A silver-edged, untidy clump of cloud drifted lazily in front of the moon and the shadows around the barns and on the surrounding fields seemed to stretch and soak out into the night, like black ink on an already darkened blotter.

‘Okay,’ said Fabel, ‘let’s go.’

The night seemed to empty itself of all other noise, making Fabel painfully aware of the sounds of their breathing and the crunch of their feet as they scuttled in a half crouch towards the parked BMWs. Fabel drew his Walther from his holster and snapped back the carriage to place a round in the firing chamber. Paul, Werner and Sülberg followed suit. Fabel nodded to Sülberg and he and Werner headed off around the side of the barn that had no window. Fabel gave them thirty seconds that seemed like an eternity, then nodded to Paul.

They were on their feet and across to the barn in seconds. Paul and Fabel positioned themselves, weapons readied, on either side of the door.

Fabel applied the slightest of pressure on the heavy door. It gave way. Of course they hadn’t locked it. They felt secure in their seclusion.

Now was a time for cool professionalism, but they had Anna in there and Fabel felt anger and hatred hot in his blood. Paul’s jaw was set hard, the sinuous muscles in his face like cables beneath his skin. A vein pulsed visibly in his neck. He turned to Fabel and his eyes burned with a dark fury. Fabel made a face that silently asked, You okay? Paul nodded in a way that did not reassure his boss. Fabel lifted his radio to his lips and whispered one word.

‘Go!’

Paul slammed the door wide with the sole of his boot and Fabel burst through first. He took in four figures. There was a makeshift altar arrangement constructed out of an old oak table and Anna lay on top of it. She had a bathrobe flung around her and was unrestrained except for the bonds the drugs had wrapped around her will to move. MacSwain was half bent over her, his hands reaching out to her. He stared blankly at Fabel and Paul and then snapped his head around as Werner and Sülberg burst in through the other doorway. Fabel and Paul spread out, ensuring their line of fire wasn’t directed at the two policemen opposite.

Fabel registered the other two figures. One of the men had the look of trapped, violent energy in his short, squat, powerful frame: Fabel recognised him from the surveillance images as Solovey, one of Vitrenko’s lieutenants. The other figure was taller, dressed in a long black overcoat. And, even at a distance, his eyes burned an almost luminous green in the dim light.

Vitrenko.

Something gleamed in Vitrenko’s right hand: a broad-bladed knife. Its blade was the thickness of a sword, but short and double edged, sweeping to a sharp tip. Fabel had no doubt that he was looking at the murder weapon.