Ben eyed them both. Their movements were brisk, practised, professional. With his hands free, for a moment he was tempted to make a move against them. The lardy one, close enough for Ben to smell the grease on his breath, would be no problem. But from the way the wiry one was pointing the pistol, focusing keenly down the sights at him, fingertips white on the black steel, he knew any move would be his last.

The big guy grabbed his free wrist and clapped the bracelet back on, painfully tight. Then he reached in, took a meaty fistful of Ben’s shirt and yanked him powerfully to his feet.

‘Walk,’ he said in a deep voice. Ben met his eyes. They were empty. ‘Walk,’ he repeated, shoving Ben with a big hand.

The pistol was on him all the time as he stepped out of the meat locker and found himself looking around him at industrial kitchen equipment.

Like the locker, the kitchen was neglected, abandoned-looking. Garbage sacks piled up in corners had long ago been torn up by rats and mice, rubbish strewn across the dusty tiles. More debris was piled up on work-tops and in sinks that hadn’t seen water in years. Cookware and glassware sat on cobwebbed shelves. A knife was embedded in a mouldy old chopping board.

He was in a restaurant, or a hotel. Wherever it was, the place had been closed down a long, long time ago. There was a chill in the air that was more than just damp walls. Where was he?

The two men prodded and shoved him across the kitchen and through a set of double doors into a murky corridor. In the gloom was the steel door of an old service lift. The muscular guy jabbed the button on the wall and the door split in the middle and glided open. Ben felt the gun in his back and stepped inside.

The lift had the same decaying smell as the kitchen. Ben walked the three steps to the far corner, turned and leaned back against the wall. The pistol in the wiry guy’s hands was still pointed straight at his face from across the lift. The muscular guy followed, his weight making the floor judder. He pressed a button. The lift whooshed and rattled under their feet. Nobody spoke. Then the door slid open on the ground floor, and Ben was shoved out into another corridor. The walls were flecked with black mould and the feral stench of mice and rats was even stronger.

‘Keep moving,’ the muscular guy said, leading the way. Ben walked slowly, feeling the gun in his back, taking in his surroundings. They walked him to a second lift and took him up to the first floor, along another dingy corridor. They passed several doorways. Old hotel rooms, brass-plated numbers blackened with tarnish. The muscular guy stopped outside room thirty-six and rapped on the door. A voice answered from inside; Ben heard footsteps and then the door opened.

A rangy man with slicked hair stood in the doorway.

‘I know you,’ Ben said. ‘How’re the teeth?’

Jones scowled, showing the gaps in his mouth. ‘Get him in here,’ he commanded the other two. His voice was squashy and distorted by his swollen lips. Ben was shoved inside the room and thrown down in a chair. He sat quietly, the chain lying across his lap.

He was in a makeshift office. The room was bare apart from a few chairs, a cheap desk and a table with a DVD player and monitor. He didn’t suppose they’d brought him up here to watch a movie.

Jones shut the door and moved to the middle of the room, rubbing his lips and jaw, his eyes full of hate. Ben didn’t recognise the other man. He was sitting on the desk, grinning with white teeth and almost jovial in his manner. Probably late thirties, slender, not tall, expensively dressed, flamboyant red hair. The watch on his wrist was chunky gold, its bezel studded with diamonds. He had the look of an intelligent man who didn’t have to be brutal to be in charge but was very used to giving orders. Someone always a step ahead, who had every angle sussed out well in advance. Someone very dangerous.

‘Nice place you’ve got here,’ Ben said.

The man grinned more widely. ‘Really, you think so?’ His voice was nasal, and he moved his hands a lot while talking. ‘I guess, being British and all. I personally think it’s a shithole. I can’t believe what it’s costing me. When I’m through here I’ll have my guy fly me the eighty miles back to civilisation.’

‘You talk a lot,’ Ben said.

‘So will you,’ the man answered. His smile dropped a notch.

‘I don’t think we’ve met.’

‘My name’s Slater. I think you already know Agent Jones here.’ Slater took a slim chocolate bar out of his pocket and started unwrapping it. ‘You like chocolate, Mr Hope?’

Ben shook his head. ‘And I don’t think you should let Jones have any. His dentist wouldn’t approve.’

Jones glared. Slater smiled. ‘All right, I appreciate humour but I’m not here for laughs. Don’t make this difficult. Believe me, it’s going to be a lot more pleasant if you don’t fuck around with us.’

‘You’re not going to get a lot out of me,’ Ben said.

‘Oh, I think we will,’ Slater replied. ‘Major.’

‘I’m not a major. I’m a theology student.’

‘Right.’ Slater chuckled. ‘Must be some other Benedict Hope that comes up all over the CIA computer, with the same face as you.’

‘It’s the truth,’ Ben said. ‘I’m just a theology student now.’

‘A regular man of God.’

‘I was trying to be,’ Ben said. ‘You guys got in the way.’

‘You were talking theology with Clayton Cleaver?’

‘You could say that.’

Slater suddenly got serious. ‘Why are you working with Zoë Bradbury?’

‘You people are way off the mark. I’m not working with her. I’m looking for her, but I barely know her. Up till eight days ago, I wouldn’t have known her in the street.’

‘So two SAS guys go all the way out to some Greek island looking for someone they barely know, just like that.’

Ben shrugged. There was no reason to lie. ‘Like I said, I’m a student. Her father is one of my tutors. After she disappeared, he asked me to go to Corfu to find her. I said no, and sent an old associate of mine who needed the work. He ran into difficulties, so I went along to help.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’ Ben looked hard at Slater. ‘Then someone blew him up. I thought it was Clayton Cleaver. That’s why I went to talk to him. But I was wrong. Now I have a different theory. I think you killed Charlie, like you killed Nikos Karapiperis and all the other innocent people, because you need to know where Zoë put the rest of the ostraka she was blackmailing Cleaver with.’ Ben paused. ‘Now I’ve answered your questions, you answer mine. What do you need the ostraka for?

Why are you doing all this? The Agency get religion all of a sudden?’

‘That’s not your concern,’ Slater said.

‘If you needed what she had, maybe you should have thought about asking her before you killed her.’

Slater pursed his lips. ‘What makes you think we killed her?’

‘If she was alive, you wouldn’t need me to tell you.’

‘She’s alive,’ Slater replied. ‘Not only that, she’s right here. You’ll be meeting her sometime soon.’

Ben was thinking furiously. She was alive. There was a chance. Possibilities filled his mind. But he didn’t let Slater see what he was thinking. ‘You’ve had her two weeks, and you can’t make her talk? I thought you were tough guys.’

Jones pointed a finger. ‘You’re going to tell us, asshole.’

‘You should keep your mouth shut, Jones,’ Ben said. ‘It wasn’t the world’s greatest sight before I smashed your teeth in, but it’s a real eyesore now.’ He turned to Slater. ‘I think I get it. She doesn’t know, does she?’

Slater just watched him impassively, munching on his chocolate.

‘The scooter she hired on Corfu went missing the same time she did,’ Ben continued. ‘So I think she was on her way to meet Nikos Karapiperis when your guys tried to catch her. Experts like Jones here. I think they scared her, and she panicked and crashed, and that the reason she isn’t talking to you is because she doesn’t remember. She’s got amnesia from a bang on the head, and you’re scared she isn’t going to remember. Basically, you’re screwed.’