As a body bag on a gurney was wheeled towards the back of a waiting ambulance, he told us that Mrs Timis had not been seen since before the fire. Was it a tragic accident? The suicide of a grief-stricken widow? Or was there a more sinister link to the murder on the mountain?

The report ended with a close-up of a black and grey circle with a very pissed-off tiger at its centre, the badge on the police combat gear. And one more question: did the presence of TIGRIS mean they suspected a terrorist involvement? No member of the elite SF team was available for comment.

The shot of Stefan aged about five with Mr Lover Man’s disembodied hand on his shoulder filled the screen. It had gone viral, and already prompted 439 separate sightings, seventeen of which were in Bangkok.

The kid might be trying to elbow his way into my nightmares, but this made him seem a whole lot further away.

The bad news was that if the mum on the beach had time to catch this story between trips to the ice-cream van, she might put two and two together and make five. And since we’d been right up close, in daylight, the next e-fit had every chance of looking like me.

I ran through the flights to Naples from Zürich and Geneva, but decided it made no sense heading into Mafia country without checking what Laffont had found out about Nettuno first.

I clicked on the cross-box, finished my brew and stepped outside.

I assembled another Nokia as I walked down to the river. At this rate I was going to keep the Finnish economy on the rails singlehanded.

This time he answered.

We hadn’t agreed an ID code, so I just said two words. ‘Russia House.’

He didn’t reply immediately, but I could hear his breathing.

Then: ‘Peredelkino.’

‘I need some information. The shipping line. Frank’s Italian villa. In Brindisi.’

‘I … need your help.’ It must have cost the grey man a fuck of a lot to admit that. Which meant he was severely rattled. The smooth-talking arrogance he’d displayed at our meeting had gone. ‘I’ve found something.’

‘What?’

‘One of the vessels …’

‘Give me a name.’

‘I need to see you.’

‘From Libya?’

‘No. From the east … From Odessa. I can’t say more now. I need to see you.’

‘Are you safe?’

‘I am where we met.’

‘With security?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then get Mrs Laffont to join you, and stay there.’

I told him to switch off his cell phone and take out the battery and SIM card until five o’clock this evening. I’d contact him after that with instructions.

I unzipped my day sack and took out the blueprint Frank had left for me in his Albertville safe-deposit box. It was about as useful to me as a corporate balance sheet – filled with a mass of detail that you needed a different kind of brain to understand.

When I’d first seen it, I’d thought he was drawing my attention to Nettuno and the trafficking. Now it sounded like something more focused. What the fuck had he said to me? What was so important about this boat? He never did anything without a very good reason.

The more closely I examined the maze of interlocking blue lines, the more it did my head in. Only one thing was now clear to me: the name of the container vessel was Minerva.

I wasn’t the world’s leading expert on Roman mythology, but I knew that she was the goddess of all sorts of shit.

Including war.

23

I went in search of a bike shop. I needed a new helmet. I found a full-face job that could have doubled as an Apollo re-entry shield.

When I got back to Hitler’s bunker, the Harleys were still on parade outside, tipped over to the left. Some had their steering locks on, some didn’t. Zürich had to be one of the top ten places on the planet where rich men could congregate to show off their toys. Outside the US, only retired accountants and dentists seem able to fork out for one of these machines. Once the mortgage is paid and the kids have left home, forget the fact you’ve only ever ridden a moped, let’s get a Harley, why not? No wonder so many fifty-year-old European widows collected early on the life insurance.

I wasn’t after the newest, shiniest model in the range, but the oldest. It didn’t take long to find it. The Electra Glide had seen quite a few summers. Old guys favour them because both their seats are like armchairs. You can cruise for miles with your legs stretched out.

This one’s saddles had seen a lot of arse wear in their time, and gave mine a warm welcome. The chrome work was the metallic version of distinguished grey. There was only one bit of it that mattered to me: the ignition switch on the tank, immediately above the petrol cap. Engraved on its personalized cover were the words Live to Ride, Ride to Live.

Strangely, the ignition key wasn’t the ignition key on the older Harleys, which was why this one was my getaway vehicle of choice. All it did was free the ignition switch.

I pulled out my UZI and eased its tip beneath the lip of the cover, to engage the lug that locked it in position when you turned the key. I didn’t care if I broke off the lug. I didn’t even care if I broke off the switch. I could still fire it up by jamming the pen into the well and giving it a turn.

I found the lug, then pushed and shoved with both hands until it gave way. I turned on the ignition and hit the starter switch on the right side of the handgrip. 1700 ccs of throbbing manhood was immediately drowned out by the radio speakers on each side of the pillion behind me, banging out some classical violin.

I pulled in the clutch, kicked it into first, and headed for the open road.

I had almost reached Annecy by five. I took the exit off the main to the next rest area and stopped the Harley at the end of the row of parking spaces. There was a queue for the toilet, but that wasn’t what I was there for.

I took off my shiny new helmet, put it down on a picnic table, and rang Laffont’s number. It went straight to voicemail. I checked the Suunto: 17:03. Precision was supposed to be this lad’s middle name, but maybe he was losing his grip. When I’d called him from Zürich, his voice had been vibrating with tension.

I gave him ten minutes before trying again. I didn’t mind that. It gave me a chance to have another look at the map and run through the options for a meet. Two or three places to the north-west of Albertville seemed promising. Out-of-the-way places he could come to with his security people that had a variety of routes in and out. Places where I’d have time to arrive first and recce the RV point.

If he had a better suggestion, I’d listen. As long as it wasn’t on his doorstep. I’d got away with that once, and once was enough.

When he failed to pick up at both my next two attempts, it looked like I no longer had a choice. After I’d passed the truck stop near Ugine where I’d pulled in with Stefan, I stopped and punched the redial button one more time. Immediate voicemail. Not good. It was more than an hour since he should have powered up his mobile.

I swung back on to the road and carried straight on until I reached the outskirts of Albertville. The early-evening sky was the kind of blue you only see on the holiday ads, which made the plume of smoke rising from the old town difficult to miss. And the two police wagons blocking the street fifty away from the entrance to the Banque Privée pretty much confirmed that my meeting with Laffont had been cancelled.

I turned back to the nearest parking spot and joined the crowd of rubberneckers outside the cordon. The buildings on either side of Laffont’s HQ had been evacuated, and three fire crews were doing their best to stop the flames that were leaping out of every window from spreading.