Zero two hundred. It had been five hours since I’d said goodnight to Baaz. Before going upstairs to sleep, I’d made sure he was checked into the room next to mine, at the very end of the corridor. There was only the roof above us; below his room were the kitchen and the corridor to the bar. There was no sign of anyone occupying the rooms opposite. January was not the most popular month to visit Israel.

I sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off, and listened. Outside, from the beach below, the gentle rasp of surf on sand and, when the wind picked up, a faint pinging of halyards against masts in the marina. The TV set in the other room next to mine had died down after midnight. And from Baaz’s room there was only silence. I concentrated on my breathing and cleared my mind.

There was only one thing to do.

I stood up and dressed fully and gathered up what few possessions I had. I tucked the SIG into the back of my jeans. Lightfoot, I stepped out into the hallway. Everything was still. No cameras. No staff except for the night porter downstairs. I slipped the spare key-card into the port on Baaz’s door. The lock whirred and the LED shone green above the handle. I swung myself around the frame as quickly and quietly as I could, leaking as little light into his room as possible.

My eyes adjusted to the gloom. The windows were tight shut, the air rank with fried food and sweaty feet. Baaz had fallen asleep clutching his laptop. White light from the screen saver illuminated his face. Stretched out on his back, mouth open, snoring softly, he lay surrounded by sheets of hand-scrawled notes and strings of numbers. His hair was unfurled, masses of it, spilling over the pillow and keyboard. Next to him, on the bedside table, the remains of a half-eaten veggie burger. I stepped closer. He looked like a child.

Max, I thought, he is a child.

I drew the SIG carefully and cocked the hammer. I’d rather have had a .380. I’d rather not have to do it at all. I don’t like the act of killing. And no professional likes collateral damage. But Baaz had made himself a player. And, I told myself, in comparison to what the Russians would do to him when – not if – they caught up with him, a bullet now would be a mercy. What I’d said about his auntie was harsh, but it was true. I was a single, isolated target. He was the node in a network of innocents. Anyone prepared to kill Lukov for that hundred-dollar bill wouldn’t hesitate to wipe out Baaz’s entire family if they thought it would get them closer to what they wanted.