The weather had improved drastically since that morning; Paris was now bathed in the first rays of Spring sunlight, and the gale had been reduced to a mere breeze. He could only hope that was a positive omen for what was about to come. It was fast approaching two o clock, and he was in the back of a police van parked a couple of streets away from the Champ de Mars. The sound of radio messages from various officers stationed around the park confirming that they were in position filled the small space, as he prepared himself for his task. Sandra's strategy had been a success; she had taken both of the notes to the police to prove her claim that they were being blackmailed, and that they were in imminent danger. His enquiries into Felsham's will, however, had been less fruitful. Although he was a DAC, he couldn't produce any reason to view the document that related to a current case, or at least any case that the Met was dealing with.

He had volunteered to be the one to deposit the bag which he currently held in his hands, a plain plastic carrier bag from a local supermarket, filled with decoy notes. It felt right that it should be him. A screen opposite him displayed a CCTV image of the park; the camera was poised to capture an image of whoever collected the cash from the waste bin, a piece of evidence which would be used in court. If it got to that stage. He had faith in the police, but after he and Sandra had foolishly been lured into a sense of false hope, he had learnt to expect the unexpected.

"Rob?" His musings were interrupted by Sandra's voice. He looked up to see that she was stood in front of him, accompanied by an officer, a tall olive-skinned man with dark brown eyes.

"Sorry, I was miles away then."

She smiled reassuringly, although there was concern in her eyes. "This is Lieutenant Henri Moreau. He's in charge of the operation. We've worked together before."

"Pleased to meet you," Henri extended his hand to Rob, smiling gently, yet somehow his expression remained one of seriousness, as though he were mentally recapping the plan for the operation. It was clear that Sandra trusted him, and he could see why.

"Likewise."

"You know what you have to do, Rob, it is straight forward." The French officer stated, his accent only slight. "Take the bag, drop it in the bin near the fountain and walk away. As soon as you reach the base of the Eiffel Tower, there will be officers waiting for you who will take you back to the station. The last thing we want is anyone following you. We will wait here and see if anyone arrives to collect the money. If they do, we will apprehend them. You have nothing to fear. Remember to act normally, and blend in with the public, just as though you are putting litter in the bin."

He nodded, remembering the occasion when he had been the one delivering that speech, years ago now, to a young woman who had been blackmailed for money. So this was how it felt, being on the other side. A victim rather than an officer.

"It's almost time, are you ready?" Sandra asked gently.

"Yes."

She placed a hand on his shoulder. "We'll get him, I promise."

"I know." He met her gaze. He wasn't sure whether he was just imagining it, but he thought he could see the same doubt reflected in her eyes. He ignored it, mentally shaking himself, clearing all thoughts other than what he had to do from his mind.

Standing up steadily, he opened the door of the van and stepped outside, his eyes struggling to adjust to the bright sunlight as he was suddenly immersed in the hectic crowd of shoppers and tourists. He walked to the end of the street and took a right turn, feeling as though he was being guided by something else other than his own volition. The chatter of the people, the smell of car exhaust fumes, the weight of the bag in his hand, everything seemed distanced from him. As he approached the Champ de Mars, Henri's instructions echoed in his thoughts. Take the bag. Drop it in the bin. Walk away. It was simple.

He was in the park now, he could smell the trees, he could hear children playing. He found the fountain quickly- it was the centrepiece of the open space, a small idyll amidst the bustle of the city centre. The sound of the clear water rushing from the jets and falling into the pool below relaxed him somewhat, as he walked over to the rubbish bin, doing his best to appear as though he was just another tourist.

There. It was done. He had placed the bag in the bin, and was now heading towards the tower, perhaps at a slightly quicker pace than most, but at least he was restraining himself from running to the safety of the officers waiting for him. Determinedly, he kept his vision focused on his goal, not bothering to glance behind him to see if anyone had retrieved the bag. After what felt like an age, he was greeted by two people, a male and a female, who introduced themselves as Majors Boucher and Rousseau, and escorted him to an unmarked car. They reached the station within mere minutes.

He was safe.

Yet, again, they had arrived at the same outcome, reduced to repeating the same thing that they had been forced to do throughout this whole situation- wait.

A/N: Ten super politics nerd points for you if you know who Major Rousseau is named after ;-)