I lifted a newspaper pinned by its spine to a wooden baton hanging from a hook under the bar. When I looked up, Lukov was sitting next to me, grinning.

‘You see?’ he said, directing his pitch-black stare at the bosomy beauty behind the bar. ‘Incredible.’

‘You’re late.’

‘And you,’ he said, reaching into his coat pocket, ‘are a free man.’ He slipped me the Greek passport. I covered it with the newspaper and thumbed the pages. It was masterful: worn, but not battered; old, but well within date; clean, but with holiday stamps.

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I appreciate it.’

I looked at the photo page. He’d taken two years off me, too. Maximilianos Ioannides was born in 1977.

Lukov ordered a demi pression.

‘Over there,’ he said, pointing to a table by the entrance I’d just come in through. ‘More comfortable for lunch.’

I followed him to the table and sat with my back to the wall. Lukov faced me. Neither of us spoke until the waitress had put his beer down in front of him and retreated behind the bar.

‘So?’ I said.

‘So, you asked Sergei to sell for five million. Da? To be honest, Sergei thought that was a bit, uh, trop. But, my friend, you are going to get more than you bargained for. Of that I am sure. The world and his wife and his whore and her lover want your Benjamin.’ I sipped the whisky and said nothing. ‘They all want it.’

I looked around the bar. The tourists were still smoking outside. The lone drinker still nursed his demi.

‘Who’s they?’ I asked him. It was a question I’d been asking myself a lot, recently.

‘Everybody. The Americans want it because the Israelis do; the British, because it’s you. Even the fucking Lebanese want it because they’re shit-scared of being screwed by the Israelis.’

‘What about the Russians?’

‘Not yet,’ he grinned. ‘But not nyet. There is an auction.’ His black eyes flashed at the thought of it. ‘I think they will offer big money, Max McLean. Maybe double.’ He fiddled with his beer glass. ‘But they want to see it.’

‘No way, Sergei. They have the serial number and they’ve seen Mann’s passport, right? That’s enough.’

‘Relax,’ he countered. ‘It’s no big deal.’ He removed his phone from his coat pocket. ‘Just a photograph. That’s all. You keep the note. They see the note. They see the, how do you say, inscription? Everyone is happy. Nali?’ I shook my head. ‘Please.’ His shoulders slumped. ‘Sergei is trying to do you a favour.’ Lukov blew out hard and rubbed his scalp.

‘Is that a fact?’

‘OK,’ he conceded. ‘Sergei is trying to do himself a favour. They see the photograph, the price doubles.’ He took a long pull on his beer. ‘Fifteen per cent of ten million. They’ll close tonight. And then, my friend, we are both rich.’