I parked my bike just off New Cavendish Street and took out my phone, checking the Platform Uber app. Robin was just about to turn the corner. I looked up and saw him. He gave me a nod as he pulled to a halt next to where my bike was parked. I stared down at my phone as George Pig got out the car.

I watched as he set off in the direction of Asia House.

It was looking promising.

I followed behind. ‘We’re watching through the CCTV,’ Geraint came in through my earpiece.

I kept a good twenty feet behind him. Not so close he would notice me. We were four doors down from the entrance to Asia House.

In my ear I heard Geraint. ‘Asia House are hosting an event called Asian Development Outlook. That can be your cover.’

I kept my eyes on George. He walked straight past Asia House and into the café two doors down. The meet must be happening there. The café was busy but I spotted him in the corner by the door as I entered. He was standing by a table. He looked over at me as I walked in. I stared straight ahead and went up to the counter. I spent a couple of seconds admiring their pastries before risking a look around.

George Pig was nowhere to be seen.

Dammit, could he have recognised me from somewhere? Had I spooked him?

I rushed out the door and looked up and down the street. He can’t have gone far. Could he have slipped into Asia House already?

I was about to call Robin for back-up but then I spotted him.

He was walking away from me just up ahead. How had I missed him? I walked fast; the distance between us closed. He was a street ahead when I noticed something was off. He was walking slowly. Why? I crossed the road. I was now ten feet behind him. Was he . . . was he pushing something?

He suddenly stopped and turned towards a building entrance. I caught sight of what he was pushing, and the building he was going into.

Everything became clear.

We had got it so wrong.

*

A few phone calls when I got back to the Platform confirmed that I had reached the correct conclusion.

Zurich doesn’t just have private banks.

It also has Dignitas. A place where those with terminal illnesses could go to die. And Asia House was on the street next to the Harley Street Clinic.

There was no traitor visiting private Swiss banks and having covert meetings with assassins.

Just a man trying to reconcile his wife with her mother before she died.

I had taken one look at the occupant of the wheelchair George was pushing and I had known. Even with a scarf delicately tied round her head, I could see the family resemblance.