The woman turned and left him to make his way inside. Ziggy had pulled fire department plans of the club and they had reviewed them together. There were three floors, each with multiple bars. Milton looked for the restrooms and identified the best way to reach them and the emergency exits beyond. The space was full of revellers. People were pressed together, straining their necks so that they could see the DJ on the stage at the front of the floor. He had two old-style decks set up, and he ministered between them, his headphones pressed to one ear as he adjusted the vinyl with his free hand. Milton worked his way around the edge of the crowd, stopping at the bar briefly to pay and overtip for an orange juice that he might be able to pass off as a screwdriver, if he were asked.

He found the stairs and climbed to the second floor and a new room with a different DJ. A projection on the wall behind the DJ revealed his nom de plume: KELTEK. Milton grabbed a flyer from the bar. It was for the night’s festivities, and, in Dutch and English, the DJs were announced: KELTEK was joined by Headhunterz and Run-D. The type of music was described as ‘hardstyle.’ Milton hadn’t heard of it before, but, to his ear, the rapid BPM was close to being uncomfortable. The club nights that he remembered—as much as he could remember anything from those booze-soaked army days—had been more… well, melodic.

He caught himself: that was the kind of thing his father would have said.

Getting old, John. Getting old and out of touch.

Milton pushed through the crowd until he could look up through the open ceiling to the third floor. A wide balcony ran around the walls so that the people seated at the tables on it could look down onto the dance floor. Milton moved to the stairs and climbed up, sipping the orange juice as he moved around the balcony. Half of the circumference was given over to the VIP area, with velvet ropes strung across from the balustrade to the wall. That half-moon of balcony could have accommodated fifty or sixty people with its plush velour booths and leather banquettes, but tonight it was empty save for one man and his guests.

Milton recognised him. It was the owner of the club: Juan Pablo López.

4

López was entertaining a pair of women.

Milton drew nearer. Large men had been positioned behind each rope to restrict onward access. Milton walked right up to the nearest one. He saw him, turned so that he was facing Milton dead on, and straightened up.

“Hello,” Milton said.

The man stared at him. “No entry.”

“I want to talk to López.”

The man frowned. “Who?”

Milton smiled at him. “The man behind you. Your boss. I want to talk to him.”

The man’s face hardened. “Go away.”