‘Da. That is what Sergei is telling you.’

‘And how would you know that?’

My mind raced. It didn’t matter that Lukov had brokered his defection. Connor would have been given a new identity, a new life, a fireproof exit into the new Russia emerging in the thaw of Glasnost.

‘He was hit by a truck. In Sofia,’ he said with evident pride, patting his chest with his free hand. ‘Sergei’s home town. The driver of the truck,’ he continued, ‘was Sergei’s priyatel.’

‘Careless driver, your friend.’

‘That is the only problem with Bulgarians. They are very bad drivers. Very bad indeed.’ I felt a line of sweat break across my back. My mouth went dry. ‘Sergei has a better question for you. There are sixty million British. Which one ordered the hit? That is the real question, nali?’

‘Yes, Sergei. That is the question.’

‘And what is the answer?’

‘Are you buying now, too?’

‘Da.’ He scratched his head. ‘Why not?’

‘Ten per cent on the note.’ I smiled. Lukov sighed and raised his eyebrows.

‘Fifteen?’ he countered.

‘Done. King. General King. Director Special Forces. Off the books, of course.’

Lying to Lukov was a hard card to play. His face remained expressionless. Not even a flicker.

‘Of course.’

‘Though whether he knew it was Chappie Connor, I have no idea.’

‘And now you are in shit?’

‘No offence, but I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.’

‘Da. OK. That is the truth. So … You are sure you want to do this?’

‘Yeah. Sure. Just put the note on the market. See who bites.’

Lukov dragged on the Gauloise and blew his smile away for good with the smoke.

‘Let me be very clear with you. Sergei is a broker. He makes sales. And the way he makes them is to guarantee them. You put that note on the market, then you sell it. It’s merchandise, not bait. Sergei does not do your reconnaissance for you. You know the rules. If you want to sell, then you guarantee the sale, so I can.’ He dragged on the cigarette. The moment he stopped calling himself ‘Sergei’, I knew he was serious. ‘And what, Max McLean, do you have for collateral?’

I showed him my empty hands again and pulled the left-hand side of my overcoat away from my chest. With my right thumb and forefinger I produced Doctor David Mann’s passport from my inside pocket and dropped it on the table in front of him.

‘Me,’ I said. ‘I’m your collateral.’

Lukov picked up the passport. I picked up the hundred-dollar bill and put it back in my pocket.

‘It’s not you,’ he said. ‘It’s not your cover. Who is David Peter Mann?’