Dolohov’s body started to go limp. Sam held firm. The struggling ceased, so he relaxed his grip; as the man fell to the ground he manoeuvred his arms under Dolohov’s armpits and gently lowered him to the floor. Two fingers against his neck. A pulse. Sam nodded with satisfaction.

He had to move quickly. Violence like that affected different people in different ways. He could be out for five minutes or thirty seconds. Sam had to restrain his prisoner before he woke.

Running to the entrance of the room he switched the main light on and took a moment to get his bearings. He was in the room that he had seen leading off the entrance hallway. It was plush. Next to the fire there was a comfortable, intricately upholstered armchair and on the opposite wall an antique chaise longue. At one end of the room were big windows looking out over a long garden far below and the roofs and towers of London beyond. Thick, corded curtains hung on either side. There was art on the walls, rich rugs on the floor and books seemingly everywhere.

Sam approached the long table in the middle of the room. He disconnected the light from its socket, then, with a sharp tug, pulled the flex from the lamp. Returning to the body on the floor, he bent down and pulled Dolohov up, plonking him on the chair which had been positioned behind the lamp. He took the flex and wound it tightly round the man’s body, arms and around the back of the chair, before tying it tightly. Dolohov could wake up any second, but he wouldn’t be going anywhere in a hurry. It gave Sam a chance to explore the house a bit.

To find the tools he needed.

He drew the curtains first, then made sure the front door was locked from the inside. The little kitchen, which was reached by a thin corridor that led off the main hallway, was modern and scrupulously tidy. An unopened bottle of vodka sat on the side. Sam grabbed it, twisted the top open and took a gulp. The fierce alcohol warmed him immediately as he started to rummage through the kitchen drawers. There were plenty of knives, good sharp ones, but it was the sturdy set of poultry shears that caught his attention. He added them to his stash, then helped himself to a few tea towels that were neatly piled up. Rummaging though a cupboard he found a small culinary blowtorch. His man obviously fancied himself as a chef, but he wouldn’t be making brûlées tonight. He found a drawer containing a set of DIY tools for odd jobs – pliers, a hammer, two standard-sized screwdrivers. Sam took the pliers. Walking back into the main room, he placed everything on the table. Then he turned back and surveyed Dolohov, whose head was drooping onto his chest.

In the Regiment they called it field interrogation. Torture by any other name, of course. Earnest politicians denounced it in public, but their special forces were well trained in extracting information by whatever means necessary. Sam had long since lost any squeamishness about the Regiment’s methods and he wasn’t in the mood to mess about. Was he going to torture an innocent man? He shook his head. The guy in front of him oozed many things. Innocence wasn’t one of them. Once you’d done this enough times, you got a feel for these things.

Dolohov stirred. He raised his pale face and looked at Sam with the confused expression of someone waking from a long sleep. It took a few seconds for him to remember what was happening; when he did, he stared at Sam with undisguised hate. His eyes flickered towards the gun on the table, but there was no way he could reach it.

Sam took the bottle of vodka, then approached his captive, raising the bottle to Dolohov’s lips.

‘Drink?’ he offered.

Dolohov turned his head away and muttered something. It sounded like Russian. It also didn’t sound very polite.

Sam inclined his head, took a swig, then replaced the bottle on the table. He walked round to the back of Dolohov’s chair, bent down and spoke just inches from his ear. ‘I’m going to give you one chance,’ he whispered, ‘to tell me absolutely everything you know. Who you are. What you do. Believe me, Dolohov, you don’t want to fuck around.’

A pause. And then Dolohov spoke. ‘I teach in a university,’ he said. His English accent had slipped. ‘And you,’ he continued, ‘you can go to hell.’

Sam’s eyes narrowed. He straightened up and walked back round to Dolohov’s front. Taking one of the tea towels, he approached the Russian.

‘Open your mouth.’

Dolohov kept his lips clenched firmly shut. Sam raised an eyebrow and, without warning, dealt a massive blow to his ample stomach. The Russian gasped loudly, winded by the punch; his eyes bulged as Sam stuffed the tea towel into his mouth. Dolohov’s body seemed to go into spasm as he tried to bend over and gasp for air; but the flex and the cloth in his mouth meant he could do neither.

Sam watched as the Russian gradually got control of his breathing and his body. Then he looked around. In one corner of the room was a stereo system. He switched it on and pressed a button on the CD player. Classical music swelled into the room. Sam adjusted the volume: not so loud that it would disturb the neighbours, but loud enough to muffle any sounds that came from the room.

And only then did he take the poultry shears from the table.

By now, Dolohov’s glasses had slipped down his nose. He looked over them, noticing the shears for the first time. Instinctively he shuffled his chair back a few inches, shaking his head. Sam ignored him and approached.

There was no point making threats. The first rule of field interrogation was to let the person you’re questioning know that you’re serious. ‘Remind me,’ he said. ‘Which hand was it you were holding that gun in? Left or right?’ He furrowed his brow theatrically. ‘Left, I think. We’ll start with the left.’

Dolohov made some kind of noise and shook his head more vigorously. He was sweating like an altar boy in church. Sam walked round to his left-hand side and felt for the Russian’s fingers. They were clenched shut, but it was no great problem to unfurl his trigger finger. More noises – squeals, almost. Sam ignored them. He opened up the blade of the shears before clasping them round the base of Dolohov’s fat finger.

And then he squeezed.

The sharp blades slipped easily through the layers of skin and fat, like a warm knife cutting into jelly. Only when they hit the bone did he have to squeeze harder. The blades crunched through, more on account of Sam’s force than their sharpness. The finger came away and blood flowed copiously from the fresh wound.

Dolohov’s body had started convulsing, his muffled squeals more constant. Sam walked casually to the table, placed the amputated finger in full view of its former owner, then picked up the blowtorch. ‘We don’t want you bleeding to death,’ he told the Russian.

It wouldn’t take much to cauterise the wound. The cigarette lighter from a car would do it, but Sam had to use the tools at his disposal. The flame from the blowtorch was a pale blue – you could barely see it – but it would do the job nicely. He approached the still-squealing Dolohov and touched the flame to the bleeding stump of his finger. The wet blood dried brown and a foul, acrid smell hit Sam’s nose. Dolohov’s arm stiffened with the pain, but the blood stopped flowing.

He stayed out of Dolohov’s sight for a few moments before removing and cauterising a second finger – the little finger, this time, on the right hand. The bone was smaller here; the shears made short work of it. It had the same effect on Dolohov, however. The muffled squeals seemed to go into overdrive and he shook so much Sam thought for a moment that his chair might topple over. He walked round to Dolohov’s front, switched the blowtorch off for a second time, then stepped back, before pushing the Russian’s glasses back on to his face, opening his mouth as if to say something, then making a pretence of deciding against it.