Meanwhile, in the penthouse of the Lauterbrunnen Golf Club, Mr Reto Vandeveer was expecting a visitor. The room he was in looked very expensive, with oak-panelled walls, a solid wood desk and green carpeting. There was also a pair of crossed golf clubs on the back wall behind the desk that made it almost look like a coat of arms.

Mr Vandeveer, a.k.a. 'Der Schwarzer Brei' — or, to put it in English, 'The Black Porridge' — had a flawless reputation amongst those who knew for being the go-to man for the Mob. He was the one who had managed to help Andrei Sreka out of jail after his conviction.

'Mr Vandeveer,' came over a secretarial voice from over the intercom, 'there is a visitor here for you. He says his name is Andrew Smith.'

'Excellent!' said Vandeveer into the intercom. 'Send him in.'

After Reto Vandeveer let go of the intercom button, he pressed a button to unlock the door. In walked Andrei Sreka.

'Ah, Andrei, come in, sit down.' Vandeveer stood up and motioned Andrei towards a very comfortable-looking chair on the other side of the desk.

'Thank you, Mr Vandeveer,' Sreka said politely.

' assume you've come to me with another request.'

'No, I've been sent by the others to tell you that we are ready to go. Tonight.'

'Tonight?' Vandeveer looked annoyed.

'There is... additional pressure,' Sreka said diplomatically.

'From the Cult, no doubt,' Reto said in disgust. He stood up and, walking past Sreka, began pacing around the room. 'Neither you nor I fear those rabid ideologues, Sreka.' Andrei bowed his head. 'We tread our own path. As you well know, this is a business arrangement. They are our partners and in any business there are always senior partners and junior partners. I will not be dictated to!' Fuming, Vandeveer returned to his desk, sat down aggressively in his armchair and perched his chin on a clenched fist. Andrei stayed silent.

Finally, Reto said, 'If we are going ahead so soon, I want extra security.'

'Who?' Andrei asked, surprised at this request.

There was a knock at the door. Vandeveer and Sreka's eyes met.

'The others won't like this,' Andrei said darkly.

'They will just have to learn to live with it. Come in!' shouted Vandeveer.

'Ah!' Reto grinned. 'This, Andrei, is Slepp Tonnajobb, an ex-courier assassin. Known throughout the world as the only delivery man who actually gives paper cuts that kill!'

'If he's famous then why did you hire —' began Sreka.

'Silence!' Vandeveer commanded. 'Show him, Slepp.'

The assassin bowed, placed the box on the floor, then produced five envelopes from his jacket and fanned them out between his fingers. In one movement he flicked them at the window, which reached from ceiling to floor. The letters ruffled as they smacked the pane, then fluttered to the ground.

'I don't see any extra security,' Sreka said witheringly.

'Look closer...' Vandeveer urged.

Sreka got off his seat and went to the window and squinted. The pane had five tiny scratches etched in the glass. The Russian nodded, more in confusion than admiration. 'Impressive,' he said, trying to not ask it as a question. He sniffed, trying to mask his distaste for the foppery, as he saw it, of a courier assassin. Andrei favoured guns and explosives as methods of dispatching foes. 'Where was the artistry in flicking envelopes at....' he started to say.

His train of thought was disrupted as the movement of air caused by his exhalation disturbed the fragile equilibrium of the window; the pane shattered, leaving a perfectly formed snowflake carved out of glass. He turned to look at Slepp, who winked, clicked his heels together, nodded at Vandeveer and marched out of the room. Andrei returned to his seat.

Reto sank into his over-large leather chair and steepled his fingers, looked over his half-moon spectacles and smiled a smile like a slice of watermelon with razorblades in. 'Let us talk about... diamonds,' he said.

Vandeveer stood up once more and walked towards, a drinks cabinet where he opened a secret door. 'Follow me,' he said. Behind the door was a lift, which they both got into. Vandeveer carried on. 'I have a plan.'

'Do I come into it at all?'

Vanderveer smiled. 'Of course, Andrei. But I will come to that later.'

The lift continued downward and eventually settled in a basement. As the doors opened, they came in to a brightly-lit corridor that eventually lead to a small cell.

'In here,' said Vandeveer, 'is the most brilliant man in the world.' Andrei looked in to a small window through a metal door. Inside, in a tiny cell, sat a small old man at a desk, drawing.

'Have you ever held the moon in your hands, Mr Sreka?' asked the old man, who spoke with an accent Sreka could not immediately recognise.

Andrei was stunned. 'How does he know my name?' he quietly asked Vandeveer.

'We have no secrets here, Andrei,' Vandeveer said smiling, which Sreka knew to be anything but kindly.

The man in the cell addressed Reto. 'Herr Schwarzer Brei, one thing I don't understand is why you feel the need to keep me constantly locked up?' He set down a pencil on the desk and pulled his spectacles down his nose to peer directly at the crime-boss.

'Your condition won't allow it, as you well know.'

'I'm still a prisoner.'

'That was your friends who requested you be locked up. You did try to run away, after all.' Sfret was silenced. Vandeveer sensed this change in momentum: 'I assure you, Mr Sfret, as long as you keep your side of the bargain, everything will work out.'

'I presume you have sent them all the materials necessary to complete it, then?' Sfret asked.

'I've been diverting supplies through Afghanistan to your project for months now. It will be built.'

'A tremendous pity,' Sfret said gloomily.

'Now, we've had this discussion before, haven't we?' sighed Vandeveer. 'Understand, I want a peaceful world for my children, Mr Sfret. I just want to be in charge of that peaceful world.'

Meanwhile, just across the road from the Lauterbrunnen Golf Club was a small, homely, family-run hotel. As was the style, the interior was completely decked out with wood and an open fire — something that struck X as tempting fate in a rather gratuitous fashion. X was sat all alone in the bar downstairs. A deficiency of beer mats meant he had very little to occupy his meandering attention. Currently, he was trying to out-stare the crested moose head on the wall. He hadn't seen Arthur for a good 40 minutes, not since he'd booked a room and he and the blonde woman had gone upstairs. 'Interrogation', Arthur had called it. 'Whatever,' thought X, and went to flip the beer mat he forgot wasn't actually there and rapped his knuckles painfully on the solid wooden table.

As X sat there sucking on his fist to ease the swelling, he took some stock of his surroundings. The doors to the bedrooms were up some stairs opposite the raised bar and stools where X had planted himself. Walking underneath the mounted moose head, the stairs led up to a gantry that ran along the second story of the open-plan building. It was a very small hotel — exclusive, you might say. There were only seven rooms. He hadn't seen any backpacks or excessive facial hair, so concluded this probably wasn't the place students go on gap-years. He'd seen a fair number of suits around, though.

While this fairly trivial fact tugged on X's brain stem, vying for some more critical attention, one of the doors above creaked open. X had hoped it might have been Arthur, but it wasn't. Instead, a slight man in an immaculately-cut suit emerged from Room 2, straightening his lapels and holding on tight to a severe-looking silver briefcase. His skin was rather pale and he was also noticeably bald. He reminded X of a younger version of Telly Savalas. As he turned to come downstairs, X noticed something else that was odd: the briefcase he was carrying was handcuffed to his wrist.

The man marched stiffly down the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he planted the suitcase on the ground and with his free hand bent down and reached into his jacket pocket. Instantly, X tensed every nerve in his being, but resisted the urge to dive for cover. The man retrieved an overly large pair of sunglasses and squinted slightly as he looked towards the glass-fronted door leading to foyer and the street outside. X knew something was amiss: the extra-sensory awareness all spies develop when danger is near was tingling like a bad dose of cramp. He was about to fly into action when Arthur emerged from Room 3, leaned over the rail and called for X to come up. X hesitated as the man pushed open the door and left.

'X!' hissed Arthur, beckoning him to come up the stairs.

'I'm coming, I'm coming,' X muttered he double-timed the steps. 'What? What is it?'

'She doesn't know anything,' Arthur said, furrowing his brow.

'Eh?' X mouthed as Arthur removed a latex glove from his hand finger by finger.

'But I thought...'

'She just wouldn't crack. I even tried the truth-serum,' he said, pocketing the bottle of sodium amobarbital. 'I have established,' he said, taking a deep breath and desperately trying to retain some sense of professional pride in front of his partner, 'that she once stole cookies from her mother when she was five.'

X tiptoed slightly to peer over Arthur's shoulder. He could just make out the chair turned around, back facing the bed, and the angle-poise lamp turned upright on a small cabinet.

'But I thought you... and... y'know...' X gestured.

'Hmm? God, no!' said Arthur, adjusting his tie. 'I am a professional. I'm not like you with your sordid little obsession with Agent XXX¹. Half of division has seen your doe-eyed fawning whenever you are around her. It's like a schoolboy, you really ought to know better.'

'I'm weak,' X said, hanging his head in shame. 'By the way, I saw this shifty-looking bloke leave here about two minutes ago with a suitcase handcuffed to his wrist,' he said, trying to redeem himself.

'What?' said Arthur, snapping back to attention. 'Why didn't you say so earlier? Quickly, let's get after him.'

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