In its place was a cold, murderous rage, born of his failure and humiliation.

He would kill those whores, or die trying.

He led the young Libyan fighter, Jalal, and Argun Shishani quickly downstairs and out of the rear door.

Kadyrov was first out of the back gate, followed by Jalal, but, in the darkness, neither man noticed Shishani hesitate behind them, and then strike off alone into the flat stretch of desert between the compound and a disused farm building three or four hundred metres north.

Because of the dark, Kadyrov waited for a moment, to allow his eyes to adjust.

As his pupils drank in the faint available light, the darkness lifted, and on the ground, a few metres on, he saw the body of the first man John Carr had killed.

His anger rose further: they had been fools, too complacent, too weak, and they had paid the price.

He began to make out the desert contours off to the right, and the shapes of the trees to his front.

He hefted his Krinkov in one big paw and turned.

‘Ready?’ he said.

Jalal, an RPG-7 over one shoulder, said, ‘Yes, sir.’

‘Argun?’ said Kadyrov.

Then, more urgently, hissing, ‘Argun?’

‘I think he went ahead, sir.’

‘Went ahead where?’ said Kadyrov.

Jalal said nothing, but felt himself flush in the dark.

‘Doubtless he is trying to outflank them,’ said Kadyrov, but in his black heart he knew the truth, and was cursing the other man. Ayub had warned him about Shishani, and he should have listened, but it was too late for that now. ‘Come on.’

Hugging the wall as a guide, and hurrying as much as he reasonably could, the huge Chechen began to go forward, the shadows of the wall providing cover from view.

And then… He stopped dead, holding up a hand.

Halfway along the wall, he saw the shape of a big man enter the plantation, at the double, carrying what looked like a light machine gun.

He raised the Krinkov to his shoulder, and began to apply pressure to the trigger.

But then he thought better of it.

The chances of hitting even that one man were slight, and he would give away his own position.

He wanted them all dead, the women especially, and he needed to see them, not as shadows in the night.

He stood still, straining his eyes to see where the big man had gone to, readying himself for the pursuit.

As he stood there, he heard a burst of fire from above and behind him in the building.

Someone was still in there, still trying to kill the infidels: maybe all was not lost, after all.

He turned to his rear.

‘Jalal,’ he whispered. ‘Did you see that? One of them just moved into the plantation. Quickly, quickly, come with me.’