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I was happy, too.

I clumped into the room in my cycling shoes. André gave me a towel and showed me where the bathroom was. The floor was covered in black marble. When I looked more closely at the dark-red tiles with hieroglyphic motifs on the walls, I saw little Egyptian figures on racing bikes.

Ludmilla Laura had prepared a Russian speciality, something with ground beef and cabbage. We ate in silence.

‘What did you think,’ asked André, ‘when you saw me in court? What a bastard?’

‘I’ve passed that stage.’

‘I wouldn’t have blamed you for thinking that. I was a bastard. And I enjoyed it.’

‘You don’t have to defend yourself.’

He smiled and took a second helping.

‘I was a sophisticated trader, make no mistake about it.’ He said ‘trader’, not ‘dealer’. ‘I saw politicians on TV pretending to be squeaky clean, though I had delivered a fresh supply to them the day before. Well-known names from TV, captains of industry, bankers. Oh, Bart, do I have to tell you that? You’re a journalist, aren’t you? Why do you think I got away with it?’