Neither buying nor selling anything personally, he was merely a key – albeit an expensive one – who unlocked the doors through which clients that could otherwise never be seen to meet could do business: the Americans and the Russians; the Russians and the Chinese; the Chinese and the Iranians; the Iranians and the Saudis; the Saudis and the Israelis; the Israelis and the North Koreans; the North Koreans and the Americans. The list was infinite; the cycle unending.

His stock in trade was not intelligence but information. What other people did with it, how they assessed it, categorized it, classified it, was apparently of no interest to him. Whether he took pleasure in pimping his wares, thrills from driving up or down the price, remained unclear. What was clear was that he took ten per cent of every transaction, in cryptocurrency, in advance. A multi-millionaire who lived and laughed like a hyena, he was, in his soul, a mirthless motherfucker, both loved and loathed by Vauxhall Cross, Langley and Moscow in turn. Though they all despised him, they all protected him, for the simple reason that they all needed him.

His world revolved around percentages, but his business was built on trust – and favours. Two years ago I’d saved him from a Chechen hit squad on his own doorstep and he’d been resentful ever since: he owed me, big time. He dug his left hand into his pocket and tossed a crumpled fifty-euro note on the table.

‘For you, Max McLean,’ he snorted, ‘and only for you, my friend, Sergei will wash your C-note at fifty cents on the dollar.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘Buyer’s market! Super!’

‘Yeah,’ I smiled. ‘Incredible. Really incredible. You know why?’

‘No, my friend. Sergei absolutely promises you he does not know why.’ He was still laughing. Tears formed at the edge of his eyes and moistened his cheeks. ‘Tell me, please.’

‘Because …’ I paused and reminded myself to be patient with him, tempting though it was to throttle him. ‘Because this isn’t a hundred-dollar bill.’

‘Ah, really, Max McLean, what is it then?’ His smile was slipping again.

‘It’s a death warrant.’

Lukov stubbed out his cigarette and dried his eyes and poured two more glasses of rakia. He lifted his high, and then with great and sudden solemnity proposed a toast.

‘To death.’ We clinked glasses again and swallowed the grape distillate. ‘But whose?’

‘Mine, nearly,’ I said truthfully. ‘The Brits want the bill, and so do the Russians. And they aren’t choosy about how they get it.’

‘My friend, there are a hundred and forty million Russians. Sergei knows. He’s met all of them.’ He licked the last of the rakia from the rim of his glass and lit another Gauloise. ‘Which Russian?’

I raised my eyebrows.