Crossing frontiers is my profession. Those strips of no-man’s land between the checkpoints always seem such zones of promise, rich with the possibilities of new lives, new scents and affections. At the same time they set off a reflex of unease that I have never been able to repress.
Deptford Dave looks after Ex and she looks after him.
Fame, Equipment, Contacts – the world’s your oyster there, really. She’s the money, he’s the means. No official channels, mind.
It’s alright – you’ve got a shooter in the boot.
You know full well Ex went all fierce and lezzie when her husband went down. People think there’s something going on between you, and there is. It’s just not what they think it is.
Planes, boats, itty-bitty cars and that. Yanks call them drones now.
You wouldn’t though, would you? Not with all them diseases.
It was the biggest fraud trial in French history. That’s when you found out about the flat in Nice, the girls in Beziers, those boys in Marrakech. The only cure for lies is truth.
People follow the money. Always have.
You were born here.
The brass at Sophia-Antipolis hadn’t a clue about the artefacts. He’d just been using company funds to pay for them, that’s all. Now they want in. Forget it.