Eight
IN THE PAST WHEN WE’D been to Paris, I’d travelled by Eurostar alone, never questioning how he got there himself. I’d learnt long ago that to question Sinclair didn’t always mean you’d be rewarded with an answer. I’d usually catch a taxi from the Gare du Nord to his apartment on Boulevard Saint-Germain and to the best of my knowledge, it appeared Sexton and Sinclair had a car for Paris, and one for London, because in Paris it was a sleek, black chauffeur-style Bentley, not the ridiculous pimp wagon he rode around London in. I never dared contemplate the insurance costs for that thing.
This time, because I’d flown with them, I saw the Bentley waiting in a garage near a private airfield we flew into. The airfield somewhere even further out than the commercial airports of Paris, the d
