The Ukrainian Beauty put Buslenko’s beer down on the table and left the room. He did not turn as he heard the door click shut behind him. The presence of the fifth man was academic: Buslenko was good and was perfectly capable of taking on four or five men in the right situation. But this was not the right situation and these were not the right men: they all had a similar background to Buslenko and, he guessed, had all killed before, more than once. At best Buslenko could take one or two with him. But he knew that if death were to come, it would come from behind and the man at the door.

‘You’re Rudenko?’ Kotkin spoke in Russian. Buslenko nodded.

‘Sit down,’ Kotkin said and sat down himself. The other three stayed on their feet. The scarred Russian opened the file. ‘You have a very impressive record. Exactly what we are looking for. Or so it would seem. But what I want to know is why you came looking for us?’

‘I didn’t. You contacted me.’ Buslenko answered in Russian. He thought about taking a nonchalant slug from his beer bottle, but was afraid that his hand would shake. Not fear. Adrenalin.

Kotkin raised his eyebrows and wrinkled the scar unpleasantly. ‘You went around asking questions. More than that, you knew the right questions to ask in the right places. That means only one of two things: you were advertising yourself or …’

Buslenko laughed and shook his head. ‘I’m not a cop, if that’s what you were going to say. Listen, it’s as simple as this. Money. I want to make money. A lot of it. And I want to work abroad. You do want people to work abroad, don’t you?’

‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.’ The scar-headed Russian nodded to the others, two of whom approached Buslenko and gestured for him to stand up and raise his arms. One frisked him manually while the other scanned him for a wire with a hand-held electronic wand. Buslenko smiled. When they had satisfied themselves that Buslenko was clean, they sat down again.

‘We know what we’re looking for. You need to convince us that you’re it.’

‘I’m guessing it’s already all in there,’ Buslenko nodded towards the file. ‘Twelve years’ experience. As a paratrooper, then with an Interior Ministry Spetsnaz. I can handle myself and I can handle any job you give me.’

‘I know the Spetsnaz unit you served with. Do you know Yuri Protcheva? He would have served about the same time.’

Buslenko made a show of trying to remember. He had been through the files, through all the team lists, a dozen times. He knew right away that there had been no Yuri Protcheva: it was an obvious trick. Too obvious. Kotkin didn’t want him to admit to knowing someone who didn’t exist. He wanted him to deny it too quickly, revealing he had been rehearsed.

‘No … I can’t say I did,’ Buslenko said eventually. ‘I knew everyone, just about. But no Yuri Protcheva. There was a Yuri Kadnikov – could that have been him?’