She visited an internet café after her bath. It was a small operation at the back of a Polish grocery store and the proprietor hadn’t even looked at her twice as she bought a token for an hour’s use and settled before the screen in a wooden cubicle that would guarantee her privacy. She created a new gmail account and posted a message on the bulletin board of a Justin Bieber fan site. It was a bland message, seemingly in tune with the rest of the comments, but the board was monitored and her message would be delivered to the colonel. The coded message reported that the operation was proceeding as planned and that she anticipated leaving the country with the package they had come to collect tomorrow.

She posted the message, logged out of the PC and went back outside. It was a brisk night, with a cool breeze blowing in off the darkened river, and she decided to go for a walk for some exercise and fresh air. She ambled along the quay at one of the nearby yacht basins. The wind was cold and there were only a few people out. She saw a man leaning against the metal rails that protected the drop into the water below, gazing out at the yachts moored out on a floating jetty, their rigging rattling in the breeze. She walked beyond the man, realising, but much too late, that something about him was not right. She turned just as he had started after her, closing the distance in a couple of broad strides, taking her arm just above the elbow and impelling her towards a car at the kerb.

“Don’t make a scene, Miss,” he said in a quiet, firm voice.

“Who are you?”

“British intelligence. Afraid we need to hold onto you for a while.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Milton was driven to RAF Northolt. Group Fifteen used the facility when agents were not able to fly commercially and he was very familiar with it. The driver swept off the main road, paused to register their credentials at the gate house, and then sped through the wire mesh gate as it was drawn aside for them. He drove past the row of buildings that housed the base’s administrative and engineering staff and out to a single story building right out on the edge of the runway itself. A Hercules C-130J aircraft was being fuelled nearby.

It was just after dawn.

Milton got out of the car and went into the building.

Control was waiting for him. There were five others there, too. He recognised one of them very well and the other three were familiar.

“Captain Milton,” Control said stiffly. “Are you ready to go?”

“I am,” he said.

“You know everyone?”

“Well enough,” Milton said.

He looked them over and put names, and assignations, to faces.

Number Two was Corporal Spenser: short, bald and heavily muscled. Now that Pope was out of commission, he would be de facto Number One.

Number Six was Corporal Blake: darker skinned; foreign, perhaps, although Milton did not know enough about him to say from where.

Number Eight was Lance Corporal Hammond: female; early thirties; five eight; black hair, cut short; compact and powerfully built. Milton had surrendered to her in El Patrón’s mansion. She had a reputation for callousness.

Number Nine was Sergeant Underwood: the tallest of the four, well over six foot; broad shoulders; old acne scars scattered across his nose and cheeks.

Control turned to the final man. “And Lance Corporal Callan.”

“Yes,” Milton said. “Number Twelve.”

“Number Ten now,” Control said, “at least until Captain Pope is recovered.”

Callan was tall and slender and strikingly handsome. His hair was in tight curls and so blond that it was almost white. His skin was white, too, like alabaster. There was a cruelty to his thin lips and unfeeling eyes that Milton remembered very well indeed. He had executed Derek Rutherford in cold blood and then shot Milton in the shoulder; Milton had overcome him and put a bullet in his knee. According to Pope, he had been keen to end him there and then when they captured him in Mexico.

“They were all in Juàrez,” Milton said.

“That’s right.”

“They’ll need to do better this time.”

“We found you,” Spenser said. “We took you.”

“You did. And you took out a dozen cartel soldiers doing it and, yes, that was impressive. But then you let an overweight Mexican police officer on his last day undo all of that good work. So you can count me not especially impressed. Shcherbatov’s men won’t be as easy as the cartel. They’ll be well trained, well equipped and they might be expecting us. If you’re as lax as that when we go in tomorrow, I guarantee you one thing: we’ll all get shot.”

Spenser glared at him but said nothing. Milton felt Callan’s eyes burning into his back, too, and knew that he would have to proceed very carefully if he wanted to get out of Russia in one piece.

“Shall we discuss the plan?” Control suggested.

Milton held Spenser’s stare long enough to let him know that he was far from intimidated; Number Two broke first and looked away. “Go on,” Milton said.

“The Russians are going to give us some low visibility help.”

“Why would they do something like that?” Underwood asked.

“Shcherbatov is off the reservation. There could be an incident if we don’t get Pope back and they know that is not in their interests right now. They won’t support you if you get into trouble but they don’t mind making it easier for you to get to where you need to go.”

“Go on, then,” Milton said. “I’m all ears.”

There was a iPad on the table. Control selected a map of Russia and they all gathered around it. “You’re going out in the Hercules. It has just enough range to get you to Kubinka air base, south east of Moscow. You’ll be travelling under the pretext of a military exchange: senior members of the RAF flying in for a joint exercise with their Russian equivalents. Happens reasonably frequently. Won’t draw unnecessary attention.”

“And from Kubinka?”

“The Hercules will be refuelled. You’ll head north and do a HALO jump twenty clicks south of Plyos. And then the Hercules turns around and heads back to Kubinka”

“ATC?”

“We’re told that they will be looking the other way.”

Hammond looked sceptical. “We’re dropping twenty clicks from the target?”

“That’s right.”

“In the Russian winter?”

“You’ll be taking transport on the Hercules. The Russians are arranging it.”

“What do we know about the target?”

“It’s a dacha,” Milton explained. He didn’t have to work hard to remember it; he had a photographic memory for tactical information and he relayed it quickly and easily. “Three storeys, walled, two internal courtyards. Good security.”

“How many?”

“I’d guess a dozen.”

“Any good?”

“Spetsnaz. Very good.”

“Armed with what?”

“AN-94s and AS Vals. Like I said, they’re proper soldiers.”

Milton gave them all the additional information that he thought might be helpful: the internal layout of the dacha, the basement cell where it was likely Pope would be held.

“And you’re sure Pope is still there?” Control said.

“I’m sure enough.”

“How sure?”

“Eighty per cent.”

Hammond shook her head. “So twenty per cent says this is us putting our necks on the line for nothing?”

He stared her down. “And eighty per cent says that you’re not.”

She turned to Control and protested, “We need better odds for something like this.”

Control regarded him carefully. “Are you going to tell me why you think he’s still there?”

“No,” he said. “I have intelligence. But you’re going to have to trust me.”

“Alright,” Control said. “I’m happy to proceed on that basis.” Milton knew that he had no room for manoeuvre. He had evidence on him that would have him locked up in an MI6 Black Site for the rest of his natural life. He had no choice but to give the operation the green light.