Oh, that frosty look of Olivia's! Wasn't he even supposed to be civil?

"Do we have to change for dinner?" she asked.

Pieter surveyed her rather tight suit, very short skirt and low-cut blouse. "You look delightful as you are."

"I do not normally dress like this," said Olivia. "But as I am supposed to be his wife"-she jerked a thumb at Hamish-"I may as well look the part."

"Some of the top drug barons favour a French restaurant called Moulin Rouge. You may as well start to look part of the underworld scene."

"Will I have to talk to any of them?" asked Hamish. He caught Olivia's cold look and said impatiently, "Look, ma'am, the minute we go out, you are my wife and I'm the one who has to do the talking."

"Some may approach our table. I am known as a businessman, importer-exporter. You will not need to do any business. You're an associate of mine, that's all. But if anyone is watching, then it will create the right effect. Shall we go?"

As tall buildings, canals, bridges glittering with lights, and gaily painted boats flew past, Hamish longed to be able to get out and walk around. He felt quite sulky, rather like a child being taken to the seaside and told to stay indoors and do his homework. He didn't want to go to some French restaurant favoured by villains. He wanted to try Dutch cooking. He wanted to shop for souvenirs and take photographs. He began to wonder if he could give Olivia the slip the following day.

He was sitting in the back, Olivia in the front with Pieter, who was driving. Hamish looked out of the back window. There was a black BMW behind. He could not make out who was driving it. He waited a few minutes until Pieter had made a right-hand turn down a narrow street. There was now a little red car behind, two cyclists and, behind that, turning slowly into the street, the black BMW.

He kept glancing back. The BMW was always there, sometimes close behind them, sometimes letting two cars get between them.

On they went, now in a broad thoroughfare, past clanking trams, then another right-hand turn and along a side street, and finally in front of them in a square was the Moulin Rouge, not, despite its name, in an old windmill like some of the famous Amsterdam restaurants like De Molen De Dikkert, but a low modern building with a fake neon-illuminated windmill on its roof.

"There's parking round the back," said Pieter.

Hamish looked round as the car drove into the parking lot at the back of the restaurant. No BMW

They all got out and began to walk towards the front of the restaurant. Pieter and Olivia, arm in arm, walked ahead of Hamish into the restaurant. Despite its garish outside, inside was expensively quiet and smooth, expanses of white linen, mahogany and brass and the smells of good cooking.

"I'll be with you in a minute," Hamish called to the retreating backs of Pieter and Olivia, who were following the maître d' to a table in the far corner.

He went out of the restaurant and looked around. Then he walked quickly around to the car park. He stood in the shadows at the entrance. The black BMW was just being parked. Then the man Hamish called the Undertaker got out. Two other men also got out. The Undertaker said something to them and then got in behind the wheel. The two men began to walk out of the car park. One was small and swarthy, wearing a blazer with some improbable crest on the pocket and flannels with turn-ups and suede shoes. The other was taller, wearing a black leather jacket over jeans. He was bald, with a tired crumpled face.

"You'd better put a tie on, Sammy," said his companion. Glaswegians, thought Hamish. Jimmy White's men. He walked swiftly back to the restaurant.

He joined Olivia and Pieter. "They've caught up with us. Two of them are about to walk into the restaurant. And Olivia, dear, chust a wee point. You may be flaming mad with me but as you're supposed to be my wife, you don't walk ahead of me into a restaurant with another man. Here they come."

Olivia looked at them covertly over the top of a large leather-bound menu. "Look like a couple of idiots," she said. "Nonetheless, they have to report back. Is there any hope that your villainous friends will be here tonight?"

"Oh, I should think so," said Pieter. "Let's order."

"Is the food any good?" asked Hamish.

"What there is of it," said Pieter dryly.

It turned out to be nouvelle cuisine, that genre of cooking which saves any restaurateur great expense. Hamish, for the main course, had ordered pigeon. He looked gloomily down at two pigeon drumsticks on a bed of rocket, one small potato and one tomato cut to look like a flower.

"I would never have thought," he said to Pieter, "that the top honchos of the drug world would have dined in a place like this. I would have thought decent platefuls of food would have been more in their line."

"They feel safe with the proprietor."

"Oh, is that it? I'll need to order some sandwiches when I get back to the hotel."

"Ah, here's the American contingent."

"I'll need to change my ideas about what a drug baron's wife should wear," said Olivia, studying the newcomers. Two men, who looked exactly like wealthy American businessmen, were sitting down at a table in the centre with two women. One woman was a statuesque blonde in a slinky dress and very high heels. She had a beautiful face and her makeup was perfect. The other woman was middle-aged, in a smart silk trouser suit, her iron-grey hair carefully styled. Olivia looked ruefully down at her own plunging blouse and push-up bra. "Trust the powers that be to think I had to dress like a tart. Will they come over?"

"They'll probably drop by the table to exchange a few words. They're well known in the drug world, so your minders will have something to talk about. It looks like being a quiet night, so you're lucky they've turned up."

Hamish looked in amusement at the two Glaswegians, who were staring at the tiny portions on their plates as if they couldn't believe their eyes.

They were just finishing their coffee when one of the Americans approached their table. He was a large man with a gin-and-sauna face.

"Evening, Pieter," he said.

"Evening, Gus. Let me introduce you. This is Hamish George, a Scottish businessman, and his wife, Olivia. Hamish, Olivia, Gus Peck."

Gus drew up a chair and sat down. "And what's your line of business, Hamish?" he asked.

"Same as Pieter's," said Hamish. "Import-export."

"How about that?" said Gus, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'm in the same line of business myself. Where are you staying?"

"The Hilton."

"Vacation?"

"Business and pleasure."

"Hope to see you around. Pieter knows where to find me."

He rose and smiled expansively and went back to his table.

"I hope that does some good," said Hamish. "But will our minders know who he is?"

"They'll probably get his name from the maître d' and phone it to Jimmy White and Jimmy White will recognise the name. Gus is big."

"If you know all these villains, it stands to reason the police know who they are," said Hamish. "So why don't they pick them up?"

Pieter shrugged. "All these sort of men have impeccable cover. I just keep my ear to the ground and tip the police off from time to time if I get word of any shipments of drugs, but not too often. I have my own cover to maintain."

Olivia stifled a yawn. "Let's go. I'm tired. What's on the cards for tomorrow?"

"I'll take you to a nightclub tomorrow evening where they all hang out," said Pieter. "We don't really need to do anything during your week. Just be seen in all the right places."

"Our minders don't seem to be following," said Olivia as they left the restaurant.

"It's more important to them to stay behind," said Hamish, "and find out Gus's identity. Besides, they know where we're staying."