With a jerk on one arm Ivan rolled the body over and kicked the shirt up round its head. There, between the shoulder blades, was a tattooed portrait of Stalin.

‘Old Uncle Joe didn’t save that bugger, did he?’ Whinger was staring at the effigy, fascinated. Then, as he surveyed the scene, he added, ‘I like the delicate way they handle things round here, I must say.’

Ivan brought out a pocket knife, slipped the blade inside one leg of Whale’s trousers, at the ankle, and slit the grey material open to half-way up the thigh. Then he pointed contemptuously and gave a short laugh.

‘He has stars on the knees,’ Sasha translated. ‘Like I told you. The sign he would never kneel.’

It seemed that all the villains bar one were known to Ivan. By any standards it was a terrific coup for the security forces: five godfathers at one hit, plus four bodyguards and a haul of incriminating papers. Nor was that all. The two most fancy briefcases – crocodile leather by Gucci, no less – were closed with gold combination locks. Ivan picked one up, laid it on the table and started trying to open it. Frustrated, he called to Igor, who produced a small jemmy.

‘Hey, wait!’ I said, thinking of Toad and Pavarotti. ‘That thing’s worth a few grand. One of our guys will open it without wrecking it.’

But Ivan wasn’t in a mood to wait, and in a few seconds he’d burst both locks. When he lifted the lid, everybody who could see gave a gasp, because the case was packed solid with fifty-dollar bills done up in little paper sleeves holding bunches of twenty notes: a thousand bucks a throw.

When you see cash in that kind of quantity, you realise how little space it takes up: I could have put ten grand in my hip pocket, no bother.

As if reading my thoughts Ivan plunged a hand into the case and brought out a fistful of bundles, holding them in my direction.

‘Take,’ said Sasha. ‘He wants you to have it.’

‘No, no.’ I waved it away.

‘Yes, please. He inseest. He thinks like Russian soldiers you not being paid well. You need more.’

Looking round under the table, Ivan spotted a far cheaper briefcase made of imitation black leather, with a flap closure and no locks. Having tipped the papers it contained on to the table, he proceeded to stuff it with handfuls of fifty-dollar bills and thrust it at me.

From this point things became more and more surreal. Somebody discovered bottles of special, high-octane vodka in the freezer compartment of the fridge, brought them out and began pouring slugs into short, squat glasses. Whinger and I declined, but as the icy spirit went down other people’s throats in repeated doses, the volume of voices rose. While a minion collected up the papers from the table and stowed them away, Ivan himself carefully removed gold watches from three dead wrists and a couple of crocodile wallets from the jackets still on the chairs.