‘It’s simple,’ he says. ‘You start with the habits of the super-rich. A man makes himself – say – a billionaire. Some of them keep that kind of wealth to themselves, but others need the world to know. Not everyone, of course. You’re dealing here with maybe 0.1% of the population. But it’s precisely those folk, equally blessed, that you want to impress. This quickly becomes a social thing. You throw huge parties – birthdays especially. You favour the coolest night clubs in the coolest cities. You buy Margaux and Château-Lafite by the case, sometimes for tables of complete strangers. And each of these extravagant little gestures establishes just how amazing you are. Not just talented, not just rich, but generous, too. These are boasts, of course, and everyone knows it, but the currency that matters at this level is celebrity, being talked about, and you’d be amazed by how many of these people buy in.’

I’m wondering what exactly any of this has got to do with the Doomsday Clock and the Twilight Fund, when Malo asks exactly the same question. Sylvester breaks off for a moment and puts a hand on his arm.

‘Patience, my friend,’ he murmurs. ‘Just ask yourself one question. These people adore toys, especially when it’s costing them the thick end of seven figures. So what’s the must-have, high-end purchase?’

‘The private jet?’ Malo is frowning.

‘Close.’

‘The hilltop spread in Tuscany?’

‘Nice try.’

‘A super yacht,’ I say quietly.

‘Exactly.’ Sylvester offers me a nod of approval. ‘Just think about it. Buy something big – wrong, commission something enormous – and you broadcast just how far your money will stretch. That ticks one box. The others are obvious. You can live aboard, enjoy everything your little heart desires. You can spend the summer sailing from port to port, country to country, continent to continent. When it’s party time, you decorate the gangplank, and phone the caterers, and invite your rich friends aboard. And when the shit really hits the fan, and the world blows up …’ He pauses, waiting for one of us to finish the sentence.

‘You sail away,’ Malo says.

‘Exactly. Get it right, and we’re not talking survival in some burrow in North Dakota, we’re talking the remote Pacific, the far South Atlantic, even the Antarctic if your data feeds tell you that’s safest.’

Malo and I exchange nods. I’ve been on enough Mediterranean film locations to confirm that much of this stuff is true. A week-long shoot in Cannes, or Nice, or Malaga, would often end with all-night parties on some super yacht or other. More often than not, we’d never get to meet the owner, but that wasn’t the point. We thesps were part of the offer, along with the buckets of Kristal champagne and the devilled prawn wraps. In fact, Malo himself was conceived aboard a super yacht in Antibes, thanks partly to H’s special take on margaritas.