The younger, dark-haired man in the expensive vicuña overcoat who peered over his shoulder was called Michael Aroun. He whispered in French, “This is ridiculous. He can’t be our man. He looks like nothing.”

“A serious mistake many people have made, Michael,” Makeev said. “Now wait and see.”

The bell tinkled as the outer door swung open, rain blowing in, and the two men entered who had been waiting in the doorway as Dillon crossed the square. One of them was over six feet tall, bearded, an ugly scar running into the right eye. The other was much smaller, and they were dressed in reefer coats and denims. They looked exactly what they were, trouble.

They stood at the bar and the old man looked worried. “No trouble,” the younger one said. “We only want a drink.”

The big man turned and looked at Dillon. “It seems as if we’ve got one right here.” He crossed to the table, picked up Dillon’s glass and drank from it. “Our friend doesn’t mind, do you?”

Without getting out of his chair Dillon raised his left foot and stamped downwards against the bearded man’s kneecap. The man went down with a choked cry, grabbing at the table, and Dillon stood. The bearded man tried to pull himself up and sank into one of the chairs. His friend took a hand from his pocket, springing the blade of a gutting knife, and Dillon’s left hand came up holding the Walther PPK.

“On the bar. Christ, you never learn, people like you, do you? Now get this piece of dung on his feet and out of here while I’m still in a good mood. You’ll need the casualty department of the nearest hospital, by the way. I seem to have dislodged his kneecap.”