“The consequences for displeasing us are significant. I’d rather make sure that we are on the same page.”

“We are.”

“And this is still something that you want to do.”

“It is.”

“Very good. We agreed upon a key. It is ready for you now. We just need to agree on delivery.”

Milton had anticipated that. “I’m ready whenever you are.” He looked at his watch. “It’s just after midnight. How about three o’clock?”

“Tonight?”

“Why wait?”

López waved his hand dismissively. “Of course. There’s a small village outside the city. Zaanse Schans. Do you know it?”

Milton remembered it from his guidebook. “The windmill village?”

“Yes. There is a car park near the Albert Heijn Museum. Be there in three hours.”

López slid out of the booth and stood, signalling that the interview was at an end. Milton got up, too, and offered his hand. López took it. His skin was soft, as smooth as a baby’s.

“Thank you,” Milton said.

“Good luck, Señor Smith.”

“Maybe we can do it again?”

López smiled. “Let’s see, shall we? Three hours. Don’t be late.”

López finished the tequila, left the glasses on the platter, and left the table. His protection left, too, one of them in front and the other one behind. Milton got up and went to the balcony, watching as the Mexican led his retinue to the stairs and then down to the club below. The crowd parted for them and, in a moment, they were gone.

Milton found that he was gripping the rail. He took out his phone, woke the screen and composed a quick text.

We’re good. Make the preparations.

10

Milton looked out of the windshield of the Ford Mondeo and into the darkness that lay on either side of the Julianabrug bridge. The windmills of the Zaanse Schans were illuminated, and a red warning beacon marked the top of a tall chimney that poked up from an industrial park to the right, but, those points of light apart, it was dark. A thick bank of cloud was blocking the moon and the stars, and, at this hour, there was nothing else on the road.

Ziggy and Hicks had purchased the Mondeo earlier that day in the anticipation that they would need transport to bring the cocaine across the border and back into the United Kingdom. It was a legitimate transaction; they had found a dealership in Amsterdam, selected a suitable vehicle and then transferred the ten thousand euros that the vendor requested. Milton had made a few small changes to it since then, but nothing that would be visible from the outside.

“Milton—this is Hicks. Copy?”

Milton’s phone was on the dash with the speakerphone activated and an open line conferencing Hicks and Chase.

“I’m here.”

“They just pulled in,” Hicks hissed. “Range Rover Sport. Two in the front.”

“Chase?”