Michael was irritated. He had already proved to Ferreira that he had everything under his control – that was why the man had come over to England in the first place! The Russians were already on-side, as he had informed him; they were quite happy to let him supply whatever was needed. Once he was onboard with the Colombians, they didn’t really have a choice. It was a done deal. There was too much aggravation in Afghanistan and Pakistan these days for the crops to be safe. It wasn’t so easy for the Russians any more – they were not as welcome as they had been in the eighties and nineties. The Americans were all over them like a rash, and they were concentrating more on finance deals and investing heavily in property, especially Dubai, Croatia and Greece. Michael knew that Salvatore had been told this, and more than once. He also knew that Salvatore Ferreira would not have taken his word for it, he would have found out what he needed to know himself.

Michael swallowed down his frustration. This was nothing personal, it was just Ferreira flexing his muscles, and making sure that Michael understood exactly what was expected of him. He was warning him that any problems that might arise would be his alone, and he would be expected to sort them out quickly and with the minimum of fuss. The man was a businessman, and at least he had the grace to say this to him on the quiet, man to man, without an audience. Still it rankled. But Michael had listened to his mentor Patrick Costello well. He could hear his voice now saying quietly in his ear, ‘Never let anyone know what you’re thinking, Michael, never show them anything of importance. The earn is the prize, never forget that.’

Walking casually to the bar, he picked up the bottle of Remy XO. Then, pouring them both another drink, he sat back down beside Salvatore Ferreira on the leather sofa, smiling as if he had just been blessed by the Pope himself.

‘I can assure you, Salvatore, that no one will interfere with our business. I own fucking everyone of importance, from the police, to the Customs, to the fucking High Court Judges. I can access anyone needed.’

Salvatore Ferreira nodded; he had expected no less. He had made his point, he could be magnanimous now. ‘I believe you, Michael. But I had to ask, you understand that?’

Michael took a large sip of his brandy and, shrugging nonchalantly, he said carefully, swallowing down the raw anger that was threatening to overwhelm him, ‘Of course I do, Salvatore. I would do the same in your position. Now, I thought I would take you to one of my clubs in the West End.’

Salvatore was watching him closely, and Michael knew this was some kind of test.

‘I like the English girls. Proper blondes!’