Panic quickly spread through the ballroom. The guests closest to Lang gasped in shock and terror. Those further away heard the rumours of an attack and panicked. The bodyguard teams were the first to respond. They rushed over to their principals and began shepherding them towards the fire exits on the southern side of the ballroom, barging waiters out of the way. Those less fortunate souls, the ones without security details, quickly realised what was happening and fled the scene. Others stood paralysed. After a few moments the music stopped as the band abandoned the stage and joined the mad scramble at the exits. At the head table, Princess Amelia suddenly burst into tears. Three well-built bodyguards ran over and dragged her away.

Kember stared at Lang, dumbfounded. ‘Fucking hell.’

‘Secure the principal,’ Bowman said. ‘Get him out of here.’

Kember tore his gaze away from Lang and hurried across the empty dance floor. He seized hold of Seguma, bellowed an order at Lungu and led them south, towards the phalanx of bodyguards and VIPs converging on the rear emergency exits. The president stumbled along, Kember moving ahead as he pushed his way through the guests.

Amid the commotion, Studley’s voice crackled through Bowman’s earpiece. ‘What the fuck is going on in there? Where’s the principal?’

‘Suspected poisoning,’ he reported. ‘Principal is unharmed. Repeat, principal is unharmed and en route to your position.’

There was a long, cold pause. ‘Who’s the victim, Josh? Anyone we know?’

Lang made a guttural sound of pain. A trembling grey hand reached out towards Bowman.

‘Bowman . . . ’ he rasped. ‘Help me.’

He coughed, groaning in pain. The security guard on the phone saw Lang spit out the dregs of vomit and took a few steps further back.

‘Josh?’ Studley asked.

‘I’ll update you as soon as possible,’ Bowman said into the mic. ‘Notify Scotland Yard and the security services. Get a specialist team down here immediately.’

He snatched a napkin from the nearest table and wiped foamy saliva and chunks of vomit from Lang’s mouth, careful not to get too close in case the gangster spluttered on him. Lang tried to say something, but Bowman only heard a faint croaking sound escape from his cracked lips. He reached for another napkin to shield his nose and mouth and inched closer.

‘What is it, Mr Lang?’

‘They got me, son,’ Lang said hoarsely. ‘Stabbed me in the back. Should have . . . known. So stupid.’

‘Who?’ Bowman drew closer. ‘Who did this to you?’

‘Russians. They’ve killed me . . . ’

Bowman felt acid dripping into his guts. ‘The Russians did this?’

Lang nodded weakly. He clenched his eyes shut, suddenly gripped by a wave of pain. When he opened them again, there was a look in his eyes Bowman had never seen before.

The look of terror.

‘You have to stop them,’ Lang said.

‘Stop them from what?’

‘They’re meeting my brother. In Monte Carlo. With . . . Seguma.’