There was enough light now for Milton to see the men who were arrayed around him. He recognised them all from the drive to the casa yesterday. The man who had come into the lobby to get him and who had ridden in the back of the Escalade with him, the big man with blond hair who had been in the passenger seat, and the skinny driver. The big man was in charge now. Milton blinked the water from his eyes and looked at him. He was huge, a good four inches taller and fifty pounds heavier than Milton. His hair was blond, almost white, and razored close to his scalp. Military? The Scandinavian accent was curious. The Swedish Särskilda Operationsgruppen, perhaps? The Danish Jægerkorpset? But what was he doing here, working for the cartel?

“We know you’re lying,” he said again.

“You keep saying that. Please—lying about what?”

“About Jackson. About who you are. Everything. I doubt anything you’ve said since you’ve been here is true.”

“No,” Milton said.

“What’s your name?”

“John Smith.”

“Where were you born?”

“Islington.”

“Date of birth?”

“Tenth of October.”

“Year?”

“Nineteen-seventy.”

“Bullshit.”

“No,” he protested. “It’s not. It’s—”

“You did time.”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“HMP Woodhill. Full Sutton. Wakefield. Wormwood Scrubs.”

“What’d you do?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why were you inside?”

“Robbery. Assault.”

“We had someone look into your record. He says that it’s a pack of lies. He says it was manufactured.”

“It’s not.”

Milton had no alternative but to trust that Ziggy’s work had been thorough. He had to stick to it; if he didn’t, he was dead. On the other hand, of course, if Ziggy had made a mistake, he was dead anyway.

“What are you?” the man said. “You’re not police. Security services? MI6? Am I getting warm?”

“MI6? Come on. That’s ridiculous.”

“I don’t think it’s ridiculous.” The man reached around and pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his jeans. He aimed it at Milton, his finger resting on the trigger. He held it like he had held a weapon many times before; Milton was in absolutely no doubt that if the blond man did not believe him, he would be shot. “It’s time to tell the truth.”

“I am.”

The man stepped closer and pressed the barrel of the pistol into the middle of Milton’s forehead. “This whole thing is a fabrication. Where’s your backup?”

“I don’t have backup. It’s just me.”

“How are you going to move forty kilograms of coke if it’s just you?”

“It’s just me here,” Milton said. “I have people waiting for me.”

“Where?”

“In London.”

The man pushed down; Milton felt the metal pressing between his eyes, just above the bridge of his nose. “What about Jackson?”

“What about him?”

“You set him up, didn’t you?”

“No.”