Marseille

3. Coffee For Two

The coffee shop was half full, the sound of pop music and steaming water washing over the beige room and mixing in with the mundane chatter of anxious commuters and impatient children. Ian McKenzie was casually annoyed by it all. He was also half asleep, the sensation in the back of his head reminding him of the espresso he had necked back fifteen minutes ago, the only thing keeping him from collapsing in his chair by the window. He needed a cigarette. He watched enviously as the teasing curls of smoke enveloped the young mother on the bench outside. He sniffed. He also had a headache, but had he drank last night? In all honesty, his life was more of a haze now, so used to the all-too-blurred lines between one day and the next. He reached out casually with his foot and brushed the briefcase on the floor. Still there. Paranoia. Ha! That was a new one. Didn't that sort of thing compromise every operation that it can get its hands on? McKenzie smiled dryly to himself and bit his thumb. A lean man with greying hair and a crumpled suit stood eating a croissant, glaring from behind his sunglasses. How original. The overcast London sky mirrored the dismal streets that the pigeons by the man's feet prowled around, litter-picking with ravenous intensity. McKenzie's view of the man was obscured by the plump waitress who cleared the cold mug from the table outside but he had seen enough. The metal stumps outside could have worked out what Frederick Fournier did for a living, or at least used to. Ian McKenzie repressed his guilty doubt. Fournier finished his pasty and walked briskly, perhaps a little too briskly, into the coffee shop. The bell tinkled softly as he entered and sat down.

"I assume there is a good reason for this," Fournier spoke gruffly, reaching into his pocket for the scrap of parchment he had written on two hours previously. "I do not enjoy intrusions into my life."

Ian McKenzie smiled apologetically.

"Would you like a coffee, Frederick? The espressos here are exceptionally average but they keep you awake, at least until you need another."

The Frenchman's expression did not soften. He took his sunglasses off but he had kept his coat on.

"Please get on with it, Minister McKenzie."

McKenzie caught the eye of a waitress in her early twenties as she walked shakily over with a tray in both hands. There were two drinks on there and she set them both down. The minister thanked the waitress and looked sheepishly at Fournier.

"Forgive me, I'm afraid I ordered two coffees anyway," He grinned. "You look like death."

Fournier exhaled in disbelief and ran a hand across his unshaven chin. The Minister persisted.

"Mr Fournier, I trust you keep up to date with world affairs?"

"I do."

"Then there is no pretense that you can hide under," McKenzie sat forward. "We need you."

Fournier shook his head and turned to look at the pigeons attacking the carcass of a sandwich on the floor.

"Forgive me, Minister but I am still confused," He looked the Minister in the eye and clasped his hands under the table. "Why should I leave my wife and my home for a man who was shot in a country I have never worked for, to help a failing Embassy in a country I have never cared for?"

Ian McKenzie took a long sip of his second espresso of the morning and stared at the Frenchman for a moment.

"Mr Fournier, are you aware that your government are currently holding this man in a safe house in Paris?" The minister took a file out of the briefcase by his feet and passed it across. Fournier furrowed his brow as he skimmed the brief. "I believe you know him."

Fournier sighed. The jangly music in the background changed to something a little smoother.

"I worked with him once, yes."