‘You’re already rich, Sergei. And besides, I thought the Russians loved you.’ I tried not to sound irritated, but I should have known that Lukov would want to milk this for all it was worth.

‘Da. They love me. All of them. But they don’t trust you, my friend. Not one of them. One day Max McLean is sending Russians to their grave; the next he wants to do business with them. That is strange, if you are a Russian.’ He looked up at me again, and waved his phone towards me. ‘It is strange if you are Sergei, too.’

I rolled my shoulders and steadied my breathing. Suddenly he looked old and worn out, a black-eyed weasel washed up in a Parisian bar. Maybe women just took pity on him. Or maybe there were some things I’d just never understand. I leaned in.

‘What’s strange, Sergei, is that my picture is in the fucking newspaper.’ I took another sip of whisky. ‘And anyway, I don’t have it on me,’ I lied. ‘So you can’t take a photograph now.’

As I sat back, Lukov shuffled his chair closer to the table as if we were connected to each other by an invisible cord. ‘But you could get it,’ he said, leaning closer to me. ‘Think of the money.’

‘Don’t fucking play me.’

‘Please,’ he begged. I scanned the bar. The tourists outside trooped in and filled the remaining table by the window. The barmaid laughed. The plongeur reappeared and cracked a dirty joke. ‘One more day. The Russians are serious. But they want a photograph. That’s all.’ His demeanour had changed. Happy-go-lucky Lukov sounded like the one thing he never was: desperate.

‘You promised them a photo, didn’t you?’ He hesitated, and then nodded. ‘And they’ve threatened you, haven’t they?’ He nodded again. That was serious. Only people who didn’t need Lukov threatened him. And everybody needed Lukov. ‘Who are they going to pay double for, eh?’ I leaned in again and brought my face close to his. ‘Benjamin Franklin or Max McLean?’

‘No,’ he swallowed hard. ‘I swear. The bill. Only the bill.’

Shielded from the rest of the bar by the bulk of his coat, our exchange went unnoticed by the other customers. He smiled and tried to reassure me the deal, his deal, was legit. But something wasn’t right. Lukov wasn’t right. I finished the whisky.

‘Which Russian is it,’ I asked him, ‘that wants to play ball?’

‘Sergei cannot tell you that. There are rules.’

‘Twenty-five per cent on the note.’

‘Please, do not ask me this.’

‘Fifty per cent. A name. A description. Anything.’

Nothing. Lukov tried not to look at me. But we were so close now our noses were almost touching.