‘I can, Nizar.’ Bull was determined to push his breakthrough. ‘Whatever happened with your brother – and whatever happened with the plane – I can help you. All you have to do is tell me. Tell me who killed your brother and why.’

Perhaps if he had been given more time then Bull would have gained Mansour’s trust. Just a few more minutes. Seconds even. Because he felt in that instant that they were close. That Mansour was about to tell him what he needed to know. That Mansour would take his offer of protection.

But Bull would never have those extra seconds.

The door to the interview room was opened by the constable, who then stepped back without a word. The figure that replaced him was taller than the doorway itself. The newcomer was forced to duck as he stepped inside.

Bull looked up from his seat.

‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded as he rose to his feet. He needed the man to think the interruption was unexpected.

‘United States Secret Service, sir.’

Bull hated to admit it but he was impressed by the sheer size and presence of the newcomer. A matinee idol in the body of a WWE wrestler. All in a sharp, perfectly fitted black suit.

‘I can tell what you are.’ Bull gave no hint that he was now in the subordinate role. ‘I asked who you are?’

‘Apologies, Mr Bull. I should have introduced myself.’

The agent stepped forward, close to Mansour.

‘I’m Special Agent Romeo Meyer.’

FIFTEEN

Tom Quilty was sixty-four years old and had been for a week. Both these facts came from Quilty’s official file. Had Dempsey been guessing, he would have added around fifteen years to that number.

The apartment was spaciously decorated. A minimalist approach that was either a clever way to hide a lack of funds for furnishing, or a foolish way to spend far too much on far too little.

Dempsey had seen enough in Quilty’s file to know which one it was. A lifetime in intelligence was no path to riches, and whatever savings Quilty had managed to build up had long since been eaten away on medical bills.

At Quilty’s indication, Dempsey took a seat on the living room’s steel-framed leather sofa. It immediately threatened to buckle under his weight; a sure sign it had not come from an expensive SoHo showroom. He moved slowly and positioned himself carefully to ensure that the two-seater survived its ordeal. Only then did he turn his attention back to his host, as Quilty was lowering himself into a much older, more worn but no doubt sturdier armchair.

It took a few moments for Quilty to complete his descent, then a few more as he struggled to regain his breath from the effort. Finally he reached out to the oxygen tank that was positioned at the chair’s right-hand side. Placing the attached soft plastic mask so that it covered his mouth and nose, he spent the next minute or two breathing noisily.