It was nightfall when the train finally arrived in Prague. Louis had booked himself a room in a small hotel in Malá Strana, on one of the back streets near Kampa Island. There he showered, changed, and touched base with Angel and Hendricksen. He ate alone at U Modré Kachničky on Nebovidksá, where years earlier he had dined with Parker and Angel. Back then, he wouldn’t have bet heavily on their prospects for survival, yet somehow all three of them had endured.

The world, he reflected, was full of surprises.

The following morning, Louis met the man named Most in the basement bar of the Hotel U Prince in Prague’s Old Town Square. Technically, the bar didn’t open until after 5 p.m., but exceptions tended to be made for Most. His nickname translated as ‘bridge’, since Most prided himself on making connections, often between individuals seeking something illegal and the illegal item in question. It also served to describe Most himself. As Angel had once observed, Most could have linked both banks of the Vltava by draping himself across the river. He was a massive figure: grayer now, and walking with the aid of a cane, but still imposing.

‘You appreciate the venue?’ he said to Louis, as he eased himself onto a leather banquette.

The bar was called Black Angel’s. Louis had last come to Prague during the search for a statue – or an entity, depending on one’s beliefs – called the Black Angel. Given the number of people who had ended up dead as a consequence, the choice of bar appealed more to Most’s sense of humor than Louis’s.

‘It’s certainly got atmosphere,’ said Louis.

‘Like a cave,’ said Most. ‘And it’s quiet. Later, there will be many tourists. Now, only us.’

‘Your English seems to have improved since last we met.’

‘I took lessons. We must change with the times, and the times require good English. You want a drink?’

‘It’s too early for me. Just coffee.’

Most looked disappointed. To make up for Louis’s abstemiousness, he ordered two cocktails for himself. They arrived quickly, along with Louis’s coffee, before the bartender left them in peace.

‘What happened to your leg?’ said Louis.

‘Arthritis. It runs in the family.’ Most tasted both of his cocktails, reducing them to one cocktail between two glasses. ‘I also got shot, a long time ago. That did not help.’

‘It wouldn’t.’

Louis added milk to his coffee, but set the sugar aside.

‘I hear you got shot, too,’ said Most, ‘but not so long ago.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Painful?’

‘Then, or now?’

‘Now, obviously. It’s always painful at the time.’

‘A little.’

‘When men like us say “a little”, we mean a lot. You ought to drink more alcohol.’

‘Is it working for you?’