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car Farsi had parked earlier that morning and drive it away.
    Farsi drove to the street adjacent to the Petrushkin and dropped Harvey off at the side of the road.
    ‘Give me three minutes, then bring the car round,’ Harvey said as he climbed out. He opened the boot and switched on the receiver, then slammed it shut and banged once on the roof of the car.
    He walked round the corner and saw the restaurant on the opposite side of the road. A lone man stood outside, trying to look casual as he studied his mobile phone, but the telltale signs were clear. The Russian glanced up every few seconds, taking in the passing traffic and footfall that trudged past the door. Harvey hoped that nothing about his disguise or behaviour would give the lookout cause to take an interest in him.
    Harvey walked to the car and, as expected, found a parking ticket stuck underneath the windscreen wiper. He snatched it up with an angry gesture and stuffed it into his pocket, then opened the car, climbing in gingerly as if his joints were protesting each movement. He put on his seatbelt and checked the side mirror, waiting for Farsi’s approach. Thankfully, traffic was light at eleven in the morning, and he saw the car pull out of the side road and approach him. He let it get closer, then indicated to pull out. As planned, Farsi flashed his headlights to let Harvey make the manoeuvre, then pulled into the slot that had just been vacated.
    Harvey drove around the corner and parked on double yellow lines, then discarded his disguise and donned a raincoat just as his colleague joined him.
    ‘You ready for this?’ Farsi asked.
    ‘Ready as I’ll ever be,’ Harvey replied, though the tension in his voice betrayed his true feelings. He was about to venture into the lion’s den, and after many hours looking at Bessonov’s file – not to mention the images of the recently deceased – he was under no illusions as to what to expect if things turned nasty.
    Harvey took a miniature bottle of whiskey from his pocket and rinsed his mouth with it, then rubbed a few drops on his neck and coat until he was satisfied that he smelled like he’d spent some time in a pub.
    ‘Wish me luck,’ he said, and climbed out of the car and into the rain shower that had started minutes earlier.
    He strolled clumsily round the corner and crossed the road, looking in the shop windows he passed. When he reached the Petrushkin, he stopped and looked at the menu in the window. He quickly realised why few real diners ever ventured inside. The cheapest starter cost more than fifteen pounds, and main meals began at forty-five. He guessed that was how Bessonov managed to account for such a high turnover for the company. He would ring up fake orders each day and put his own money in the till, enabling him to launder his ill-gotten gains through the business. It meant he paid only twenty per cent corporation tax, a small hit to take under the circumstances.
    Harvey had the transmitter cupped in his hand, the backing already removed to make it easier to attach it. His peripheral vision told him that the doorman had lost interest in him, probably assuming he was going to be put off by the prices, and he took the opportunity to dart inside. There were two dozen tables arranged along both walls, enough to seat more than fifty diners, though none was occupied. A solid silver samovar housed in a glass case dominated one wall, and reproduction Fabergé eggs dotted the room. Cooper’s notes told him that Bessonov always sat at the round table near the kitchen, so Harvey made his way to it before anyone could stop him.
    He sat down heavily at the empty table and managed to get the sticker attached to its underside before the waiter had time to come round from behind the counter and confront him.
    ‘Not there!’ the man shouted.
    Harvey raised his hands in the air, as if surrendering. ‘Whoa, chief! Calm down, will ya?’
    ‘You cannot sit there,’ the waiter repeated, urging him to