The boards were hammered roughly across the front of the shop. Put up quickly, noted Sam as he looked at the nails spliced through the wood. By someone who wanted to make sure another part of my life was sealed up in a tomb.

The lobby of the Banque Laboucherd was simple enough. The walls were wood paneled, and the sofas were freshly upholstered. On a coffee table, there was a display of British, American and local Swiss papers. Everything about the place smelt of money and purpose. If I was offered another life, I might well be a Swiss banker, reflected Sam. Good money, beautiful surroundings, low taxes. And all you had to do was keep your mouth shut. How hard could that be?

Elena brushed her lips against Sam’s forehead. Her long dark hair fell across her face, brushing against the skin of his lips.

“It’s going to be okay,” she said.

Sam nodded. “But it’s going to be tough for a while. There is no point in kidding ourselves.”

Joseph Rotanski had been the head of Mossad for three years. He regarded the Mossad as a bloated, secretive organisation, spending money freely, and delivering few results. Word had it that Rotanski was politically ambitious.

Only one unit had so far been exempt from his economising. Assassinations. They could spend what they wanted to. So long as they kept sending home the corpses.

But Sam hadn’t delivered for 9 months…

The hit. Sam and Joe are waiting in a car parked on Edgware Road in West London. Their target is about to emerge from a meal inside a Lebanese restaurant. This is the last hit on their list. When it is over, they can go home to their families….

Sam is in France to visit the mysterious Papa who trades in information - and lives. There is one name left on Sam’s hit-list - one more hit and then he can rest, for he is weary of the assassination business.

Sam Woolfman is the owner of an antique shop in London. He is visited by Selima Robertson, the daughter of the media tycoon Max Robertson, who died recently in mysterious circumstances. Selima claims she is looking for a rare French desk, a Gastou, but the conversation soon takes a different turn.