By 9.00 a.m. I was back in my own OP, having filmed the summerhouse as well. My scramble around the mountainside had got me well warmed up and my fingers were nimble when it came to down-loading information from the camera into my lap-top and sending it up via the Satcom to the squadron at Kars.

Within five minutes Bill Chandler came on air to say that the quality of the pictures was excellent. He also confirmed that Orange was still transmitting from the same site, and that we had definite permission to exfil via the Russian Caucasus.

It wasn’t until 11.20 that things started to happen. I got a sudden tsch, tsch in my earpiece, and there was Sasha, fired up.

‘Beeg development!’ he went. ‘I have seen your men.’

‘Our lads?’

‘Yes. They came from lower house into upper house.’

‘Out of the basement entrance?’

‘Yes. Four guards bring them.’

‘How did they look?’

‘Bad. Zheordie, I am afraid they are smashed up.’

‘What did you see?’

‘The big man, Pavarotti – his eyes are black. The small one has clothes on his hands.’

‘Clothes? Bandages?’

‘Bandages. Yes.’

‘Where did the guards take them, Sasha?’

‘Inside the house. Upstairs.’

‘The ground-floor entrance – main door?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. Thanks. Keep watching.’

I went straight through to Kars and relayed Sasha’s information. Anger ran through me as I lay under my heap of pine branches. My first thought was to take the pressure off our guys by creating a diversion. A 203 grenade into one of the villa’s windows would stir things up, all right. Sasha and I could drop quite a few of the home team if they came running out of the house. But a premature attack by just the two of us could well panic the Chechens and make them top their prisoners.

I spoke to Bill again and suggested what I’d been thinking.

‘No go, Geordie,’ he replied. ‘For Christ’s sake take it easy. It’s great to know the guys are there, but until we’ve got the bomb secure, the plan must hold. They have to stick it out, and so have you.’

Fuck them all, I thought savagely as I switched off. When it comes to the crunch, all senior ruperts are unfeeling bastards who don’t give a stuff about losing guys.

I lay there feeling furious, but not for long.

The next development was almost worse. Shortly before 12.00 I became aware of a drone, faint at first but rapidly growing louder. Chopper, I thought. Then I caught the fluttering beat of a rotor, and a few moments later the thing came swishing and roaring so low overhead that its downdraught made the roof of my OP thrash about, and I had to seize hold of some branches to stop them being blown away.