Tadeusz Radecki. 38. Polish background, based in Berlin. Supplied migrant workers to Colin Osborne. According to J, Radecki has extensive business interests with Charlie and Horse. Key player in central Germany, with substantial export element. Also deals in live product. Apparently started out dealing in hardware in the Balkans. Owns a chain of video stores. Said to be scrupulous in delivery but takes no shit. Second in command, according to CO, ‘ruthless mad bastard Serb’ Darko Krasic, muscle who lets TR keep his hands clean. TR lives in expensive apartment in Charlottenburg. Is driven around in a big black Merc. Likes to travel, mostly to European cities. Interests: opera, hunting, eating out, making money, photography. Has a box at the Staatsoper, goes there alone. Best chance to make initial contact away from possible interference from the Serb?

She’d done her homework, though she hadn’t left many clues as to where her information came from. He didn’t like it that an outsider could know even this much about them. And now she wanted to probe further into their business. He didn’t like it one little bit. Not from someone this smart.

He closed the word processing software and tried to open the accounts program. This time, he came up against the brick wall of a demand for a password. He didn’t blame her; he’d have done the same in her shoes. It showed she understood what was really dangerous and what wasn’t.

Krasic glanced at his watch. He’d been inside for thirty-five minutes. He’d better close down the laptop now. He wasn’t going to learn anything more from it, and it wouldn’t do for Jackson to come back and find it still warm from use.

He turned his attention to the bedroom. Clothes hung in the wardrobe; an Armani business suit; a couple of evening dresses with designer names he’d never heard of; a couple of pairs of Armani jeans; a pair of Paul Costello trousers; half a dozen tops with more designer labels. Three pairs of shoes were sprawled on the floor – Bally, Fly and Manolo Blahnik, he noticed. They all looked fairly new; he could still easily read the manufacturers’ names inside them. Another Imelda Marcos, he thought negligently.

Finally, the drawers. Her underwear was nothing special. She obviously preferred to spend on what could be seen and stick to the chain stores for what went unnoticed. It was an interesting insight into the way her mind worked, but it didn’t take him any further in his attempts to find out if she really was who she claimed to be. Irritated by the fruitlessness of his search, he slammed the drawer shut and headed for the bathroom. He had just opened the cabinet above the washbasin when his mobile rang.

‘Hello?’

‘It’s me, Rado. She’s leaving now. Looks like she’s heading back to the apartment.’