‘Move. Your office. Now. Keep smiling or I’ll kill you here. Ponyal?’ He told me he understood. I turned to Baaz as we moved off towards the stairs. ‘Don’t go to the hotel. I’ll meet you on the beach, by the marina. OK?’ He nodded. ‘And ditch the turban.’ He nodded again and we went our separate ways.

‘Kneel down.’

He was trembling, sweat glossed his face. Close up, in the brighter light of his office, I could see him clearly for what he was: a mid-fifties, art-dealing, mafioso arsehole. I turned my head.

‘You too.’

The skinny brunette standing next to him got on her knees as well, high heels splayed out behind her, miniskirt halfway up her waist. She’d been bent over when we walked in, snorting a line of white powder off the desk. Now she was sobbing, eyes red and wet, begging me in hoarse, tear-soaked Russian whispers not to hurt her. She was pretty and still in her teens, and as high as a kite.

‘Listen,’ he pleaded in Russian. ‘You’re not the Shabak, so who are you? We can cut a deal. Is it money? I’ve got money. You can have money. My name is Avi, OK? Avi Landau. Everyone knows I have money. Sveta, show him where the safe is, honey. Give him the money.’

Sveta looked at me. I looked at Sveta and then behind her at what I guessed was a door to a walk-in closet.

‘Is the safe in there?’

She nodded. More sobbing. She buried her face in her hands, gagging on the phlegm clogging her nose and throat.

‘OK, get up and get in and lock the door. Don’t come out till the police tell you to.’ She looked at Avi for permission. ‘Move!’

She stood and then lurched forward, grabbing at the desk to steady herself. Keeping her back to me, she ran her fingers across the remnants of the powder, rubbing it into her gums, before stepping through the doorway. I turned back to Avi.

‘I got your number from a mutual friend. I’d like to do some business.’ His eyes widened. ‘I’ve got one hundred dollars,’ I continued in Russian. ‘It’s an unusual bill. A very sought-after issue. I’d like to know what I can buy with it.’

He dropped his hands slightly and held them out towards me, palms up.

‘OK, man, I don’t know who your friend is, but you got the wrong guy. You understand? If you want money, or a painting, we can talk, but …’

I cut him off with a round through the left hand. His thumb, forefinger detached. Blood splattered his face. Sveta screamed through the door. He doubled over, groaning through gritted teeth, forehead scraping the floor. Outside, the music throbbed and pulsed, louder and louder.

‘What can I buy with my hundred dollars, Avi?’

‘Fuck you.’