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‘So … who is this?’ Kroshtov asked Pallesson, pointing at Corbett as he banged his vodka glass on the table hard enough to make it quite clear that he expected a straight answer.

Pallesson would have liked to have been able to lie. It didn’t look good, getting followed to a drop by one of his own. But it wouldn’t be hard for the Russian to discover who Corbett was. Dead or alive.

‘He’s one of ours,’ Pallesson admitted. ‘He must have followed me.’

‘Why are you here? Who sent you?’ Kroshtov asked the hooded Corbett, who was still lying sprawled on the terrace.

‘Pallesson asked me to cover his back.’

‘He’s full of shit. Oleg can dispose of him,’ said Pallesson.

Kroshtov took orders from no one. He picked up his hunting rifle, made sure there was a shell in the breach and handed it to Pallesson.

‘Your problem. You solve it. Take him down to the jetty.’

Kroshtov clearly welcomed an opportunity to demonstrate that he was in command. Barry Nuttall knocked back the rest of his vodka as he watched Oleg frogmarch Corbett out on to the jetty. He wondered how Pallesson could be so sure their gatecrasher was working alone. The last thing they needed was MI6 crawling all over them. He admired the man’s balls, though, even if he did dress like a Hampstead queer.

Max laid completely still behind the rocks he was using as cover. He knew there was every chance they’d be scouring the hillside, looking for any sign of movement. If he didn’t attract attention, they’d probably miss him. Unless they had heat-seeking equipment.

Small, sharp stones were sticking into his elbows, and the undergrowth was clawing at him through his thin trousers. He tried to push all discomfort from his mind. The slightest movement would expose him.

This situation really was an utter shambles. That was the problem with instinct. The fact that your instincts had proved right counted for nothing if you didn’t have the ability to deal with the scenario facing you. Max challenged whatever was stabbing his thigh to hurt even more. It focused his mind.

One of the Russians led Corbett halfway along the jetty and left him there. Max could see Pallesson was following closely behind with the rifle. It was pretty clear what was going to happen next.

‘You bastard,’ Max muttered under his breath.

It crossed his mind that he could create a diversion to buy Corbett time. But putting himself at such risk went against his training. His heart was telling him to do one thing; his head another.

He assumed that Corbett would be talking to Pallesson through the hood. Whatever he said made no difference. Without warning, Pallesson raised the rifle to his shoulder.

Max saw Corbett’s head explode before he heard the shot echo off the other side of the lake. The body slumped on to the jetty.

Pallesson walked back up to the dacha and handed the rifle to Kroshtov.

‘Good thinking, getting him on to the jetty. Very messy,’ he said coolly. ‘Now, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?’

Kroshtov issued some more orders. A man emerged from the dacha with a small metal case, followed by another carrying kilo bricks of heroin wrapped in heavy black plastic.

Pallesson had felt fear many times in his life; not least when his father used to come into his bedroom to beat him with his belt for not being asleep. But he had learnt to mask his fear by focusing on a particular spot on the carpet. He’d never let his father see that he was afraid.

As he walked over to the table and opened the metal case his hands were shaking. By placing his body in the way, he made sure Kroshtov couldn’t see his fingers fumbling with the catches. He’d killed before, of course. Not that anyone had ever pointed the finger at him when his brother died. It had been accepted as a tragic accident. Two young boys ragging in a pool. The elder hit his head and drowned. After that the beatings stopped.

He tore himself back to the present and opened the metal case. Inside gleamed the Fabergé egg that he’d lodged with Kroshtov as collateral. A show of good faith that he and Barry Nuttall were good for the two million euros. Once the deal was completed, he would resume ownership of the treasure.

Pallesson was momentarily transfixed by the forbidden treasure. It had been made in 1894 and on the top of the egg was the image of Nicholas II, encircled by rose-cut diamonds. It was covered by translucent, dark-red enamel patterned with diamonds and was lined with off-white velvet. Sadly the ‘surprise’ inside the egg had long gone.

Until recently, it had been stored in a vault under the Hermitage Museum in St Petersburg. But its presence had now been erased from the records.

Pallesson took the egg out of its box and held it in front of him. He wanted to see it glint in the sunlight.

‘Two million euros?’ Pallesson confirmed with Barry.

Barry Nuttall nodded and opened his cases. He fondly ran his hand over the two million euros, giving them a paternal parting pat. Then he walked over to the bricks of ‘gear’ and picked one of them up.

‘A hundred kilos?’ he checked. Kroshtov nodded.

‘Well, if it’s okay with you, I’ll get this lot loaded up and be on my way back to Blighty. Budem zdorovy, as they say in Essex.’

Pallesson snapped the Fabergé egg’s metal case shut and turned to Kroshtov.

‘Looks like we’re done. Nice doing business with you, Sergei.’

Max lay on his back and focused on the clouds. He’d just witnessed his nemesis blow off the head of his colleague in front of a bunch of Russians of whom he knew nothing. He had no idea what had been going on outside the dacha. He didn’t even know whether either Pallesson or Corbett were on official business. His instincts told him Pallesson was working for himself. And that he’d just murdered a British agent.

Max had known for too long that Pallesson was an evil son of a bitch. It was time to stop him. Time to get revenge. But he also knew that Pallesson was a master of compromise and blackmail. If he reported what he’d witnessed to someone under Pallesson’s spell, it would be he who would be destroyed, not Pallesson.

He wasn’t sure he could even risk confiding in Tryon, the man who’d recruited him into ‘the Office’.

1 (#ulink_64ed1a14-5ce8-5758-a9e0-e6890a3867fd)

Monaco

Max Ward had to get out of bed when room service arrived with their breakfast. Gemma was pretending to be asleep. He slipped a ten-euro note into the waiter’s hand and asked him to park the trolley by the window.

Max wanted to have breakfast with Gemma, so he poured her some coffee, added the exact amount of hot milk that she expected and took it through to the bedroom.

She was lying with her back to him, welded to the sheets in semi-slumber.

‘Coffee?’ he asked, sitting on the bed. She made an appreciative noise and rolled on to her back, keeping her eyes shut. Max slid his clenched hand under the sheet and found her knee. Then he started to stroke the inside of her thigh with the back of his fingers. She pulled the pillow over her face. Max opened his hand and rubbed an ice cube up her thigh.

‘Oh no, you don’t,’ she said as her head jolted up from under the pillow.

‘Breakfast then?’

While Gemma headed for the bathroom, Max sat down at the small table and gazed across the harbour. A wooden water taxi struggled from one side to the other, dwarfed by the super yachts.

Gemma barely bothered to do up her dressing gown as she ambled towards him. Max thought about grabbing her and taking her back to bed, but his boiled eggs were getting cold. And they’d cut his toast soldiers half an inch wide, exactly as he liked them.

As she sat down, Gemma looked out of the window. Two women were power-walking down the Parcours Princesse Grace – followed discreetly by a bored minder. She wondered when they’d last had sex with their husbands.

Max leant over and kissed her. Then he set about his eggs.

‘Why did they do that?’ Max wondered aloud as he returned his attention to the window. ‘Why did they cover this place in higher and higher concrete boxes? Jesus, you’d be pissed off if they’d trashed your view with that monstrosity, wouldn’t you?’ he asked, pointing at a recent erection that had blocked the sea view – any view, in fact – from the equally offensive apartment blocks behind it.

‘Greed,’ suggested Gemma.

‘No one lives in them anyway,’ Max said as he decapitated one of his eggs. ‘They’re tax bolt-holes. As long as you get your cleaner to run the taps every day and turn on the lights, they can’t prove you’re not living here.’