They stowed their bags and buckled up. Nine minutes later, the Gulfstream was climbing through the low clouds. As soon as the jet levelled out, the team relocated to the conference area in the middle salon. Bowman, Mallet, Casey and Loader dropped into the four seats either side of the table. Then Webb hauled over one of the holdalls stowed in the aft luggage compartment. He retrieved a laptop and a thick manilla folder from inside, set them down on the table and dumped the holdall on the floor and perched himself on it, using it as a makeshift beanbag. The attendant sauntered over from the galley, wearing her pearly smile.

‘Can I get you anything?’ she asked. ‘Breakfast? Coffee? Champagne?’

‘No thanks,’ Mallet replied in an amiable but firm tone. ‘We’ll be fine, lass. Me and the guys here are having a business meeting. We don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘Well, if you need anything, just let me know.’

‘We will, sweetheart,’ Loader said with a wide grin. ‘We will.’

His eyes followed the attendant as she wandered back down the aisle to the galley, hips swaying gently. Mallet said, ‘Forget it.’

‘I didn’t say anything.’

‘You didn’t have to. It’s all over your face. You wouldn’t stand a chance. She’s not interested in your Welsh arse.’

Loader looked hurt. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘Aye, I do. Do you want to know why?’

Loader shook his head.

‘Because she’s got taste.’

‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard, John.’

‘Life is harsh. Get used to it.’ He nodded at Casey. ‘Get the map out. We’ve got a lot to run through.’

Casey reached into the folder and unfolded a detailed street map of Monte Carlo. Mallet tapped a gnarled finger at an apartment block circled with black marker pen. Bowman leaned in for a closer look. The building was situated on Avenue Princesse Grace. One of the most expensive streets in Monaco. The most expensive address in the world, twenty years ago. Before the moneyed elites took up residence in Kensington and Fifth Avenue and St Moritz. Now it was probably lucky to make the top twenty. There was a promenade to the east of the apartment, straddling a narrow crescent of artificial beach. To the north, a short distance away, stood a rocky promontory with a sprawling casino and hotel resort extending across it. Casino Square was maybe half a mile to the south.

‘This is Lang’s residence,’ Mallet began. ‘The Du Veil apartment block. Lang owns a three-bedroom apartment on the eighteenth floor. There’s a twenty-four-hour concierge, security cameras covering all the entry and exit points, remote alarms, the works.’

He pointed to a spot on the map a hundred metres due south of the building on Avenue Princesse Grace.

‘This is the drop-off point,’ he said. ‘You’ll make your way on foot from here to the building. Patrick will handle the concierge.’