‘That can’t be. The president is right here.’

The guy’s delusional, Bowman thought. His brain was playing tricks on him. One of the side effects of the poison infecting his bloodstream.

Lang shook his head and groaned.

‘He’s a body double,’ he barely whispered.

The words hit Bowman like a fist.

He thought about Seguma. His odd behaviour. The fear he’d seen on the man’s face at Westminster Abbey. His lack of aura. Drinking the water from the finger bowl. Not the sort of amateur mistake a foreign head of state was likely to make.

Suddenly, he understood.

‘It’s too late for me,’ Lang said, his voice fading to a low murmur. ‘But you can still save my brother.’

Lang swallowed painfully, struggling with the effort to go on. Saliva pooled at the corners of his mouth.

‘We had a deal,’ he said. ‘But they lied to us. I see that now.’

He closed his eyes, summoning one last ounce of strength.

‘It’s a trap. They’re going to kill David,’ he said. ‘Just like they killed . . . me. You must . . . stop them.’

‘What’s happening in Monte Carlo? Where are they meeting?’

But Lang didn’t appear to have heard him. He shivered. ‘So cold . . . Jesus, fuck.’

‘Mr Lang.’ Bowman’s voice was urgent. ‘Stay with me.’

Lang had a faraway look in his eyes. His breathing shallowed to a faint rasping noise. His jaw slackened. He was slipping in and out of consciousness.

Bowman gently eased him into the recovery position. He grabbed a bottle of still water from the nearest table, unscrewed the cap and doused his hands and face, removing any spores he might have unwittingly picked up.

The ballroom had almost emptied. A handful of guests hung back near the fire exits, rubbernecking the scene. One or two had gone into shock and sat down on chairs, or in the street outside. Some of the waiters watched from the service doors; others hurried back into the kitchen, shouting at their co-workers. On the other side of the room, two police officers burst through the doors connecting to the main lobby. A heavyset man and a petite blonde-haired woman with an upturned nose. They scurried over to Lang.

‘Step away, please, sir,’ the big guy said. ‘Stand clear.’

‘Don’t touch him,’ Bowman said as he moved away from Lang.

‘Why?’ the button-nosed woman said. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘He’s been poisoned,’ Bowman said. ‘If you come into contact with him, you might get some of the same stuff on your skin.’

‘Who are you?’ the man asked.

‘Security services.’ Bowman showed them his ID. ‘We’re protecting one of the VIPs. Where are your mates?’

‘On their way.’