He got a few grunts for answer, and went on, ‘I’ve briefed the parties already, Geordie. But for your benefit, Party C consists of two men – these two.’ He pointed, but in the dark I couldn’t recognise faces. ‘Party A, the road, is these three. Two gympis and a sixty-six. That leaves fifteen, counting Sasha. I want to leave two back somewhere to act as sniper-observers. That makes thirteen for the house assault . . .’

Pat had got everything well worked out. I knew he’d laid out plans of the villa, using mine tape, on the floor of the hangar in Kars, and that the team had walked through each phase of the assault. His plan was to keep away from the front of the house altogether, so that we didn’t trigger the alarm systems. A basement group would approach from the side and tape a demolition charge to the cellar door. The rear party would do the same to three ground-floor windows at the back.

Split-second timing was essential: the assault had to crack off from both sides simultaneously, and in that first instant one of the snipers would put a 203 grenade through the front door to increase the confusion.

As our ERV, Pat designated the helipad.

We moved out in single file, again at tactical spacing, in an anti-clockwise circle round the target. First stop was the helipad, where we dropped off Party C in good positions among rock bluffs that commanded the pad only thirty metres below them. Next we worked down until we could see the back of the house. Lights were on in most of the windows, but curtains or blinds had been drawn. Some fifty metres above the building we left the main assault group (which included Pat) crouching in the trees.

Round at the side I dropped off the basement group, to wait while I took Party A down to the point I had earmarked on the road. Then I hustled back up, glancing at my watch. The time was just before 8.30.

On the covert radio link I reported to Pat: ‘All groups in position.’

‘Roger,’ he went. ‘The assault will go down in figures three minutes. Move on to target at one minute before zero.’

By now the moon was well up, its light filtering through the fir branches. Beside me was Paul Anderson, an EMOE specialist, who was going to blow the door. As we crouched there, waiting, I realised that our breath was steaming in the air. For the past couple of hours I’d been so absorbed that I hadn’t noticed the cold.

‘Two minutes,’ came Pat’s voice.

I was hoping to hell the raid would give us some clue about where the bomb had been taken. Maybe we’d find messages, papers, tapes . . .