Grant waited impatiently for the rental car to be brought around. The drive to Port-Saint-Père was about four hours and it was already evening. When the car arrived, he left the airport then pulled over to consult his map again. Four hours with a couple of stops, he calculated. He allowed five hours, which would put him there around eleven or so, and decided he would rather arrive in the morning to do his hunting.

He drove to the outskirts and found a bed and breakfast that would be perfect for the night - and untraceable, he believed, only giving a passing concern to the SIS.

♟♟♟♟♟

The flight was business class and Morrisey was grateful for the free drink. Everything had happened so quickly, his normal bodily demands had suspended but were now awake and clamouring. His stomach growled and he glanced, across the aisle to see if it had been noticed.

"They have packaged sandwiches if you can't wait until Rennes."

"A few more of these would be nice." He tapped his empty glass on the fold down table.

"Better eat then, I'm not carrying you, Morrisey."

"Maybe you could tell me just what you are going to do." A member of the flight crew came by and took his glass before he could ask about food.

"Stop Grant."

"Oh, right, well, and then maybe we could grab a bite after." He turned in his seat to face her. "Mallory, he's the Director of an allied nation's intelligence agency. Do you really think he's just going to come riding up to Felix's house, guns blazing."

"He's also the father of a young child, whose mother he forced into this spying business." She hissed in a whisper, then turned to look out the window. Morrisey lay his head back, letting his body relax. What's the use? He thought.

The seat belt sign came on, and the announcement for arrival in Rennes was made by an overly cheery captain. He sat up, glancing at a composed and stubborn Mallory.

"Mal, I just want to say--"

She held up a hand and looked at her phone. "He rented a car at the airport and left right away. If I'm right, we've made up our two hours."

"You still have to find where Felix lives. How are you going to do that? Grant probably already knows."

As they departed the plane, Mallory was pulled aside for a scolding about using her phone during landing. She apologized, then showed the Captain her SIS card.

"National security, Captain. And we know it's just precautionary, not critical."

"You hope." The reply was terse and accompanied by a stony glare.

Morrisey followed her down the steps to the tarmac, shaking his head. "I hope we don't get him going home."

"I have more on my mind than that. There's the rental agency, let's get the car."

"You're not planning on driving there tonight I hope. We haven't eaten since this morning and it's night for Pete's sake. By the time we get there nothing will be open."

Mallory ignored his protests and chose a car - a Vauxhall like the one she drove in England.

"Not this thing again! Couldn't you at least get--"

"I like this thing, and it's SIS budget, so just zip it." She wheeled the car out of the airport and slowed down, thinking. "Okay. We'll grab a bite and a place to stay, and leave early in the morning. There's a good chance Grant might be doing the same thing. He'll want to be fresh and alert for whatever he has planned . . . don't you think?"

"Don't know." His reprimand faded, and he sighed. "The Grant I thought I knew wouldn't even do this himself. But it makes sense. He won't want to operate having had no sleep."

♟♟♟♟♟

Grant arose early. Washed, shaved, and dressed, then down for the breakfast part of his bed and breakfast. His hostess, a plumpish woman, sporting dark hair laced with grey, and apple cheeks, smiled him to a seat in her dining room. Coffee was poured without asking and breakfast described in tattered English. Grant responded in French, and the nose between the apple cheeks pinched at the sound of the Québécois version of her language. He reverted to English for both their sakes.

A delightful meal of omelette, crisp bacon and a croissant saw him into his rental and onto the A11motorway, headed for Port-Saint-Père. He went over the problem again as he drove, regretting, wistfully, the action needed. Ava was now an obstacle to be removed. The loss of her position as a mole in The Guild would be missed, but these things cropped up in his business all the time, and there was no room for sentiment. As well, the child, whom he'd never seen, would also fall into that category.

He checked his navigator and decided Le Mans would be his first stop, a little over two hours away.

♟♟♟♟♟

The small tourist hotel by the airport had served as both meal and accommodation for the one night. Mallory had spent her time on the phone, instructing the school in England to contact the mother of Cindy Carter, Ava's child's alias, and tell her to contact the number she gave.

"Will they do that?" Morrisey asked, eating the last dinner roll from the cart in their room.

"It was set up at the beginning. The school doesn't know their real names, and the contact number for Ava is a burner she keeps safe for emergencies. They'll call her and she'll call me."

"Does Grant know about that?"

"No way. That was understood from the start. She doesn't want him anywhere near the daughter."

"So, we wait for a call." He pushed the cart out into the hall, patting his stomach.

"Not here. We're going to Port-Saint-Père. This could be a rescue mission, Morrisey - a dangerous one."

"You're telling me? My deranged boss, the head of a criminal cartel, a mole . . . where's 007 when you need him?"

She began gathering her things, and shoving them into her carry-all, indicating he should do the same. "We need to be on the road."

"How long to this Port place again?"

"Should only be a couple of hours."

"Where do you think Grant is?"

They left the room and checked out at the reception, a practised smile from the desk clerk, and a weak wave out the door.

"It's about 4 hour or so drive from Paris," she said, climbing into the car when it was brought around, "he got there around 7. So assuming you're right about him wanting to rest and leave this morning, my guess is he might be close to Le Mans - I'm presuming he took the A11."

Morrisey dug out his phone and poked at it, cursing. "Shit, I don't have roaming for France."

"Who do you want to call?"

"Nobody, I was going to see how far Le Mans was from us."

"About 1-1/2 to 2 hours drive."

"So we're ahead of him."

"If he waited until this morning." Mallory signalled a merge, something unheard of in France, and increased their speed on the highway. "We'll be there in a couple of hours."

"Does that include a snack break or fuel?"

"How did you people ever help us win the war?" She smiled over at him.

"Skill and dexterity - not that it changed much."

"Is that a touchy topic?"

He stared at the repetitive scenery flashing by, considering his reply. "I had a lot of family in that war. All gone now - maybe just as well considering where we are today."

"That's a little harsh, Morrisey."

"You think so? Are you aware that there are currently over 50 conflicts going on, with over 90 countries involved outside their own borders? That's the most since World War II." He sighed and flapped a hand. "What did we change? What is it all for? And look at us. We're even fighting among ourselves."

Several kilometres passed in silence, and then Mallory pulled into the parking area of a grocery store and restaurant. "Let's grab a bite and some nibbles for the road."

He nodded and climbed out of the car, waiting for her to come around. "If this pit stop is because of my rant back there, it wasn't necessary."

"I thought maybe it was your stomach again," she teased, taking his arm, "We all rant about something from time to time."

"I think it's this business with Grant. I feel betrayed somehow . . . used."

"I know the feeling. It's what we do, Morrisey. It's the business we're in."

They went inside and found a table by the window, ordered some coffee and sandwiches, and rinsed away his doldrums. A few other travellers came and went, and they both checked their watches at the same time, laughing.

"Great minds think alike." She said.

"Hmm, and fools seldom differ."

"I think I prefer the wisecracking Canuck to this morose bloke I seem to have picked up."

"Me too. Sorry." He held the door as they left and got back in the car.