An intelligence officer could not go to a clandestine meeting without first ensuring that he or she was not being followed. They called it ‘dry-cleaning’, and it usually involved an innocuous cover activity that included a planned route through areas that made it especially difficult to maintain covert surveillance. Beatrix had been given a route and she followed it to the letter: a taxi to the Centro de Arte Los Galpones, an oasis in the heart of the chaotic city, where she wandered through an art gallery and had an iced tea, all the while checking for any signs that she might be followed; and then a second taxi to the Teleférico, the famous cable car system that offered breathtaking views of the capital. Beatrix bought a roundtrip ticket and boarded a car with half a dozen other people, all of whom were tourists unless her instincts were very much awry.

The car took them to the top of the Ávila Mountain. The national park separated the sea from the city, and, as Beatrix stepped out, she was able to breathe the fresh air and relax in the peacefulness of the natural landscape as a counterpoint to the mad bustle of the city. The top of the mountain included a wide promenade along the ridgeline. Sellers had established food and handicraft kiosks, and there was an official restaurant next to an ice skating rink that was promised to open later in the year. An enormous Venezuelan flag snapped in the breeze over the ruins of the old Humboldt Hotel. Low-flying clouds scudded just above the jagged summit of the mountain, and the breeze lent the area a more pleasant temperature, several degrees cooler than the city below.

Beatrix went into the bar and restaurant.

She recognised the man from the photographs in her file. He was of average height and build, his hair cut neat with a lazy comma that hung down over his temple. Not handsome, but not unattractive, either. He was the sort of man who would be able to melt into a crowd without drawing attention to himself. That was a helpful characteristic in this line of work.

“Hello,” she said.

He looked up at her.

“John?”

“Yes,” he said. “Rebecca?”

“That’s right.”

“Can I get you a drink, Rebecca?”

“No,” she said. “I’m fine.”

The opening exchange was designed to confirm identities. Beatrix was satisfied and sat down.

“You been here long?” she asked him.

He looked down at the empty bottles on the table. “Half an hour,” he said. She could smell the alcohol on him and suspected it might have been a little longer than that. He wasn’t drunk, but it was evident that he had had enough to drink to smooth the edge off the day a little. That was unprofessional, and she noted it for future reference.

“Were you followed?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “And you don’t need to worry: this isn’t my first rodeo.”