Original subtitles

His partner didn't escape. I let him go.

I didn't see much point in hanging onto him.

The same way there wasn't much point

when I saw you this morning

and telling me that two men had tried to kidnap Teresa?

Did someone get lost?

Apparently so.

Mmm.

Huh?

Psst!

Anybody needs me, I'll be in the pool.

No, you won't. Basam drained all the water out.

- What? - He's out there right now

scrubbing the plaster with some smelly chemical.

What the hell for?

Something about dead bodies and bad juju.

Hi.

Good morning, Henri.

Can I fix you some breakfast?

No, no, no, thank you. I'm just retracing my steps.

- I lost my notebook. - You mean the little black book

with the names of all your girlfriends?

It's brown.

Do you remember the last time you had it?

The other day when the body was, you know--

Fucking up my pool.

- Have you seen it? - No.

Did you write your name inside?

No. - Next time you really should.

Yes, good idea. I will.

You know, I can write your name in for you...

since your handwriting is a bit slipshod.

Really? You'd do that?

Of course.

How about later we go into town,

and I'll help you pick out a new one?

- That sounds lovely. - Okay, how about the two of you

get the fuck out of here before I chuck my breakfast?

Someone's in a mood because they can't swim in their piscine.

Bye-bye. Au revoir. A bientôt.

Let me just go up and change.

I certainly can't go in my pajamas, can I?

Just wait here. I'll be two minutes.

Great.

Yeah. I already know what I'm gonna wear.

I can't wait.

It's not her I'm worried about.

If only that were enough.

Mademoiselle.

- Merci. - Merci.

Oui.

Patrice. It's Spade.

I found the kid.

Don't ask me how.

You got a pen? Write this down.

Just past the abandoned train station,

there's that dirt track that goes into the woods.

Take the car as far as you can

and then walk to the lake.

I'll meet you at the boat ramp.

Oh, and, uh, Patrice, bring a gun.

Philippe could be somewhere hiding.

Oh, dear.

Well, this is indeed embarrassing.

I saw two of you in the car.

You thought you did.

We only pretend to be idiots.

You do a great job.

Still, you had your suspicions.

I had my somethings.

So, what are you-- MI5, MI6?

Tomato, to-mah-to.

So...

You mind putting that down?

Hmm. Sorry.

So...

just to clarify,

you move in next door, you bug my house.

I'm guessing you're not trying to steal the secrets

to my superb wine.

- Mildly superb, I'm afraid. - Philippe?

He's not all that superb either.

The kid? Getting warmer.

Why would I know anything about him?

- Colder. - Teresa?

Ding, ding, ding.

Why would she know anything about him?

Our work relies less on knowledge than proximity.

Sister Angelique?

Imagine our surprise.

We follow one of the kidnappers to a convent.

She doesn't have the child in question.

Isn't actually a nun. So what is she doing there?

Communing with Jesus?

Taking a well-earned break from fornicating?

Waiting. Watching.

Doing what we would do in her situation.

But, again, why there?

So we look at who's in residence.

We start with the good sisters.

But outside the Mother Superior,

whom, I must admit, has a rather colorful background for a nun...

You haven't met some of the nuns I have.

Alas, none of them revealed any connection

to our Algerian wayfarer.

So next we look at the children.

And we discover one young lass who's a bit different

- from the others. - That's an understatement.

One young lass whose mother was an American,

a convicted murderer and antiquities thief,

and whose father is an officer

in the French Army intelligence service

and just so happens to be--Fucking sociopath.

The other kidnapper.

Oh, sure. That, too.

Naturally, we became very interested in her.

You wanna recruit her,

I'm sure she'd jump at the chance.

As well as the shadowy man

we observed delivering envelopes full of cash

to the convent each week.

Nothing shadowy about it.

I was just doing what I was paid to do,

which is to make sure that young lass was taken care of.

A little above and beyond, don't you think?

Or is your karmic debt really that substantial?

You're the spy.

Let's just say your time in San Francisco

made for its own colorful reading.

Then you'll know that I don't want any part of this.

A little late for that, don't you think?

In my experience, a little late usually refers to a lot dead.

So no, I'm happy to step aside.

Well, as they say in Hackney,

in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh.

The flesh in this case being the boy.

You've seen his work, I presume?

The numbers.

Is that all you think they are?

I don't care what they are,

not after I come home and find a dead soldier

clogging my pool filter.

And somehow the problem found you.

And now I want it to lose me.

I want you and Mummy to stop popping up in the vineyard.

And I want Teresa left alone

before she gets shot by someone's bad aim.

Understood?

You are being exceptionally clear.

Good. Very good.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a swim.

I gathered from all that "okay, good, very good"

that you grasped your current situation.

That is the second time in two days

that some fucking asshole

got the drop on me.

"The drop." So bloody colorful.

That was tae kwon do.

I spent some time in Korea, the North.

Okay, well done... I guess.

Hm!

What's your rush, dear fellow?

Join us for tea, won't you?

Mr. Spade?

The nanny snuck off with the boy three years ago.

She worked for an Egyptian family

whenever they'd visit Algeria.

Mind you, this is a very large, very wealthy family,

with business interests around the world,

and yet there has been not a noise, nor a sound,

nor hint from them about one of their children being abducted.

- Maybe he wasn't one of theirs. - He wasn't.

From what we can glean, the boy had been passed around

from one high-ranking family to another,

since the day he was born.

Two years ago, we received word out of Tunisia

that an Algerian woman was attempting

to sell a child of great import. Digestive?

An adoption was arranged in Britain with a Saudi national,

but something went amiss.

The woman never showed up, and the child disappeared again.

A full year would pass before there was

another sighting of him-- this time in Algeria.

No better place to hide than in the middle of a war.

Which meant the stakes had risen

to an entirely new level of intensity.

I know her.

You knew her sister--

the nanny, Angelique, the woman pretending to be a nun.

This woman goes by Gazala.

- The uniform? - FLN.

She's fairly high up the chain in the rebel army.

We think the kidnapping was her idea.

We're not exactly certain why.

Perhaps to raise money for her comrades,

or in exchange for some POWs.

Why would the French agree to that?

Because they want the boy as badly as everyone else.

Because of the numbers thing?

Well, we have come to

the proverbial fork in the road, Mr. Spade.

- Have we? - Yes.

Whether to reveal all that we know...

...or simply finish our tea.

Meaning...

can we trust you?

As far as it goes, and with the usual provisos and caveats,

but you know that.

Simply put, the boy can break codes.

Any code, instantly.

He's also able to create his own unique cryptograms,

what you call "scribblings."

Now I'm calling it bullshit.

Not according to Tzedek, the CIA, the KGB,

and, of course, our chief, back in London.

- You left out the Church. - Hm, which one?

Name a religion, they all want the child.

- Start with Rome. - Yeah, those wretched cardinals.

They believe Zayd can prove the existence of God mathematically,

and they would, of course, prefer their god

to be the one the lad's numbers add up to.

- You don't say. - Some Shiite scholars...

have come to the conclusion that the boy is

the Mahdi, a spirit close to Allah,

who can disappear and reappear whenever he chooses.

Evidently, this particular Mahdi's arrival

could announce the end of times.

Of course, the Sunni ulamas

believe the child has come to Earth

to restore the purity of the faith.

And whilst we all wish him good luck,

we're fearful some in the FLN plan to murder him.

Not particularly religious, I guess.

No. For the FLN,

a martyr of any stripe could come in handy.

Nothing like getting everyone's anger

pointed in the same direction.

Exactly, and until now, there've been so many factions

shooting at one another, including the OAS in the middle,

shooting at everybody, that some sort of divine casualty

could unify the country faster than any bullet.

The fact is, Mr. Spade,

that whatever gifts this child may possess

can be used as evidence that he may very well be the one

for whom so many have waited.

"May very well be" is a long way from "is."

Why would anyone believe this hokum?

I mean, the world's gullible, but not that gullible.

Many thousands of years

of human history to the contrary,

or perhaps I've missed the moment when humans began

parsing the difference between knowing and believing.

Neither of which are necessary when creating a myth,

which is exactly what some Algerians hope

to create around this child,

one that could, amongst other things,

thwart Morocco's border grab to the West.

So far, I've heard a lot about Sunnis,

and Shiites, and Moroccans,

but neither of you have mentioned Philippe Saint-Andre.

How has he found his way into the middle of all this?

That one's easy. Her.

I imagine Sergeant Saint-Andre forgot all about his orders

to terminate a high-level FLN assassin,

when he saw this beautiful face in his crosshairs.

Aren't you forgetting that the one thing

Philippe Saint-Andre loves more

than a beautiful face is money?

Most assuredly, the FLN are paying him very well.

Oh, I'm sure they think they are, but if I'm Philippe

and I know that this kid is on the top of the wish list

for every rebel, spook, and priest,

I'm thinking it's a seller's market.

I can make a lot more

by offloading him to the highest bidder.

And that's what's happening.

Of course, he has the problem with Gazala.

Again, if I'm Philippe, a bullet solves that problem.

Not this time.

No one has actually seen the child.

No photos of him exist.

Gazala is the only one who can authenticate his identity

to a potential buyer.

So Philippe needs her.

One assumes that each believes

they have a deal with the other,

and one can also assume

that each has a plan to kill the other

once the deed is done.

Either way, you can understand our urgency

behind removing this child from such danger.

Sure, so he can break codes for you

instead of anyone else.

Tomato, to-mah-to.

Well, this has all been very enlightening.

I'm afraid we can't let you go.

I wasn't asking for permission.

My dear Mr. Spade, please, don't take offense,

but despite your stellar past,

these many years in Bozouls

have left you both impetuous and clumsy.

Therefore, we cannot allow you to jeopardize

what has been over two years of meticulous tradecraft.

And I can't allow you to...

The "Kato" thing worked once.

I propose a relationship.

Hold that thought.

Okay, don't be mad. We need to--

- Are they moving? - What?

Are they pointing a gun, anything like that?

No, they're just standing there.

Good.

I'll drive.

Don't pout.

That George guy, does he look like he knows kung fu?

Kung fu?

- No. - Yeah.

I didn't think so either.

That little bitch.

Hmm?

Marguerite?

Mm.

What's in there?

Nothing. The place is empty.

But Claude said--It's a dead end.

Should we get a drink?

Really?

Just one, a very small one.

We're going to a bar?

That's where the drinks are.

- Can I smoke? - No.

Can I drive? Definitely not.

I gotta figure out what to do with her.

The convent's not opening anytime soon,

and she doesn't want to go back, anyway.

But if you could, that's where you would leave her?

At the convent?

Where else is there?

How could someone so smart be so stupid?

She doesn't belong anywhere but with you.

Me? No, she hates me.

Maybe because you left her at a convent.

I was looking for advice, not a lecture.

But you need a lecture.

You know exactly what to do with her,

you just don't want to...

What is the expression?

Own up to it.

- Own up to what? - To the obvious.

The thing you avoid talking about.

You know, you sound like a gal I knew back in 'Frisco

who talked in a loop-de-loop.

She'd never say a color was red, only that it wasn't blue.

Why don't you just say what you want to say?

I am. I have been. For years now.

Each time, you suddenly go deaf.

You're not the one who has to clean the puke out of the car.

Samuel knows how to put a drop of gin

in a tall glass of tonic.

Maybe she should stay with you.

You seem to understand her so well.

Okay, let's pretend you really are an idiot,

and I will put this in your own words.

Many years ago, Bridget walks out of prison

and into your loving arms.

You whisk her off to a motel and fuck her one last time,

only to realize that the love,

or whatever you two shared, was all gone.

And before you can tell her, she's run off to Turkey,

where she meets Philippe,

and you never see her again.

That's the story, yes?

Yes.

But where in that epic tale

do you hear that I'm a father?

Hm, so we are not so dumb after all.

You honestly think that's never occurred to me?

My point is only that you won't face reality.

I won't, because reality doesn't make any sense.

Why not?

Teresa was 4 years old when I picked her up in Turkey.

So?

I hadn't seen Bridget in six years.

And can you make the difference

between a 4-year-old and a 6-year-old?

I can read a birth certificate.

Bridget sounds like someone

who knew how to get a document forged.

Look at her.

Does she seem 14 to you?

She's 15.

Does she seem 15 to you?

Yeah.

15 going on 50.

Exactly.

Look at her.

Okay.

♪ Knock it off.

I'm already in a foul mood.

Let's not make it any worse.

I'm a private investigator in Bozouls to find Zayd.

Get in line. Zayd?

I'm not what you think I am, Monsieur Spade.

I can't imagine that a man of your particular origins

is upset about body count.

I make decisions and I live by them.

For better or for worse.