‘The money’s being handled by the Russians, but I don’t know where it’s from or who’s laundering it. Too big for the bratva.’ Frank took another sip of his drink. He was right: even if the Russian mafia’s ranks had been swollen by an oligarch, a billion dollars was out of their reach. ‘Could be a private bank. Could be a national bank, a government. All I know is that it’s being kept in cash and kept on the move.’

Commander Frank Knight had talked himself into a brief, stunned silence. At the bar the tourist finished his drink and braved the rain. The chill of the downpour outside fanned into the saloon as the door banged shut behind him. The barman cleared away his empty glass and came over to ask if we’d be interested in something to eat. Frank smiled and shook his head, and ordered me a whiskey instead.

‘For the road. And make it a Jameson. I’m not wasting money on your Johnnie Walker rubbish.’ Then: ‘Get yourself sewn up and keep your bloody head down.’ Frank checked his phone and buttoned his jacket. ‘Seriously, Max, do what you’re best at. Go dark and stay dark. I mean it. No comms whatsoever. I’ll be in touch when I’ve worked out who Goldilocks is.’

I touched my temple in a mock salute.

‘I’d concentrate on the bears if I were you, sir.’

He snorted and stood up and shrugged himself into his trench coat. He made to leave, and then stopped.

‘Oh, and Max?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I don’t have a wife to fuck. The only people getting screwed here are you and me.’ And then he, too, disappeared through the door and into the deluge.

I limped to the bar and drank the whiskey neat. It burned my throat but tasted good enough. There were a lot of questions to answer. Sure, I wanted to know about the cash. I wanted to know who the shooter was, too – and why he’d left the hundred-dollar bill behind. But, right then, there was only one question worth worrying about. If he was fast enough to sidestep every round I fired, and good enough to hit me through the holes my own bullets had opened up, why the fuck was I not already dead?

3

‘You’re a bloody mess all right, Mac Ghill’ean.’

I inhaled hard as Doc leaned across me and prodded the wound in my shoulder with a long metal grip.

‘What have you got yourself into this time?’ His tone was both concerned and offhand, talking to me as he always had done, with personal affection tempered by professional detachment. He was the only person I knew who could be simultaneously disdainful and caring. Maybe that went with the job. Or maybe he was just anticipating my lies.