The building was old and unprepossessing, a relic of better days. Robert had visited it many times before, on various missions. He walked down three basement steps and knocked on the door. An eye appeared at the peephole, and a moment later the door was flung open.

“Roberto!” a man exclaimed. He threw his arms around Robert. “How are you, mio amico?”

The speaker was a fat man in his sixties with white, unshaven stubble, thick eyebrows, yellowed teeth and several chins. He closed the door behind him and locked it.

“I’m fine, Ricco.”

Ricco had no second name. For a man like me, he liked to boast, one name is enough. Like Garbo. “What can I do for you today, my friend?”

“I’m working on a case,” Robert said, “and I’m in a hurry. Can you fix me up with a passport?”

Ricco smiled. “Is the Pope Catholic?” He waddled over to a cabinet in the corner and unlocked it. “What country would you like to be from?” He

pulled out a handful of passports with different-coloured covers, and sorted through