreign Country

72

The Hotel Lutetia was a five-star Parisian landmark known to Kell from his brief tenure in the city a decade earlier; he had held meetings with SIS and DGSE colleagues in the lobby and knew something of the hotel’s history as a base for the occupying German army during World War II. It was less than a mile from Brasserie Lipp and would logically make a safe, discreet location for CUCKOO’s crash meeting with Luc and Valerie.

Within four minutes of receiving the call from Amelia, Kell had paid the bill at Lipp, walked south-west with Elsa down Rue de Sèvres and told Danny Aldrich and Kevin Vigors to park as close to the hotel as possible.

Aldrich found a space for the Peugeot on the eastern side of Boulevard Raspail and kept an eye on the entrance. Vigors went straight to the reception desk and booked a double room in his own name before settling into an armchair with clear sight of the main bank of lifts. Kell and Elsa walked into the hotel arm in arm, like lovers returning from a midnight stroll.

‘We’re staying here,’ he told her as they ambled past reception. ‘Dirty weekend. We’re going to have a drink in the bar before we go up to bed.’

‘Promises, promises,’ she replied, and squeezed his arm tight against her chest.

The bar was in a large rectangular lobby the size of a real tennis court. About ten guests were seated in scattered groups on armchairs upholstered in scarlet and black, digestifs and cups of coffee on low wooden tables between them. A lone waiter moved briskly among the art deco sculptures, the tinkle and cough of polite conversation accompanied by a bald pianist covering show tunes at a grand piano in the corner. Kell sat in an armchair facing out towards the main entrance; Elsa was opposite him, watching the bar. For half an hour they conversed in English about Elsa’s childhood in Italy, while Kell sent and received occasional text messages to Amelia, Vigors and Aldrich.

‘If you were my lover and you spent this much time on your phone, I would leave you,’ she said.

Kell looked up and smiled. ‘Sounds like I’ve been warned.’

Seconds later, pushing through the revolving doors of the hotel, a young Arab man came in from the street wearing denim jeans and a leather motorcycling jacket emblazoned with the Marlboro logo. Kell could not at first make out his face, but as he passed the reception desk, he saw to his astonishment that it was one of the two men who had attacked him in Marseille.

‘Jesus Christ.’

Elsa, reclining sleepily in her chair, leaned forward. ‘What?’

‘It’s the guy from the …’ He had to think quickly. There was no time to alert Vigors. ‘Go to the lifts. Don’t hesitate.’ Elsa was out of her seat, her consternation plain for anyone to see. Kell lowered his voice. ‘There’s a young French Arab heading there now. He’s part of their team. Follow him. Try to find out which floor he’s going to.’

The waiter paused beside Kell’s table as Elsa walked away.

‘Is everything all right, monsieur?’ he asked.

‘Just my girlfriend,’ he replied. ‘She thinks she saw her cousin going past.’

‘I see.’ The waiter glanced after Elsa, noticing that a guest in the corner of the lobby was trying to seek his attention. ‘Would you like anything else before I close the bar?’

Kell saw Elsa arriving at the lifts.

‘No, no thanks,’ he said, turning back to the waiter. ‘Could I please just have our bill?’