He did up two buttons of the jacket and went out into the living space. Hicks, Chase and Ziggy were waiting. They were going to run the same operation as before, but with a slight variation. Milton did not want to run the risk—albeit small—that Chase might be identified as a repeat visitor to the club on the same night that Milton made his second visit. Instead, Hicks would take his place. He had gone out that afternoon to buy suitable clothes, and Ziggy had enjoyed himself with a series of comments about how he was more presentable, and better smelling, than he had been for weeks. Chase had dutifully dressed himself in Hicks’s discarded jacket and trousers and had defused any potential ribbing by declaring that he smelt as if he wanted to be left alone.

“Ready?” Milton said.

Ziggy laced his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “I’m up,” he said. “I have eyes inside and outside the club.”

“Where’s López?”

“He’s there.”

“Anything that I need to know?”

“No,” he said. “Nothing else on email about you. And just that one phone call.”

Ziggy had been monitoring López’s devices since the first meeting and had reported that the Mexican had placed a call to a contact in the Korps Nationale Politie, the Dutch national police. The man was senior—a Hoofdcommissaris, or chief commissioner—and had reported back that a check with his contacts in the Metropolitan Police had confirmed that a John Smith had been convicted of supplying drugs and had recently been released from prison.

“Good,” Milton said. “If anything changes while I’m in there, tell Hicks.”

“I know the drill,” Ziggy said.

Milton straightened out his jacket. “All right, then,” he said. “Let’s get it done.”

* * *

Milton took a cab to the club and found that his name was on the guest list, and, this time, it was legitimate. He thanked the woman at the lectern, made his way inside and climbed up to the VIP area. The security guard was expecting him, but, despite the familiarity, the same routine was observed. Milton was frisked, quickly and professionally, and waited behind the rope until López waved to signal that he should be let through.

The Mexican watched Milton with an amused cast to his face as he took the same seat in the booth as before.

“Señor López,” Milton said, “thank you for seeing me again.”

“Señor Smith, thank you for coming back. You like tequila?”

“I don’t drink,” Milton said.

“Not at all?”

Milton shook his head. “I had a problem with it, so I stopped.”

“Pity,” he said. He raised his hand and a waitress brought over a silver platter that bore six shot glasses. Two had been filled with white tequila, two with shots of lime juice, and two with shots of Bloody Mary mix.