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sticking to his body and his eyes tracked the men like an animal. They fanned out, Andrzej walking straight towards him and the others taking the flanks. The way they walked, so brazenly, it was clear they were amateurs. But he was outnumbered, slowed by the dope, and he’d lost his edge. A hundred yards away, some passers-by stopped, staring.
    ‘Don’t be stupid, my friend,’ called Andrzej. ‘Why are you being stupid?’
    Uzi glanced to his left and then bolted to his right, heading for a gap between two cars. One of the men tried to grab at him. Uzi gripped the man’s wrist and landed a heavy punch on his temple. They scuffled as the man went down, and in the process Uzi felt a swipe across his leg. He kicked the Pole hard against a parked car; the man crumpled and something fell from his hand. Uzi turned to run, but it was already too late. He was boxed in: Andrzej on one side, his second accomplice on the other. And both held butterfly knives.
    ‘You’re being stupid, my Russian friend,’ said Andrzej smiling. ‘Take a look at your leg.’ Uzi looked down. His trousers were flapping open and a bloody wound gaped in his thigh. ‘See? Business is business.’
    Uzi did not feel any pain, but the sight of his own blood enraged him. This was stupid, to get cut for the sake of a hundred pounds, to get cut by such amateurs. But still his rage was channelled, kept in check, in the old way. Andrzej’s companion looked away and in that instant Uzi sprang at him, twisting his knife hand away and butting him in the face, his Krav Maga training returning seamlessly to him. The man recoiled and bucked in an unexpected way, breaking free. Then he lunged and Uzi was just able to sidestep, spinning the man into the wall. But his knife caught his shoulder, and another gash appeared. This one Uzi felt. A sharp pain, like a paper cut. And now he felt the pain in his leg as well.
    ‘Your life is about to end here, far from home,’ said Andrzej. ‘Ask yourself if it is worth it. For two herds of cows in Russia.’ The other man stood panting, holding his knife at throat height. And now the other was picking himself up painfully from the ground. ‘Give me the bag or we will take it from your fingers when you’re bleeding in the gutter like a pig.’
    Suddenly, from between two parked cars, a figure stepped into view. A woman: elegant and slightly aloof, like an actress from an old film, too striking to be a woman in the street. She looked at Uzi, nodded, then focused on the Russians.
    ‘OK,’ she said slowly, ‘that’s enough.’ She slipped her hand into her Versace bag and a pistol glinted. Uzi recognised it at once; an American-made Taurus .22 snub-nosed revolver, two-inch barrel, nine-shot cylinder, optimal penetrating power. Just the weapon for a woman: compact and powerful. And she held it comfortably, like a professional. ‘Put the weapons down,’ said Eve. ‘Then fuck off. I’m only telling you once.’ It was only then that Uzi noticed a gang of five men standing in the shadows behind her.
    An odd expression came over Andrzej’s face, somewhere between admiration and fear. For a moment he caught Uzi’s eye, giving him a glance that penetrated to his soul. After what seemed like an age he dropped his knife to the ground and slipped off into the darkness, followed by his accomplices. Eve pursued them at a slow pace, holding the pistol, shepherding them away; her men followed too, in the shadows. Uzi saw his chance – he only had a split second – and bolted. He didn’t think Eve would follow him; he didn’t care who she was or what she wanted. Death was close now, and some ancient instinct was driving him on. He ran hard, veering around corners, as police sirens began to wail in the distance.

 
6
    Fifteen years ago, when the Office first approached Uzi – or Adam, as he was known then – it had come at the right time. His parents had been dead for exactly a year, and the storm that ripped through his