It is a weekday evening in a pub in London’s East End. Two friends chat over a pint of beer. Suddenly a man in a suit interrupts them. ‘Please follow me,’ he says, in a French accent. They leave the pub and are ushered into the back of a black vintage Citroën DS. In the front is a driver, also French, who welcomes them. ‘Wait one minute,’ he says, and he leaves the car as if he has forgotten something.