He took a fresh white shirt from its paper wrapping and put it on, adding a Foulard tie and securing it with a pin. He put on the suit and a pair of Gucci loafers and stood in front of the mirror again. He looked the part. No sophisticated dress would hide the hard edge that was evident on his face, accentuated by the scar that ran down to the side of his mouth, nor dull the startling ice-blue of his eyes, but Milton was not concerned about any of that. He wanted to make a particular kind of impression: rich enough to buy style, yet dangerous enough to be taken seriously by the man he intended to meet.

Milton was used to sliding through the world beneath the protective cloak of a legend, a pseudonym and manufactured identity within which he could submerge himself. John Smith. That was his preferred moniker, a structure upon which everything that was fake could be draped. He would be Smith tonight and for the next few weeks. He had something very important that he wanted to achieve, and a disguise would be a crucial part of meeting that objective.

* * *

Milton stepped out of the bedroom and shut the door behind him. The penthouse in Houthaven was eye-wateringly expensive; that was deliberate, since they knew that Juan Pablo López would investigate John Smith thoroughly before trusting him, and extravagant taste was something that he would expect to find.

The others were gathered in the lounge. Milton looked at them: Ziggy Penn was sitting at the dining table, a laptop to his left and another to his right, with the remains of a McDonald’s takeout scattered between the two machines; Alex Hicks was sitting on the sofa, his feet on the coffee table; Chase Baxter—Beau’s son and the only one of the team who wasn’t British—was pouring a coffee in the open-plan kitchen.

Hicks wolf-whistled as Milton came inside. “Look at you.”

Milton glanced down at the suit. He usually wore just jeans and a shirt.

“You look the part,” Ziggy said.

“You’re offering an opinion about fashion?” Hicks said. “You?”

“What?” Ziggy stood up and gestured down his body with both hands; he was wearing ripped jeans and the same Nine Inch Nails T-shirt that he had worn since picking it up at the store in Amsterdam Noord the day after he’d arrived.

“I’m just saying,” Hicks said, “that no one’s going to be coming to you for sartorial advice.”

Ziggy coughed theatrically. “You’re in a position to judge?”