‘I’m listening.’

‘The card is in a security box, but I can get it to you. I can phone the bank in the morning: it’s a numbered box and I can authorise the contents to be released to you once the office opens. After you have it, let my family go and you can do what you like with me.’ Tom knew he had to buy time if he was to get an opportunity to escape.

‘You have a communications device. Who knows of this? I know it’s not police as my contact knows nothing and he is well-placed.’

‘The flight was organised by an American who owes me a big favour. He gave me the communications device, but no one knows I’ve been captured. He just thought I was watching the farmhouse. He works for the US government and they cannot get involved. I’m on my own here, you have to believe me,’ he said with exaggerated desperation.

‘How did you keep your phone signal in London?’

‘It is in London, I just set up a divert to another phone.’

‘Where is the card?’

‘At my bank in Camden. It opens in the morning and I can call them and arrange for emergency access. It can be done.’

There was a pause, which seemed to stretch out forever. ‘Okay, you can stay alive a little while longer. If you come up with the card, I will spare your parents and you will be quickly despatched.’

Tom knew that was nonsense; Branko had no intention of letting any of them live. Of that, he was absolutely sure.

‘Ten o’clock tomorrow morning you call the deposit company and arrange access. If you fail to do so you will witness my men shoot both of your parents. You will then die, but not quickly or easily. You haven’t met Boris before, have you? He has peculiar talents for inflicting pain that I witnessed many times during the war.’

Tom shuddered at the prospect and wondered if Pet or Mike were listening.

Boris snatched the phone away from Tom’s ear and walked out of the room once more, speaking quietly into the handset.

*

Tom lay quietly on the floor, slightly on his side, the Branko boys scowling on the sofa and Boris in the armchair, his eyes half-closed. The grey-haired man seemed the picture of calm, and Tom could tell that he was someone who had been in many violent situations in the past.

Once the decision to wait had been made, the three captors had established a routine: one of them resting while the others watched them, pistols always to hand.

Tom’s bindings were secure but did not restrict blood-flow, so he was able to get comfortable and rest, to some degree. He had even managed to doze for a few snatched moments.