Milton made his way to the door. A woman in a cocktail dress stood behind a lectern. She was evidently in charge of the guest list, stifling the protests from the couple at the front of the queue with a hatchet face and gimlet eye. Chase was six places from the front of the queue. He had charmed a group of three slightly drunken women and was engaged in conversation with them.

A doorman noticed Milton’s approach and turned to face him, blocking the way ahead. The man raised a meaty paw and said something in Dutch that Milton didn’t understand.

“Good evening,” Milton said. “I’m afraid I don’t speak Dutch.”

The man switched to accented English. “Back of the line, please.”

Milton shook his head and smiled. “I’m on the list. Could I speak to your friend, please? I’m sure she’ll be able to find me.”

The man cocked a disdainful eyebrow at Milton. There was only so much that an expensive haircut and high-end clothing could do; Milton still had the scar on his cheek, the cold eyes, and the look of a man with whom it would be unwise to argue. He held his ground and the man’s eye, giving him a neutral smile and waiting the two seconds it took for him to capitulate, standing aside so that Milton could approach the lectern.

The woman turned to look at Milton. “Your name?”

“John Smith.”

The woman ran her finger down the screen of an iPad that rested on the lectern. Milton wasn’t concerned and waited patiently until she found him. Milton exchanged a quick glance with Chase, then looked back to the lectern without expression as the woman completed her search.

“Thank you for waiting, Mr. Smith. I have you.”

Milton nodded with equanimity, as if the news was exactly what he had been expecting. In truth, it was; Ziggy had hacked the club’s servers that afternoon and had found a way into their reservations software. It had been a simple thing for him to amend the records and add him.

She unclipped the velvet rope that prevented entry to the club and led the way down a flight of stairs. Milton followed, leaving Chase and Hicks behind him. The thud of the bass became a little louder and a little less muffled.

“Have you been here before?” she said.

“I haven’t.”

“The club is on three floors. The VIP area is on the top floor. Shall I take you there now?”

“It’s fine,” he said. “I’m happy to wander.”

“Of course.”

She opened a wide pair of double doors; the music flooded over them and the bass throbbed through him. Lasers burned overhead, lancing over the heads of the crowd, splitting and pirouetting in time with the beat.