Lyubkhin, the Mafiya’s man on the docks, approached before the discussion could develop into an all-out brawl.

‘How are things?’ asked the bear-like Yakut.

Vassikin spat over the quay wall. ‘How do you think? Did you find anything?’

‘Dead fish and broken crates,’ said the Yakut, offering both enforcers a steaming mug. ‘Nothing alive. It’s been over eight hours now. I have good men searching all the way down to Green Cape.’

Kamar drank deeply, then spat in disgust. ‘What is this stuff? Pitch?’

Lyubkhin laughed. ‘Hot cola. From the Fowl Star. It’s coming ashore by the crate-load. Tonight we are truly on the Bay of Kola.’

‘Be warned,’ said Vassikin, spilling the liquid on to the snow. ‘This weather is souring my temper. So no more terrible jokes. It’s enough that I have to listen to Kamar.’

‘Not for much longer,’ muttered his partner. ‘One more sweep and we call off the search. Nothing could survive these waters for eight hours.’

Vassikin held out his empty cup. ‘Don’t you have something stronger? A shot of vodka to ward off the cold? I know you always keep a flask hidden somewhere.’

Lyubkhin reached for his hip pocket, but stopped when the walkie-talkie on his belt began to emit static. Three short bursts.

‘Three squawks. That’s the signal.’

‘The signal for what?’

Lyubkhin hurried down the docks, shouting back over his shoulder.

‘Three squawks on the radio. It means that the K9 unit has found someone.’

The survivor was not Russian. That much was obvious from his clothes.

Everything, from the designer suit to the leather overcoat, had obviously been purchased in Western Europe, perhaps even America. They were tailored to fit, and made from the highest-quality material.

Though the man’s clothes were relatively intact, his body had not faredso well. His bare feet and hands were mottled with frostbite. One leg hung strangely limp below the knee, and his face was a horrific mask of burns.