CHAPTER TENFor one hour in the twenty-four they were allowed outside their cells. They could visit the library, they could watch TV (in the vegetable patch, where all the vegetables sat in rows) or go to Miami Beach (the gym). Michael chose to walk round the prison yard to inhale the different, diesel scent of the air, the fumes of Paris as potent as the sounds of the world outside: sirens and alarms, the chime of a church bell, a motorbike accelerating. He’d worked out who Chapot was; a middle-management baron who managed to procure a decent haircut for himself and through some dark deed had earned the privilege of wearing unobtrusively well-cut clothes. There was nothing intimidating about Chapot until you realised that he ran the money, he was the banker to the big guys. That was instru
