Beatrix had conducted these types of snatch operations many times during her service with the Group. If done properly, they were simple: taking someone off a city street was as easy as clicking your fingers, and doing it on a road like this—with very little chance of being observed—was easier still. The trick was to be quick and efficient. There was no need to make a show. With most targets, the surprise of an abduction rendered them immobile for the small window of time where there would be something that they could do about it.

There was a farmer’s field to the left, and it rose to a ridge that offered a view of the surrounding countryside, including the road out of the village. Milton had climbed the ridge with a pair of binoculars that he had taken from the back of the people carrier. They each had a radio and, just a little after eight, Beatrix heard his voice.

“He’s coming. Two minutes.”

“Copy that.”

She glanced up at the ridge and saw Milton making his way down. He picked his way carefully down the steeper sections and then fell into a quick jog so that he would be at the road in time to make the snatch.

Beatrix moved the big Vivaro out into the centre of the road, blocking the way ahead, and left the engine running. She stepped outside. The Glock was shoved in the waistband of her trousers, hidden beneath the back of her loose jacket. A car came around the bend. It was a sharp turn, and the driver had taken it carefully. He was doing only twenty or thirty miles an hour, and he had ample space to stop safely.

Beatrix looked: the sun was reflecting off the windshield, making it difficult for her to see inside. She waved a hand and put a big smile on her face.

The car slowed to a stop.

Beatrix walked forward and stopped before it. If the driver wanted to talk to her, he would have to get out.

Milton closed in, approaching from the rear.

The driver’s door opened and a man stepped out.

She could see him now. It was Igor Koralev.

“Hola?” he said. “Puedo ayudarte?”

His Spanish was atrocious. Beatrix shrugged that she didn’t understand, her hand reaching around to the gun and pulling it just as Milton turned the corner around Koralev’s car and grabbed him, his own gun pressed to the side of the old man’s head. Milton wrapped his left arm around Koralev’s neck and half-pushed, half-dragged him to the Vivaro.

Beatrix ran to Koralev’s car and moved it into a space at the side of the road. She returned to the Vivaro and got in, drawing the Glock and training it on Koralev.