‘It was one of four that Caravaggio completed in Sicily in 1609 while he was on the run for stabbing someone to death,’ she said. ‘We have it down as being worth twenty million dollars, but it would go for much more, even in today’s market.’

‘What about the theft itself?’

‘October sixteenth, 1969,’ she recited from memory. ‘The crime reports say that the thieves cut it out of its frame over the altar of the Oratory of San Lorenzo in Palermo with razor blades and escaped in a truck. Probably a two-man team.’

‘I’d guess three,’ Tom corrected her. ‘It’s big – nearly sixty square feet. I’m not sure two men could have handled it.’

‘At the time, people blamed the Sicilian mafia?’ Her statement was framed as a question.

‘It’s always looked to me like an amateur job,’ Tom replied with a shake of his head. ‘Couple of local crooks who’d thought through everything except how they were going to sell it. If the Sicilian mafia have got it now, it’s because no one else was buying or because they decided to just take it. The Cosa Nostra don’t like people operating on their turf without permission.’

‘And no one’s ever seen it since?’

‘I’ve heard rumours over the years,’ Tom sighed. ‘That it had surfaced in Rome, or maybe even been destroyed in the Naples earthquake in 1980. Then a few years ago, a mafia informer claimed to have rolled it up inside a rug and buried it in an iron chest. When they went to dig it up, the chest was empty.’

‘What do you think?’

‘If you ask me, it’s been with the Cosa Nostra the whole time. Probably traded between capos as a gift or part payment on a deal.’

‘Which would mean that the mafia are behind the sale now?’

‘If not the mafia, then someone who has stolen it from them,’ Tom agreed. ‘Either way, they’ll be dangerous and easily spooked. If we’re lucky, they’ll just run if they smell trouble. If we’re not, they’ll start shooting.’ A pause. ‘That’s why I came.’

‘I can look after myself,’ she said pointedly; irritated, it seemed, by what he was implying. ‘I didn’t ask you here to watch my back.’

‘I’m here because I know how these people think,’ Tom insisted. ‘And the only back that will need watching is mine.’

Amalfi Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas

17th March – 9.27 p.m.

Ever since going freelance, Kyle Foster had never met or even spoken to his handler. It was safer that way. For both of them. Besides, what would have been the fucking point? All he needed was a name, a photograph and fifty per cent of his fee in his Cayman Islands account. Why complicate things with a face or a voice when he could just email the details through and save them both the trouble? Assuming the handler was a guy, of course. There was no real way of knowing. A broad in this line of business? Not unheard of, but rare. Maybe he should suggest a meet after all?

His PDA vibrated on the glass table in front of him, breaking into his thoughts. Swinging his feet to the floor he sat forward, muting the TV so he could concentrate on the message rather than the squeals of the girl being screwed by her twin sister wearing a strap-on.

It was the photo he noticed first, his boulderlike face breaking into something resembling a smile at life’s occasional burst of comic irony; he knew this person, or rather he’d come across them before on a previous job. Beneath it was a simple message:

Target confirmed arriving LAS tonight. Terminate with extreme prejudice.

Good, he thought, climbing on to the bed. He hated being kept waiting, especially now the minibar was running dry and he’d cycled through both the porn channels.

Unscrewing the ceiling grille, he lifted down a black US Navy Mark 12 Special Purpose Rifle from where he’d hidden it inside the AC duct and began to disassemble it. This weapon was a recent issue to US Special Forces in the Middle East and he liked what they had done with it, producing a rifle with a greater effective range than an M4 Carbine, while still being shorter than a standard-issue M16. He especially appreciated that although it had been chambered for standard NATO rounds, it performed much better with a US-made Sierra Bullets MatchKing 77-grain hollow-point boat-tail bullet, although for jobs like this he preferred using his own bespoke ammunition.

Stripped down, the dismembered weapon parts lay on the crisp linen sheets like instruments on a surgeon’s tray. Laying a white hand-towel down next to them, he carefully arranged the pieces on it and then rolled it into a tight bundle that he secured shut by wrapping duct tape around it several times. Shaking the trussed-up towel hard to make sure nothing rattled, he placed it in his backpack.

Draining the last of the whisky, he turned his attention to his uniform, pulling on his red jacket and ensuring that his buttons were straight and done up right under his chin. Not quite as smart as the Army Green hanging in his wardrobe back in Charlotte, carefully positioned so you could see the gold flash of his Rangers badge through the plastic, but it would serve its purpose. He doubted the dry-cleaning company had even noticed that it had been taken from its storeroom, and as for the waiter whose security pass he’d stolen and doctored…well, he wouldn’t be missing anything anytime soon.

Finally, he smoothed down his light brown hair, almost not recognising himself without his straggly beard. That was one thing that had thrown him about Vegas. You could walk around in an Elvis suit or with a twelve-foot albino python around your neck and nobody would give you a second look. But wander more than twenty feet down the strip with a beard and people would stare at you like you were a freak in a circus side-show.

In the end, he’d had no choice but to shave it off. How else to blend in with the casino staff? How else to get where he needed to be, to take the shot?

McCarran International Airport, Nevada

17th March – 10.37 p.m.

‘Kezman’s laying it on pretty thick,’ Tom observed as the plane taxied to a halt and the stairs folded down. A stretched white Hummer emblazoned with a gilded letter ‘A’ was waiting to greet them, its neon undercarriage staining the apron blue. ‘First the jet. Now this. What does he want?’

‘A friendly word with the Nevada Gaming Control Board,’ Stokes growled, as he pushed past Tom and stepped through the doorway. An unmarked FBI escort vehicle was drawn up behind the limo and he gestured at them to follow. ‘One of his pit bosses was caught dealing ecstasy to some college kids out here on spring break and he doesn’t want to lose his gaming licence.’

An envelope was waiting for them on the white leather seat, together with three glasses and a bottle of Cristal on ice. To Jennifer’s surprise, it was addressed to her. She opened it with a puzzled frown which relaxed into a slow nod as she realised what it was.

‘Status update from my other case,’ she explained as she flicked through it, guessing that someone in the escort vehicle must have been entrusted with it to pass on to her. Nodding, Stokes shuffled further along the seat towards the driver and reached for his phone.

‘Bad news?’ Tom asked eventually, his question prompting her unconscious scowl to fade into a rueful smile.

‘Isn’t it always?’ she replied, placing the typed pages down next to her.

‘Anything I can help with?’

She paused, her eyes locked with his. Discussing a live investigation with a civilian, let alone a civilian with Tom’s flawed credentials, wasn’t exactly standard procedure. Then again, her case wasn’t exactly standard either, and she had learned to value his opinion. Besides, who would know? Certainly not Stokes, whom she could overhear noisily checking on the money and making sure that Las Vegas Metro weren’t playing their usual jurisdictional games.