‘Of course, Monsieur. We heard the … news … yesterday afternoon. A tragedy. His poor wife …’

I knew I was being tested. Back in the day, I would have told him to stop fucking about and tell me what I needed to know. But filling a Swiss bank vault with Mexican drug money had taught me that in their world the game was played by a different set of rules. ‘I’m pretty sure they were separated. And I don’t think she is poor. But his son is gutted.’

‘Ah … little Bogdan. He must be …’

‘Stefan.’

He gave an apologetic nod. ‘I have only one more question, if it will not offend you.’

I told him I didn’t offend easily, but I was running short of time. I chucked Frank’s passport on to the desk.

He glanced at it, but wasn’t to be deflected. ‘Would you be so good as to tell me the connection between Monsieur Timis’s country estate and your Monsieur Le Carré?’

Thank fuck he hadn’t asked me this kind of stuff yesterday. There was no way I could have dredged it up. But today I remembered my first meeting with Frank, when he’d needed me to find Stefan and kill the people who had kidnapped him.

‘Frank’s dacha is in a place called Peredelkino. He liked the fact that it featured in Le Carré’s novel The Russia House.’

At that point, Laffont treated me to something like a smile. ‘Excellent. Monsieur Timis said you would be making contact in the event of … an accident.’

‘What else did he say?’

‘That he was deeply concerned about some recent business acquisitions. He didn’t divulge the details, but was confident that the contents of his safe-deposit box would usefully add to the things he told you the night before last.’

I didn’t want to admit that I’d lost my marbles in that ‘accident’ and was still struggling to remember a single one of the key elements of Frank’s briefing. I needed him to share Frank’s confidence in me, and to give me as much help as he could. I didn’t need him to put a call through to the local nuthouse. And I wanted him to get a fucking move on.

He stood and did that James Bond trick with his cuffs, picked up a small leather wallet and motioned me towards an archway in the far corner behind his desk. It opened on to another stairwell that led down to the vault.

A steel door unsealed itself after scanning Laffont’s index fingerprint and right iris, then swung shut as we moved through it. Finally we arrived in a room that belonged in the next century, not the one before last. The lighting was as understated as the furniture.

Laffont held back a heavy crimson velvet curtain, then let it fall as we entered the land of the safe deposit. They lined all three walls, floor to ceiling. He slid two keys out of the wallet and inserted them into a box at shoulder height on the right-hand side. He turned them simultaneously, clockwise, until there was a soft click. Then he extracted the drawer and placed it with reverence on the velvet-covered table under a low-hanging light at the centre of the room.

He dipped his head and retired to the antechamber. He’d know fucking well what was in there, but maintaining the illusion of detachment obviously suited him.

I lifted the lid.

First out of the box were six passports.

Three for me, with driving licences to match. Same first name, three sets of different surnames – Saunders, Savage and Browning. Three for Stefan – now Steven – each IDing him as my son. Frank knew that, in a post-Madeleine McCann world, even the sleepiest European frontier post would react badly to any attempt to smuggle a kid across a national border. And whoever had supplied these had been busy with the Photoshop. Three slightly different hair colours and styles, one with glasses, two without.

I put them to one side.

Next up was a blueprint for a container vessel commissioned by a shipping outfit called Nettuno, based on the coast of Puglia, not far from Brindisi. I unfolded it and spread it out under the light.

The maze-like structure triggered a fragment of memory, but maybe only from some time in the past when I’d had to scrutinize the layout of a building, an aircraft or a boat before a task.

There was a set of deeds for a chateau overlooking Lake Konstanz. A chateau I’d definitely seen before. In Frank’s desk drawer. Now I knew it had been purchased by a Swiss-based holding company, which must have been part of Frank’s web of international business enterprises.

I put them next to the blueprint and tried not to get a headache as I ran my eyes over them. He’d meant them to be seen in the context of his briefing. He hadn’t intended these things to be brainteasers. But that’s exactly what they were.

There was also a wad of euros and US dollars. Frank had always believed that cash said more about you than Amex ever could.

Finally, in a chamois-leather drawstring bag, a very familiar shape. Another matt black compact Sphinx, two mags and a box of fifty 9mm Parabellum rounds. It was a fancy name that some people thought meant ‘prepare for war’.

At least that part of Frank’s message was clear.

I only wished he’d prepared for it better himself.

17

I picked up the pistol, removed its top slide and dismantled the working parts far enough to be able to take a close look at the business end of the firing pin. It was factory fresh. I reassembled it, loaded up one of the mags and tucked it into my waistband.

I zipped up my jacket and put everything else that Frank had left me in the day sack. I deposited the weapon Mr Lover Man had doctored in the box, closed the lid and slid it back into its slot in the wall.

Laffont stood as I emerged.

‘My turn to ask the questions?’ I made it sound like one, but he knew it wasn’t.

He gave a brisk nod and sat down again.

‘The documents. Were they arranged by Frank’s bodyguard? The black guy? Because, if so, they’re already compromised.’

He shook his head. ‘No. They had to be done at speed, and with complete confidentiality. I arranged them personally.’

‘Tell me about the chateau on Lake Konstanz. His ex-wife’s place?’

‘That was certainly Monsieur Timis’s intention.’

‘And?’

‘And what?’

‘Is she living there now, or in Moscow?’

‘I only see the invoices. Mostly for building work. But, yes, she is overseeing the renovation personally.’

‘Tell me about her.’

He looked blank.

‘Is she to be trusted?’

‘Monsieur Timis went to great lengths to keep her happy when he was alive. Even after they—’

‘Is that a yes or a no?’

He hesitated long enough to make it more ‘no’ than ‘maybe’. Which was a fucker, because I’d been hoping she might be the safe place I needed for Stefan.

‘He seems to own an Italian shipping company. Nettuno. The blueprint—’

‘A recent acquisition.’ His turn to interrupt. He seemed to like that. ‘The due diligence was … rushed. I was not privy to the process.’

‘I got the impression that he wasn’t happy about it.’ I didn’t say Stefan had told me that – or that Frank might have done and I couldn’t remember.

‘I gather there are … were … complications.’

‘What complications?’

‘The kind that sometimes come with cargo … which has been transported from North Africa, Greece and Eastern Europe.’

‘Drugs- or people-trafficking?’

‘Is there a difference?’ Laffont’s look of distaste made me want to ask him how much he knew about the kind of businesses that had made his client Monsieur Timis his first few millions. Frank had done his best to go respectable over the last few years, but I was pretty certain all that shit was still not far beneath the surface.

Which made me think that whatever had rattled him enough to call me must be either very bad indeed or very personal.