Monique Roche, a supervisor in the CNIL - Commission nationale de l'informatique et des libertés (National Commission on Informatics and Liberties), was a well paid and long time source of information for Jean Paul. She secured her position with him by monitoring information that would benefit and protect his operation.

With Nice being the most surveilled city in France – if not Europe – and embroiled in privacy debates over facial recognition usage, she was in the perfect position to detect long distance transmissions, and her knowledge of who JP was watching for popped up, thanks to her personally programmed algorithm.

"The phone box at Avenue Pierre Isnard, 232 Route de Grenoble Anciennement." Monique breathed seductively into the phone.

"And the accommodation?"

"A number of small hotels, bed, and breakfasts. Could be any one, but it is a small area to go on foot, chéri."

Jean Paul smiled at the sobriquet. "You have done well, Monique. Your reward will be waiting for you in the usual place."

"I had hoped it might be delivered personally . . ."

"I think you would prefer the business arrangement we have now. Any other could lead to dangerous complications." He ended the call and frowned slightly. Monique was a source he couldn't afford to lose, but anything else meant trouble, and he didn't need more trouble.

He contacted his man with Monique's information and gave him his orders. Soon he would have his property back and all those connected to it would be taken care of. He returned to his patio balcony and beckoned the young woman sunning by the pool.

***

The knock on the door brought Keith awake with a start. He checked his watch – five-thirty then glanced over at Barbara, who was rubbing her eyes and sitting up, and held a finger to his lips.

"Yes, who is it?"

"Bonjour! J'ai apporté vos petits déjeuners."

"It's the concierge with breakfast." Barbara got off the bed and looked with dismay at her crushed and wrinkled clothes.

Keith opened the door and smiled, accepting the tray. "Merci."

"De rien. Je peux presser les vêtements aussi si tu veux."

He smiled again, closing the door and repeating his thanks. "What was that last bit?"

Barbara opened her bag and searched through for something to wear. "It was a shot at our appearance." She fingered her wrinkled pants.

"Ah, sorry. I didn't want to wake you last night. How come she brought this so early?"

"It's fine. I needed a good sleep. I told her we had to be on the road early when you went out to phone." She pulled out a blouse and skirt, frowning. "I hate wearing skirts on the plane."

"The pants don't look that bad," he said, setting the tray on the little table and removing the cover. "Mmm, warm croissants, bacon and jam – and coffee not espresso!"

"Then you wear them and lend me yours."

He grinned through a mouthful of croissant. "So now you want to get into my pants."

The pillow missed and nearly spilled the coffee, and he raised his hands in surrender, laughing. Barbara changed, and they sat and had breakfast together, Keith sneaking glances at a pair of attractive legs.

"We have to arrive at the last possible moment for the flight. I don't want to take any chances hanging around in a strange crowd."

"Be ready to flash your police credentials then. The French aren't above just leaving without you."

"They're never on time anyway. What's the difference?"

"The difference is it's their time."

"Got it. Can you ask downstairs where the nearest public transit is to the airport?"

"It's just across the way from here. I saw buses when we came in yesterday.

"Okay, we can sit over there when it gets close. Meanwhile, I'm wondering if my boss got my message from last night."

"What can he do?"

"Nothing right now, but there will be a record if something should happen."

"Oh, swell, I feel so much better."

"Nothing's going to happen . . . I was just saying."

Barbara stood with her coffee looking out at the day, amazed at what she had let herself in for when she agreed to this Riviera holiday. It was her damn attraction to Keith Railton and a bit of tossing caution to the wind, she remonstrated. She sipped her coffee, eyes dropping to the road below and she let out a slight gasp.

"Keith! Look!."

A car sat idling a few buildings down on the dark street and a couple of men, looking nothing like tourists, were scanning the windows all along the street. Keith pulled her back from the window and peered carefully from one edge.

"I think we've been blown."

"How?"

"Doesn't matter. What matters is getting out of here before they start their door to door."

"We have less than four hours, I don't think waiting until the last minute is an option anymore. We should be safe in the departure lounge, they'd need tickets to get in there."

"Okay then. First thing is get our luggage down to one convenient bag. I can scrap most of my stuff 'cause I got a lot of it new just for the trip. Disposable shaving gear and-"

"Is that a bathing suit?"

Keith blushed full on for the first time as he rolled up the garment in question and stuffed it in a plastic bag. Barbara began to laugh. In spite of their circumstances some things could still be funny.

"Well I don't want to toss much but I can certainly forgo careful packing – and I didn't bring a swimsuit."

"Alright, alright . . . just start cramming into this bag, it's the easiest to carry."

"Did you bring flip-flops and sunscreen too?" Her grin was infectious and they both froze, hearts and minds suddenly melding together.

After an awkward moment, they left the room and slipped downstairs, paying the bill and using the rear entrance to leave, the concierge wore a confused smile watching them go.

One piece of good luck found them scrambling across the boulevard just as a public bus arrived and jumping on board they learned it went directly to Airport Terminal 1, leaving them with about a five-minute walk to their destination.

Questions were asked about the one bag and the duration of their stay, which Barbara deftly handled with a rosy blush and some practised charm. The first class tickets helped and they were directed to the Canopy Lounge on level 2.

"There's a restroom over by the stairs, I'll be right back."

"Can't you wait 'till we get to the lounge?" Keith pleaded.

"No, I can't. It's been long enough." She scurried across the concourse to the ladies room and Keith paced around outside, his eyes darting over every person that came by.

Across the concourse next to a newsstand Keith watched the big man wearing the untucked, patterned sport shirt and the tan slacks, turn away and speak into a phone. He moved away behind a pillar by the stairs and scanned the rest of the area more closely.

His neck hair bristled as another man, sunglasses, straw fedora, and folding up a newspaper, stood and headed his way.

"Ah, shit," Keith muttered and slid away toward the restrooms.

"Do you have to go now?" Barbara chuckled, almost bumping into him as she left the ladies room.

"No, but we have to. They're onto us." He grabbed her arm and hurried her to the stairs and down, almost knocking her over.

"Keith! What the- I can't run in this skirt like that. What happened?"

He spun her around a corner and peered back up the stairs. Nothing. Either very good or very bad, he thought.

"Two of them. In communication and watching for us."

"How do you know-?"

"Because after a brief phone call, they headed right for me."

"What can we do now? Departures are two floors up!"

"There must be other stairs, or an elevator" He looked around, deciding on a direction then another quick peek up the stairs, and dragged Barbara after him.