BARNS BUILT OF pale limestone, sloping roofs of black slate, all ringed by a succession of dry-stone walls that encircled its windswept fields. This was a traditional hill-country farm of the high Peak District in the English county of Derbyshire. Half hidden as it was by a line of ash trees, set well back from the road and any prying eyes, you would have to go to some trouble to find Abbot’s Farm. You could walk for miles up here and not meet a soul.

Which was exactly why they had chosen it, purchasing it at a rock-bottom price some months earlier after the owner had died, leaving it in a shocking state of disrepair. The contractors had been chosen carefully, because this was rather more than simple remedial work. There were cellars to be excavated, trenches to be dug and, to anyone with more than a passing curiosity, some measures that looked as if they were possibly constructed more for fortification than for comfort.

On this wet morning in March, a lone figure was carrying out a meticulous tour of inspection. Lotti James was oblivious to the rain that swept across the bleak fields and trickled down the fence posts, collecting in pools at her feet. She could see that the contractors’ work was all but done: the refrigerated units were up and running, the accommodation was ready, and there were food supplies to last at least three months. True, there had been some delay in getting the high-voltage fences installed, the specially adapted ones brought in from the Continent with a charge so powerful they would knock a man six feet backwards and paralyse the part of his brain that controls his breathing. But the infrared intruder alarm system was operational and the armoury was in place, the weapons checked, oiled and ready, the ammunition all stashed to hand in carefully labelled boxes with quick-release catches.

Yes. Lotti James was more than satisfied with what she saw. The Farm was ready for what was coming.

31

Old Town, Vilnius, Lithuania

Thursday, 10 March, 1250hrs GMT, 1550hrs local

THE CONTRAST COULD not have been more dramatic. After the grim, grey industrial suburb of that morning, Luke now found himself in another world: a world of pretty cobbled medieval backstreets, elegant baroque churches, leafy courtyards and cosy cafés. No wonder the Old Town of Vilnius had been declared a UNESCO World Heritage site.

Luke used the Google Maps navigator on his phone to check his route, then walked briskly down Bernardinu Street towards the cathedral square. Two boys on e-scooters overtook him, oblivious to his presence as they listened to music through their AirPods. Other than that, the street was empty on that late-winter weekday afternoon. Luke paused halfway down the street, pretending to examine a painted teapot that someone had embedded in the ochre-coloured wall, so that he could discreetly glance up and down in both directions, making quite sure he wasn’t being followed. He wasn’t.