Ian looked as if he was about to explode. Or cry. Or both. But they were saved by Suzy’s appearance. She’d taken off her make-up erratically and her cheeks were stained with mascara. ‘Is everything all right?’ she asked.

There was a brief silence, before Ian pulled himself together with lightning speed. Perhaps it was the potential loss of professional respect from the newcomer, or that he’d already identified her as his next conquest, but he managed a very quick turnaround. ‘All fine. Still debating who sets the meet point tomorrow. I was uncomfortable with the way we left things, as you know, but . . . I can see we have no choice. Goodnight.’

He walked away, down the corridor. Suzy retreated in the opposite direction. ‘He’s a cunt and she’s welcome to him,’ Julie hissed, so that both of them could hear, before she closed the door without ceremony.

28

28

KATE AND JULIE sat on the plush velvet sofa in the Rooms Hotel reception area. ‘You nervous?’ Julie asked her.

‘A bit.’ And she was, too. But then, when had the stakes ever been higher?

Mikhail’s text came in bang on time. Kate showed it to Julie and they left the hotel. ‘The Peace Bridge,’ she said quietly, into her lapel microphone. ‘We’ll walk.’

‘Get a cab,’ Ian barked. But she ignored him. She got a greater feel for things on foot. She offered Julie some chewing gum and they strolled down Rustaveli Avenue easily, past the buskers and the beggars, the restaurants open on to the street and the market stalls selling quite sophisticated tourist memorabilia. They took the underpass beneath Freedom Square, where Julie pointed out, with a smile, a shop selling handguns, and came up at the corner of the old town.

Julie had been in charge of mastering the topography, so Kate let her lead the way down towards the river. It was hard not to be impressed by the crumbling splendour of the centuries-old city that Ian had been so enthusiastically lecturing Suzy on. This section was like a microcosm of the country, with pockets of sophistication, style and wealth cheek by jowl with evidence of the neglect and decay of the Soviet years. Painted balconies on old houses, with delicate Moorish latticework, or Ottoman yoke arches, stood side by side with crumbling bricks and ugly Russian iron staircases.