‘Jeez, Tom. What a fucked-up situation. Look, this is off-books for me. I’ve sent Pet because she’s deniable but, with the political tension at the moment, I can’t do anything traceable back to the agency. This means no weapons, no surveillance kit, no boots on the ground. No evidence, just intelligence. I’m sorry, my friend, but it could cause an international incident,’ he said, with genuine remorse in his voice.

‘Information is fine, Mike. I don’t want this to end up in court. I’m bringing them down, all of them. By whatever means.’

‘Well, be careful and don’t do anything stupid, like getting killed. And stay with Pet; she has access to most databases and those she doesn’t she can hack into anyway.’

‘I’m always careful, Mike.’ Tom hung up and handed the phone back to Pet, who was still busy at the laptop. Within a minute, a series of images and data erupted on the screen.

‘Whoa, Mr Englishman, you’re messing with some major criminals here! All Serb mafia, all with multiple convictions, all ex-military or paramilitary. I can’t give you any copies in case you get taken and these fall into the wrong hands, but look at the profiles while I go to the washroom. Don’t write anything down.’ She stood and walked across to the small bathroom.

Tom sat in front of the computer and took in the individual subject profiles on the screen.

Martin Green looked back at him from the screen. Real name Bojan Dedic, aged forty-two, ex-army, discharged under a big cloud. Convictions for robbery, racketeering, and firearms offences; suspected of a number of murders. Current location unknown.

The passenger from the Audi was named as Filip Stevanovic, aged thirty-nine, also ex-army, with convictions for manslaughter, drug trafficking, and jewel theft. Escaped from a Swiss prison in 2015. Current location unknown.

Finally, as Tom scrolled down, Zjelko Branko appeared on the screen. He saw the man he had photographed on the motorcycle outside the pub in Ealing, the picture staring back at him from the CIA database clearly a few years old. He looked at the pale blue eyes, pock-marked face, and contrasting light scar from his left ear to his bulbous nose. The recognition that he felt earlier flared in his mind. He read the biography impassively: former Serb paramilitary, suspected of war crimes including multiple civilian murders. The description noted an identifying mark of a tattoo on his left wrist of a Serb white eagle crest. He sat back, stunned, with realisation finally hitting home. He was cast back twenty-five years, once again a child in his family home. His dark eyes fixated on Branko’s pale, cruel eyes.

Pet appeared behind him. ‘Are you okay, Tom?’

Tom’s eyes did not move from the screen.

‘Tom?’