Connor hadn’t been named in the newspaper reports. Throwing it at Lukov was like trying to land a spotting round on a fire mission when you couldn’t see the target. Sometimes you overshoot. Sometimes you get lucky.

‘Chappie Connor?’ Lukov spluttered. ‘That piece of shit?’

‘Uh-huh.’

It was always amusing when Lukov thought someone else was deplorable. The Lord only knew what he thought other people said about him. He pressed his lips together into a tight smile and nodded, processing the information.

‘Connor worked for the Russians. No question. But he worked for the British, too.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Simple. Like I said. He worked for the British.’

‘When?’

‘When he was in the Irish Republican Army.’

‘And how would you …?’ Then the veil lifted. ‘Because you brokered his defection. You sold him back to the Russians.’ I looked at the note, and the empty glass of rakia, and into Lukov’s beady black eyes. ‘Wow.’ Lukov finished his cigarette. ‘And when he, uh, died, who was he working for then?’ I asked.

‘My friend,’ he said patiently, ‘now only the angels know who Chappie Connor really worked for, and when he worked for them.’ I could do nothing but accept the infuriating truth of that. ‘Sergei,’ he continued, ‘is not an angel.’

‘You got that right.’

‘But Sergei does know that the man you were sent to kill was not Chappie Connor.’

‘How so?’ It was uncomfortable being perplexed in his presence. He cocked his head to one side and grinned widely, relishing my ignorance.

‘OK. But first, Sergei has a question for you.’ His nose twitched and he fiddled with the cigarette packet. ‘When did Chappie Connor die?’

‘You know that,’ I said, wondering if in fact he did know that Connor had been dead at least a week before I got to him. There was every reason not to tell him anything; but once bargaining began, it was difficult not to tell him everything.

‘Da,’ Lukov agreed. ‘I do. But does Max McLean? Sergei Lukov doesn’t think he does.’

‘Sergei Lukov,’ I replied, ‘is very close to pissing me off.’ I caught hold of my temper and smiled again. ‘All right. You can have this for your twenty per cent. Connor was already dead when I got to the cottage. So, if there was another contract on him, they got there first.’

‘That,’ said Lukov, ‘is correct.’ He plucked another Gauloise from the packet and lit it carefully. ‘Chappie Connor was already dead. Da. Bravo. He was killed by the KGB.’

‘The FSB, Sergei.’ It was hard not to laugh at his slip-up. ‘The Cold War is long gone, my friend.’

‘Not in 1988 it wasn’t.’ His face was set, serious. Lukov wasn’t joking.

‘What, exactly,’ I asked him carefully, ‘do you mean?’

‘Sergei means,’ he said, ‘exactly what Sergei has said.’

‘That Chappie Connor was killed thirty years ago? By the KGB? That’s what you’re telling me?’