‘I couldn’t help noticing the story on your device. Very unfortunate for the gentleman involved, not to mention the hotel.’

The stranger positioned with his back against the wall, so that Louis had to pivot slightly to watch him. A second man, burlier and less well dressed than the first, but also bearded and Middle Eastern, had taken a table near the door, and was scrupulously failing to pay them any attention.

A waiter arrived. The stranger ordered an espresso.

‘What about your friend,’ said Louis, ‘doesn’t he want something, too?’

That too-easy smile spread wider in response.

‘He also will have an espresso,’ he told the waiter, before folding his hands in his lap and regarding Louis with a semblance of amicability. Louis’s jacket remained buttoned, and he could feel the presence of the gun concealed beneath it – not that he anticipated having to use it in Kaffee Alt Wien, or not because of this man and his associate. Only a dialogue would be conducted here. Whatever might follow would unfold elsewhere.

Louis continued to watch without speaking. Louis was very good at remaining silent. The concept of awkwardness was alien to him. From the corner of his left eye he saw the second man take delivery of his espresso, his attention all the while fixed on the entrance to the café and the street beyond. Here, thought Louis, were individuals with enemies.

‘My name is Mr Rafi,’ said the stranger finally, after his own coffee had been brought to the table. He pronounced every syllable slowly and with care, like a man reading unfamiliar words from a card.

‘If you say so.’

Had the smile widened any further, Mr Rafi’s lips would have split at the corners.

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘It’s not that,’ said Louis. ‘I just don’t care.’

The smile didn’t falter, but any residual warmth left Rafi’s eyes. He was someone, Louis recognized, who valued the trappings of politeness, if only for their usefulness in disguising whatever reality they, like his smile, were trying to conceal. Mr Rafi, whoever he might be, would be polite even as he was cutting out your tongue or puncturing your eyeballs. He would beam benignly as gasoline was sprayed over a purpose-built steel cage before you were set alight. He might even apologize before slitting your throat while a camera filmed your passing for the internet. Mr Rafi was a sociopath, and one who had found a black flag of convenience under which to operate. This, of course, was not to say that Louis considered every Arab to be a potential killer, only that he knew a killer when he saw one.

‘You should care,’ said Mr Rafi.

‘And why is that?’

‘Because I found you so easily. A man in your line of work ought to be more prudent.’