It was only a quarter of an hour after Mozzie had left that Neal heard a knock on the door. He smiled faintly as he could recognise the Iambic pentameter in its rhythm. He unlatched it without a second's hesitation. He raised his arms abruptly to his side as the cold steel of a gun pressed against his forehead. The man holding it was dressed like a bodyguard - black suit over a white shirt, grey tie and black shades to hide his eyes. A wire was visible near his right ear.

"My partner will be worried if I disappear suddenly." Neal had learnt long ago the tact with which he should handle these kind of situations.

"Leave a note," replied the man dismissively, tightening his grip on the firearm while Neal did as he was told. He was grabbed roughly by the arm as he locked the door and stuck the note on it. He cursed himself for not having the forethought of entrusting Mozzie with the spare key.

As they reached the rear entrance to his apartment, the gun was hastily stowed but his captor did not let go of his hand. The force with which he was being held was beginning to get painful. Mercifully, a black sedan was parked right in front and he was shoved into the backseat. Not a soul was around to witness the scene, Neal noted. He relaxed into the plush leather seat of the Mercedes S-class. Wherever he was being taken to, at least he would be going in style.

He brooded over the fact that he could see exactly where he was being taken, which was a bad sign because that meant there was a possibility that he may not be coming back alive. His phone was on the dining table in his apartment. He was desperately trying to think of a way to leave a trail for Mozzie to follow when he felt the car slow as it coasted into Avenue Gabriel. The journey had lasted only about 20 minutes, Neal estimated, when they halted in front of Restaurant Laurent. Another man dressed the same as the one in the driver's seat opened the door for him.

"Walk," he whispered in his ear, making the threat clear in his voice. The curiosity that consumed Neal made him obey without hesitation. It seemed that he really was going to have lunch, at a Michelin-starred restaurant, no less. If this was going to be his last meal, he was disappointed that he was not dressed for the occasion.

He was led up to the garden terrace, which was a secluded setting tucked away behind hedges, next to a charming fountain. The scent of the blooming summer flowers accosted his senses and, for a moment, he forgot his predicament and thought about what a good choice he had made to settle down in Paris, which had no lack of beautiful places.

A fair skinned, impeccably dressed man eyed him from across one of the tables. He sat far away from the rest of the occupied tables and looked like he was halfway through an enjoyable meal. There was no doubt in Neal's mind that he had been brought here to meet this guy. The man ushering him walked away as he approached the table, leaving the two of them alone. Neal knew him well enough, and so did a lot of people in France. As he took the chair opposite this much loved public figure and contract thief, the pieces of the puzzle came together in his head, but he certainly had not seen this coming.