“I — I do not know,” Isphording admitted miserably. “He travels all the time. I don’t think he has a home, only a post box in Saint Petersburg.”

Rafik made to strike the lawyer again.

“It is true, I swear,” Isphording cried. “I have only met him once, over two years ago.”

“We will return to him in a moment. What about this Sikh? Who is he?”

“Shere Singh. He is Pakistani but now lives in Indonesia. He is a wealthy man. His holdings are vast — timber, shipping, real estate. The largest company is the Karamita Breakers Yard on the west coast of Sumatra. I believe he controls the two drydocks through it.”

“Have you ever met this man? What does he look like?”

“I’ve met him through a video conference last year. He appears to be a big man and like all Sikhs has a long beard and wears a turban.”

Mohammad suddenly burst into the office, jabbering in almost incoherent Arabic. “Rafik!” he shouted. “Rafik, the police arrest Fodl. He knows our, our, eh…” He drew silent.

“Location,” Rafik snarled in his native tongue. “Fodl knows our location.”

The terrorist got to his feet. Isphording gave a startled cry and cowered into the couch cushions, expecting to be beaten. “Please don’t hurt me. Please.”

“Silence!” Rafik snapped. He took a blindfold and a pair of hard plastic ear protectors from Mohammad.

“What — what are you doing?” Isphording sniveled. Tears coursed down his cheeks. They were going to execute him right here and now.

“I said, silence,” Rafik roared.

Before Rafik tied the blindfold around Isphording’s head, Mohammad jammed soft rubber plugs deep into his ears. Then came the blindfold and finally the ear protectors. Isphording couldn’t stop shaking. He could neither see nor hear anything. He was then gagged, but surprisingly, not too tightly. One of the terrorists hauled him to his feet, and together they guided him from the office. He had no idea what was happening, couldn’t tell where they were taking him. After just a few steps he smelled the exhaust from the idling van. A moment later he was unceremoniously dumped into the back. Though disorientated, he could sense the presence of the three guards charged with driving him to his court date. His ankles were bound with some kind of plastic tie, while his wrists and hands were taped as tightly as a mummy’s wrappings. He couldn’t wiggle a single finger, which meant he’d be unable to worry the tape off his hands. Rafik’s men were as efficient as they were deadly.

Isphording imagined the guards had been similarly bound.