Right now he was on his own. The two Norwegian trackers had given a statement to the investigating police officer sent by the Sysselmann, the governor, then had been swiftly spirited out of there. Probably already on a plane back to Oslo. Luke had duly faded into the background, slipping into a mini-market just as others were coming out on to the street to see what all the fuss was about. He bought himself a packet of fig rolls and half a dozen energy bars, which he would stuff into his pockets after the checkout – he had no idea when or where his next meal would be. Queuing to pay, still wearing his surgical mask, Luke kept one eye out of the window on the building Skeet had emerged from. The Hostel Pogol. That must have been where he spent his last night, poor bastard. He could see a red-and-white police cordon tape, marked ‘POLITI’, strung up around the entrance. Figures in bio-hazard suits were going in and out, and an ambulance had drawn up alongside. Just then, he felt his phone ping: Vauxhall had sent him the ID for his contact in the NIS, the Norwegian Intelligence Service. He studied the image that came up on his screen: Kristian Berge, a pale face with a square jaw. The phone shook in his hand. Incoming call.

‘Luke Carlton? This is Kristian. From NIS.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Right behind you.’

Luke turned to see a man standing beside the sweet counter waving at him rather obviously, his eyes smiling above his face mask. He was tall, broad-shouldered and wearing a thick polar jacket. Yet there was something cautious, almost hesitant, about the way he carried himself. Luke took his time before wandering over to join him, then avoided eye contact while pretending to choose a bag of sweets from the display. Basic tradecraft. Even here, you never knew who might be watching.

‘Good to meet you, Kristian,’ he said, absently examining a packet of jelly babies and studying the price tag. ‘So, what do we have on this Patient Zero?’

‘Yevgeny Vasiliev?’ the Scandinavian replied, keeping his voice low as he looked around him. No one was paying them any attention. ‘So very little. But I know a man who may tell us more.’

‘Can we talk to him?’

‘Yes … but he lives out of town.’

‘Okay. Let’s call him.’

Kristian laughed. ‘He has no phone,’ he explained. ‘We must pay him a visit.’

‘Wait,’ said Luke, still holding the unwanted packet of jelly babies, ‘so this guy is your Barentsburg source, yet he doesn’t even own a phone?’