Julianne had grown up around money, or in her family’s case, the memory and the carefully contrived appearance of money, and she recognised the real thing when she rubbed up against it. Shah had done very well for himself. She was happy for him.

The wine cellar was indeed a cellar, rather than merely a temperature- and atmosphere-controlled room crammed into a downstairs or underground living area as an afterthought. The four of them – Jules, the two old army pals and Shah’s lawyer, the displaced pantomime Englishman – proceeded in single file down a narrow staircase that doglegged back on itself before reaching a heavy steel door. This Shah opened by tapping a code into a wall-mounted keypad.

‘You must have some exceptionally good wine stored down here, my friend,’ Downing said.

‘I do,’ replied Shah. ‘To be truthful, I do not care for it myself. But then, I am the only man in the house, and I’m sure Miss Julianne will tell you that the ladies do enjoy a nice glass of wine.’

‘In a climate like this,’ Jules chimed in, ‘I can imagine I’d have a glass permanently in hand. Need to drink it fast, though. It would lose its chill very quickly.’

Hidden bolts clunked somewhere inside the heavy steel door before it whispered open at a touch. Soft lighting flickered on inside the cellar, dimly at first, before warming and brightening. As they trooped in, she saw immediately that Shah had built not just a wine cellar, but a safe room. Climate-controlled refrigeration units lined both main walls, with red wines marching away to the left and white wines to the right. In the centre of the room, a solid steel bench presented a formidable barrier to any intruders trying to rush into this subterranean haven, just as it offered excellent cover for people who might be sheltering here. Especially if those people armed themselves from the gun rack positioned against the rear wall. Julianne was impressed.

‘Nice set-up,’ Pappas agreed.

‘A panic room?’ asked Downing. ‘With a well-stocked bar. Commendable combination.’

‘I prefer to think of it as a stronghold,’ said Shah. ‘It has secure and dedicated communication links, separate to the lines for the rest of the house. It is defended. Although, without prior warning, it would have been of no use last week in the bomb blast.’

‘So, down to business,’ said Pappas. ‘Do you have any beer down here?’

Shah chuckled and moved down to a door at the very end of the line of fridges that held his white wine collection. ‘I have Bintang,’ he called back. ‘From one of the last shipments out of Jakarta before the insurgents burnt down the brewery. Savages. Mr Downing, Miss Jules, would you prefer beer or something more feminine?’