Friday 20 June, 9.10 p.m. St Pauli, Hamburg.

As MacSwain held the passenger door of the silver Porsche open for her, Anna swept her eyes casually back along the street. The battered yellow Mercedes surveillance car was parked about twenty metres back and she caught sight of a faint movement behind the windscreen. They were in position and ready. She smiled at MacSwain and climbed into his car. Anna glanced into the cramped rear seat of the Porsche and saw a large wicker basket sitting on the leather upholstery. MacSwain took his place behind the steering wheel and caught her quizzical look.

‘Oh that?’ He smiled knowingly. ‘I thought we’d have a picnic.’

Anna’s smile suggested that she was intrigued and relaxed, but a knot tightened deep in her gut: a picnic basket suggested a remote location. And the more remote the location the more difficult it would be for back-up to follow without being spotted. It took all her will-power not to glance into MacSwain’s wing mirror to check that her support was behind them.

‘So …’ she began in an intrigued tone, ‘where are we going?’

‘It’s a surprise,’ said MacSwain with a smile, but without taking his eyes from the road.

Anna sat half turned in her seat, watching MacSwain’s profile. Her posture was one of relaxation and ease, despite the stretched steel tension she felt in every minute movement.

Anna repeated the phrase I don’t feel too well over and over in her mind, as if placing it within instant reach.

They drove out of St Pauli. East and then south.

I don’t feel too well: Anna turned the phrase over once more and closed her mind around it like a grasping hand.

Friday 20 June, 9.05 p.m. Speicherstadt, Hamburg.

Fabel had been right: there had not been enough room behind the pillars for a man to conceal himself. But there had been enough room for a slim, lithe woman, with iridescent gold hair and an aura of youthfulness; strategically placed so that a few swift, silent steps would take her up behind anyone trying to reach the cabin door.

Fabel’s fear subsided slightly when the pressure of the gun muzzle was removed from his neck as soon as he had been disarmed. Looking past the Slav in the doorway, Fabel could see Mahmoot sitting at the far end of the office. He looked less than relaxed and there was a bruise on the right side of his forehead. Apart from that he looked okay. The Slav stood to one side to allow Fabel to enter. If Fabel was going to make a move, it would have to be now. But there was no move to be made.

It was as if the Slav had read Fabel’s mind. ‘Please do not do anything rash, Herr Fabel.’ The accent fitted with the face. Fabel wondered if this was one of the Ukrainian Top Team; if he was looking at the face of Vasyl Vitrenko. ‘We do not intend you, or your friend here any harm.’