A handful of people passed the E-Class: an elderly man out for a stroll, a young female jogger in leggings, a grey-haired woman in a fur-trimmed coat, walking her toy poodle. None of them gave the estate a second glance. They weren’t driving a supercar, they didn’t have a VIP escort. Therefore, they were unimportant.

As soon as the dog-walker had moved on, Mallet half turned in his seat and nodded at the guys in the back seats.

‘We’re clear. Go.’

A mild breeze thrust in from the sea, mussing Bowman’s blond wig as he got out and set off north with Webb. Ahead of them, a hundred metres away, the Du Veil apartment building towered over its neighbours. A glassy structure shaped like a tower fan, twenty-three storeys high. To the left of the building was a chic restaurant with a rooftop garden. To the right, an older pastel-coloured block. Monegasque flags fluttered above the entrance.

They hit the zebra crossing and approached the entrance in short, brisk strides. Just another pair of couriers in a powerful hurry. They swept through the sliding glass doors and entered a wide lobby decorated with abstract sculptures, chandeliers and designer furniture. The floor looked as polished as a green army recruit’s boots on parade day. A slim, tanned concierge stood behind a dark wooden desk, dressed in a suit so sharp you could hack through bamboo with it. There was a framed picture behind him. Prince Albert II and his wife, beaming for the camera.

The concierge stared at the two men as they drew near, as if deciding how to deal with them. His eyes dropped to their logo-branded jackets and caps, and when he looked up again, he flashed a polite but firm smile at them. As if signifying that he was prepared to tolerate their presence, as basic human courtesy, but no more than that. The tag above his breast pocket gave his name as Raymond.

‘Oui, messieurs?’ he asked sharply. ‘Yes, may I help you?’

‘We’re from HLO Global,’ Bowman said. ‘Got some legal documents for Mr David Lang to sign.’

‘HLO?’ The concierge’s eyebrows came together. ‘But your caps, monsieur, they say you are from HLX, non?’

Bowman opened his mouth, but no words came out. He couldn’t focus. Started to panic. ‘Yeah. No, I mean—’