The search crew had carried him from a ravine three klicks south of the harbour on a makeshift tarpaulin stretcher. The men crowded around their prize, stamping their feet against the cold that invaded their boots. Vassikin elbowed his way through the gathering, kneeling for a closer look.

‘He’ll lose the leg for sure,’ he noted. ‘A couple of fingers too. The face doesn’t look too good either.’

‘Thank you, Doctor Mikhael,’ commented Kamar drily. ‘Any ID?’

Vassikin conducted a quick thief’s search. Wallet and watch.

‘Nothing. That’s odd. You’d think a rich man like this would have some personal effects, wouldn’t you?’

Kamar nodded. ‘Yes, I would.’ He turned to the circle of men. ‘Ten seconds, then there’ll be trouble. Keep the currency, everything else I need returned.’

The sailors considered it. The man was not big. But he was Mafiya, the Russian organized-crime syndicate.

A leather wallet sailed over the crowd, skidding into a dip in the tarpaulin. Moments later it was joined by a Car tier chronograph. Gold with diamond studding. Worth five years of an average Russian’s wages.

‘Wise decision,’ said Kamar, scooping up the treasure trove.

‘Well?’ asked Vassikin. ‘Do we keep him?’

Kamar pulled a platinum Visa card from the kidskin wallet, checking the name.

‘Oh we keep him,’ he replied, activating his mobile phone. ‘We keep him, and put some blankets over him. The way our luck’s going, he’ll catch pneumonia. And believe me, we don’t want anything to happen to this man. He’s our ticket to the big time.’

Kamar was getting excited. This was completely out of character for him.

Vassikin clambered to his feet. ‘Who are you calling? Who is this guy?’

Kamar picked a number from his speed-dial menu. ‘I’m calling Britva.