Ben relaxed his hold slightly and felt some of the tension go out of Frank’s muscles, the guy resigning himself to being beaten. Frank nodded once. Ben said, ‘Good. Now I’m going to ask you a couple of questions, and you’re going to answer truthfully or I will kill you. You don’t want to die, do you, Frank?’

Without hesitation, Frank shook his head no.

‘Of course you don’t. So tell me. Is there anyone else coming here?’

No.

Ben asked, ‘Is there anyone else in the car?’

No.

Experience had taught Ben to trust what men told him when they truly believed that their life depended on their response. He said, ‘All right. No more questions. Now there’s something I need you to do for me. Think you can manage that?’

Nod.

‘Okay, Frank. Here’s what you’re going to do. I’m going to get you up on your feet and walk you to the door. Then you’re going to call down to your friends Ken and Terry. Get their attention. Tell them to come up here fast because you’ve got something to show them. You do that for me, and you’ll make it through this.’

Ben threw Wolf a glance and nodded towards the French window. Wolf had spent so much time in combat training with Ben that he could read his tactical thinking as well as if Ben had shown him a diagrammatic plan. SAS comrades were like that, because they often found themselves in situations where instant, intuitive, improvised tactics were the only thing between them and violent death. He understood that Ben’s strategy was to draw the other two men into the narrow funnel of the stairway, where they would have little cover and even less chance of escape. Ben would have the high ground at the top of the stairs. Wolf needed no instruction to know that his job was to mount a surprise attack from the rear.

Wolf moved towards the French window. It wasn’t locked. He opened it and stepped out onto the balcony, scanning the garden left and right. He peered down at the sloping gables of the orangery roof below the bedroom window, gauging the drop and the angle of impact that would break his fall and allow him to slide to the ground. His touchdown would be like a hard parachute landing fall. Nothing he hadn’t done a thousand times before. He grabbed a handful of the ivy growing around the balcony wall and gave it a tug, testing to see how well it would bear his weight and help slow down his descent. Then he hopped athletically over the edge of the balcony and was gone, with only a slight rustle of leaves and a faint thud as he hit the orangery roof and went sliding down it to the ground.