I considered that for a moment.

For whatever reason, Frank was unresponsive. He’d either cut me off or been disconnected himself. His last order was to go dark. And releasing my photograph had forced me to go about as dark as it was possible to get. He might have turned me into a fugitive in the process, but depending on who had been sent to kill me, and why, I had to accept the wild possibility that Frank had actually done me a favour.

But I wasn’t going to get far working out who was after me, and what skin they had in the Benjamin game, while I was buried in a pitch-black grave with the whole city piled up on top of me. In any case, supposing Lukov was telling the truth, there were only three conclusions to be drawn: Frank had set me up; Frank had been set up himself; or, for whatever reason, Frank couldn’t trust me with the target’s real name. Working blind wasn’t unusual: turning up to find my target already dead and his killer lying in wait to ambush me was. Any way I looked at it, going on the run had either been the smartest thing I’d ever done, or the stupidest.

If Lukov had been lying, though, it meant someone had got to the bad Bulgarian first – someone who wanted to throw me off track. But for all his faults – which were legion – Lukov had been loyal to the deal. His deal. He owed me, and he’d known it; and despite his bravado he’d also known I could have – would have – killed him there and then if I’d thought he’d been trying to fuck me. He was good; but not that good. Nothing about his body language had suggested fear: if he’d been playing me, his eyes would have betrayed him. The same could not be said for Frank, always every bit the smiling executioner.

I blinked into the void.

I had no clear memory of this part of the tunnel, other than it ran with water and took a sharp bend to the right. After that the specifics of the route I’d trodden as a teenager faded from mind. As well as the unknown length of the tunnel ahead, there was another, logistical problem with pressing on: as soon as I submerged myself, I would also submerge my Greek passport and cash. They would dry, but the passport would be damaged. Using it was already dangerous enough. The more reason anyone had to check it, the more likely I was to fail check-in. I ran my hands through my pockets. No bags, no liner that would keep it dry. Then I found Lukov’s wallet.

I flicked the torch on again and combed through it. Cash; credit cards; French ID; a slip of paper with a woman’s name – Karolina – and a French cell phone number scrawled on it.