In the same breath Bowman glimpsed a sudden movement to the right of the hallway. He whirled round to his three o’clock, his index finger tense around the safety built into the Ruger’s trigger mechanism. A pot-bellied man in a tweed suit stood five metres away in the middle of the living room, his mouth hanging open in dumb surprise. A trilby hat and a gold-crowned rattan cane rested on the coffee table in front of him, along with a half-full bottle of Lagavulin single malt and a couple of tumblers.

The real Ken Seguma.

‘Stay where you are,’ Bowman said. ‘Sit and don’t move.’

Seguma stood his ground. His wide eyes darted between the soldiers and Lang. ‘Who are you? What the hell is going on, David?’

‘Sit down,’ Bowman ordered. ‘Last chance.’

‘Do as he says, Ken,’ Lang said.

Seguma lowered himself onto the leather sofa. He looked numb with shock and confusion. Bowman kept his weapon trained on the tyrant while Webb dug out a pair of plasticuffs from his back pocket. He brought Lang’s hands behind his back, cinched the plastic ties around his wrists. Then Webb grabbed him by the upper arm and manhandled him into the living room, shoving him towards the sofa.

‘Sit the fuck down,’ Webb barked.

Lang set himself down beside Seguma. He stared up at Webb with a sadistic look in his eyes, his lips set in a hard line.

‘You’ll regret this,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure of it.’

‘Shut up,’ Webb snapped. He nodded at Bowman. ‘Clear the other rooms.’

Bowman backed out of the living room and set off across the hallway. He was sweating freely now, his body ached, as if a million needles were pricking his skin. He charged into the kitchen and visually swept the area for threats. He hooked round an island the size of a sarcophagus, peeked into the laundry room, then backed out again and hurried past the study and the dining room and the staff quarters. He knew from studying the floor plan that the sleeping quarters were located at the far end of the apartment.

If Lang did keep any drugs in his place, he’d want to keep them hidden away. Lang was a naturally cautious guy. He wouldn’t leave illegal substances lying around the place for an unsuspecting cleaner to find. Which ruled out the living room and kitchen, the other communal spaces. Lang would keep them somewhere safe, Bowman figured. The master bedroom, perhaps, or the bathroom.

There, if anywhere, he might find something useful.