But there is nothing to say to someone who thinks they are about to confront the man who murdered their father.

She leaned forward. My heart leapt in my chest. Her face suddenly illuminated: a disembodied, floating white mask. Lit from below, her cheekbones stood out as sharp as razors. And although her eyes were lost in shadow, I could see clearly enough to know, even after all these years, that I was not staring into the face of the girl I’d fallen in love with. I was looking into the eyes of a stranger.

But it wasn’t simply that I didn’t recognize her.

It wasn’t her at all.

‘Or should I call you “Max McLean”?’ My right hand moved towards where the pistol would have sat in my belt. Her lips lifted at their corners. ‘You are looking for this?’

She spoke clearly, slowly, and produced a white plastic bag as she did so – placing it on the desk in front of her with a metallic thud. She’d recovered the Grach from the cistern in the hotel bathroom.

The door clicked shut behind me. I turned my head. The woman I’d assumed was the faculty secretary had followed me into the room. She gripped a Glock 19 with both hands and held it close into her body, arms bent at the elbow – relaxed, but ready. She was too far away for me to take her down. I kept my hands still and visible, fingers spread.

‘You can call me whatever you like,’ I said, trying to suppress a rising anger. I felt foolish. Embarrassed. ‘Seems you’ve got all the cards, anyway.’

‘Far from it,’ she replied. ‘Take a seat.’ I stayed where I was, trying and failing to size her up in the harsh light of the lamp. ‘Please,’ she said, motioning towards a leather chair to one side of the desk. ‘If we wanted you dead …’ she paused, as if trying to remember the right words, ‘you would already be buried in Père Lachaise. Ken?’

‘So, you’re a friend of Lukov’s?’

‘Lo,’ she laughed. ‘Lo, lo, lo. Lukov had no friends. Except maybe you. Please. Sit.’

That little fucker, I thought.

I relented and walked to the desk, drew the chair back and sat down, racking my brains to remember what – exactly what – I’d told him. Never say anything, to anyone. There were rules for a reason. Not that anyone seemed interested in playing by them any longer. The woman and I sat an arm’s length apart, facing each other. Next to what I’d assumed was my Grach she placed an open pack of Marlboros and a new book of matches.

‘Help yourself.’

‘To which?’

‘As you like.’