I’m the cunning little vixen, Carol thought. She would allow Tadeusz Radecki to think he’d brought her into his camp at his command. She would resist any attempts to bait her into revealing her true nature; she suspected she would have to find a way to keep Radecki at arm’s length. Then she would sneak into his henhouse, bring his chickens home to roost and get out from under before he could make her pay the price.

As the finale of the act approached, bringing its confrontation between the vixen and her human captors, Carol slipped out of her aisle seat and made her way out of the auditorium. Her heart was racing, her stomach a knot of pain. In spite of the lightweight material of the midnight blue silk sheath she was wearing, she could feel sweat gathering in the hollow of her back. Adrenaline coursed through her. Behind her, applause broke out. It was now or never, she told herself as she headed for the stairs that would take her up to the private boxes. Left-hand side, just as Petra had told her.

Petra had done her homework. According to her, Radecki had recently begun to visit the opera again. He was always alone in his box, remaining confined during the intervals, avoiding mixing with any of his friends or contacts in the audience. He never went to the bars, instead preferring to sip champagne delivered ahead of the performance by one of the opera house staff. ‘It’s a dramatic place to stage your first encounter,’ Petra had said. ‘He always went to the opera with Katerina, so he will already be focused on her memory.’ Tony had agreed that, psychologically, it would be a powerful moment that Carol could exploit. Taken so completely off his guard, Radecki would be more vulnerable to her appearance than in any business context.

Carol climbed the stairs, her steps soft on the heavy carpet. The doors from the auditorium were opening and the audience was spilling out, the air thick with chatter and laughter. She pushed her way up against the tide and carried on into a side corridor. Second on the right, Petra had told her. Carol stared at the door, saying a silent prayer to whatever guardian angel might be listening. She tucked her evening bag under her arm and tapped on the door.

There was no reply. She knocked again, this time harder. A pause, then suddenly the door was yanked open. Tadeusz Radecki stood framed in the doorway, his lean frame a good six inches taller than her. The photograph didn’t do him justice, Carol thought irrelevantly. Even disfigured by a scowl, in the flesh his dramatic good looks were far more striking. His beautifully cut dinner jacket emphasized broad shoulders, narrow hips and long legs. ‘Was ist?’ he demanded, the words spilling out before his eyes had taken her in fully.