Rerunning his abduction as he awaited a response, he realized that his kidnappers may well have come from these premises. Had Cleverly made his swift exit into Combat or the sex shop? Possibly something he was about to find out.

When a female voice responded to his request for entry, McNab looked up at the camera and gave his name. A few seconds later he was buzzed in.

Entering the lobby, he ignored the lift and opted for the stairs, only to discover he was out of breath by the third landing. Not a good sign. Before pushing open the door, he took a moment to compose himself.

Stepping into a carpeted area, he found it empty. Taking a quick look at the two screens on the reception desk, he spotted the one linked to the entrance webcam. So they would have seen him already, bruised face and all. But had anyone recognized the name? And where was the female who’d allowed him entry?

At that moment a dark-suited man sporting an earpiece appeared from a door behind the desk to ask him what he wanted.

McNab feigned puzzlement. ‘This is Combat, isn’t it?’

The man’s nod was almost imperceptible.

‘I’m looking to arrange a London fight,’ he said, his tone verging on a threat. ‘In fact, I’d like to knock the hell out of the posh fucker who did this to me recently in Glasgow.’

The guy’s lips moved into something that might be construed as a smile. He pointed to McNab’s face. ‘That looks like Hugo’s work.’

‘Is Hugo or any of his minders around?’ McNab said. When the man hesitated, McNab added, ‘Believe me, he’ll want to hear what I have to say.’

Just then, something came in via the earpiece, which resulted in a swift change in the guy’s expression. McNab wondered if he’d been rumbled.

‘Okay,’ the guy was saying. ‘Hugo will see you now.’ He unbuttoned his suit jacket and, reaching in, drew the gun from its holster. He flicked it in the direction of a fire exit, which McNab suspected led down the back of the building and to his possible grave.

A quick glance at the camera screen found no sign of Firash, or Harim.

The bodyguard might not have got here by now, but Firash should have, McNab thought.

67

The smell was back, greeting him with the tight embrace of a long-lost friend. In fact, it had roused him, not from a drugged sleep this time, but from a blow to the head.

He should be glad, McNab thought, that the gun had been used to knock him out, and not to kill him . . . yet.

The darkness hid his prison, but by smell and sound, he knew where he was. Trauma had ensured he was unlikely ever to forget.