'So was Sean Dillon.'

'A good point. You've got extra credentials, though. You're joint owner of one of the biggest shipping firms out of Algiers, with Algerian nationality, and-thanks to that diplomatic passport from their Foreign Minister-you get waved through security at airports all over the world.'

'It's even better when I fly privately,' Holley told him. 'I get diplomatic immunity.'

'I'm so happy for you,' Roper teased. 'So Ferguson has asked me to send you the full details of the meeting at the Oval Office. I think you'll find it pretty grim. Will you look?'

'Of course I will, you daft bastard; I wouldn't miss it. You've got my email address from when we met at the Dorchester. Do the others know about that yet, by the way?'

'They've just been told on the Gulfstream at thirty-five thousand feet over the Atlantic. Miller was completely pragmatic about it; Dillon was mortified, more than anything else. He doesn't like being kept in the dark.'

'Well, that's just too bloody bad. Send that material and I'll read it when I get back to the barge. I must go now. I've got a business transaction waiting.'

'Straightforward, I hope?'

'When I say Albanian, what would you think?'

'God help you, my friend. Watch your back.'

Holley put his Codex in his pocket, thoroughly stimulated by the entire conversation. Heady stuff. As it started to rain, he ran through the gathering darkness towards Notre Dame, floodlit, incomparably beautiful in the night, and came to Quai de Montebello, illuminated by lamps, where barges were moored together. He boarded his own by a roped gangplank and went below.

The barge's previous owner had been a well-known fashion designer and it was extremely comfortable: panelled state room with comfortable sofas, shelves of books, a television, a long table in the centre. A small alcove at one end held the computer. The kitchen was opposite, small, but with everything he needed. The sleeping quarters and shower room were at the end of a passage in the bow of the barge.