Milton didn’t always understand how Ziggy did what he did—and suspected that Ziggy quite liked to maintain an air of intrigue—but he had watched with admiration as he produced a dossier with extensive background notes. Ziggy discovered that López operated out of Amsterdam. He was in his late forties, built like an Olympic wrestler, with a taste for blonde women and expensive nightclubs, especially the three that he owned. He spent most evenings behind the velvet rope in the VIP section of a nightclub that he had established several years previously. It was high end, catering to footballers and minor Dutch celebrities.

That had not been the extent of Ziggy’s work. He had been busy building up the layers that would come together to form the fake identity that Milton was going to rely upon. He had travelled as John Smith for years, but the work that Ziggy had done meant that persona was now deeper and more convincing than it ever had been.

It would need to be.

Milton zoned back in and looked through the rain-smeared windshield of the Uber. Neon bled through the rain, swashes of turquoise and aquamarine and blood red, all spelling the name of the club—claire—where Milton hoped his prey would be found.

3

Milton stepped out of the Uber and took a moment to scope out the neighbourhood. He had visited it earlier that afternoon, but it was nighttime now and that meant that the atmosphere had changed. The building facing him was four storeys high and looked as if it might have served an industrial purpose before being put to its present use. The name of the club was spelled out in lowercase letters that were lit from the back. The place had been a gay club and, according to its website, in previous incarnations it had welcomed David Bowie, Elton John and Jean Paul Gaultier. It had been a student club after that, before López had gutted it and turned it into a higher-end destination. The clientele tonight looked like a mix of gay and straight; the impatient revellers pressed themselves against the wall in an attempt to shelter from the drizzle. Milton could hear the thud of bass from somewhere inside, a subterranean throb that he could feel through the soles of his shoes.

Milton glanced over to the green square opposite the club and saw Hicks, dressed in his dirty clothes, sitting on a bench. He had an excellent view of the club. They had confirmed that there was no rear exit, so anyone who sought to leave would not be able to do so unobserved. Hicks was armed and would be able to move quickly to intercept should that prove to be necessary. Hicks acknowledged Milton with the slightest tilt of his head.