‘Prospects, mainly. We’re developing Doomsday packages. Quite a lot of money gives you access to a boat that meets the right spec, plus onboard crew. You don’t have to own anything. Just turn up when the time is right.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Putin makes a move on Estonia? The Israelis take out key bits of Iran? Trump drops a bomb on North Korea? This stuff writes itself. I could go on all night.’

‘OK.’ I nod. ‘So, I’m one of your prospects. What am I paying?’

‘Depends on the level of cover. Top end, ten thousand a month premium will buy you and your family a private jet to your POE.’

‘POE?’ My son is showing off.

‘Port of embarkation. From then on, it’s all taken care of. Passage costs. Full crew. Access to fuel and food caches. Lead-lined safe room if the shit really hits the fan.’

‘And I can access all this any time?’

‘Christ, no. Every potential situation is calibrated. On a scale of one to ten, you have to be at nine.’

‘Situation?’

‘Crisis, Mum. Flashpoint. Very bad stuff happening, like I just said. Sylvester’s setting up an international panel of experts to make the judgement call. It’s a bit like the Doomsday Clock. They adjust it every January. Next year, it’s the twenty-third. Currently the clock’s at two minutes to midnight. Sylvester’s running a book on that, too. Ask nicely, and he’ll give you odds on their decision. Easy money, if you know what you’re doing.’

‘Really?’ I assume he’s kidding. ‘You’re betting on the future of the planet? Is that altogether appropriate?’

‘It’s business, Mum. Money. Don’t take it so seriously.’ He’s seized a menu. ‘The spiced beef pizza looks OK.’ He glances up. ‘Sloppy Giuseppe? For two?’

I say yes to the pizza without even looking, largely because my son has rather shaken me. I don’t doubt for a second that any cloud, in the right hands, can have a silver lining, but it takes a great deal of nerve, as well as the blackest sense of humour, to dream up a business like this. The speed with which Malo has mastered the small print, coupled with his sudden addiction to running, is doubtless a tribute to Sylvester, and for both I’m truly grateful, but deep in my feeble brain I’m beginning to wonder just where all this is headed. There’s something else, too. Malo seems to have developed an ongoing interest in McFaul. I’ve explained the way we met. I’ve shared a little about his previous life in the minefields. Sylvester has already told him about Christianne going missing. But now he wants to meet the man.

‘You can make that happen, Mum?’

‘Alas, no.’

‘Why not?’

‘He isn’t around at the moment.’

‘You’ve got a phone number?’

‘No.’

‘So, where is he?’

‘I’ve no idea.’