Blue team, bursting through from the kitchen end of the flat, confirmed that there was nobody else in residence.

A rapid search proved that the device was not on the premises. We looked under beds, in cupboards, behind furniture: there was no recess large enough to conceal cases that size.

From out in the hallway I reported, ‘Red leader. Flat secure. No casualties. Device not here. Repeat, device not here. Let’s have the interpreter up soonest.’

Now I noticed two small suitcases standing by the wall inside the front door. I picked one up. The weight told me it was full. Back in the living room I saw that our prisoners’ jackets were hanging on the backs of the chairs where they’d been sitting. On the table stood an open attaché case made of crocodile skin, which immediately reminded me of the Moscow apartment. This one contained only papers, but among them were two air tickets and two passports with green plastic covers.

The passports were issued by the Republic of Chechnya and made out in Cyrillic script, with Roman equivalents underneath the names. One belonged to Hussein Amadov, the other to Andrei Musayev. The photo showed that Barrakuda was using Musayev as a pseudonym. The Air Malta tickets were made out in the same names. The destination was Valetta, but the flight numbers and dates were so densely printed that I had to stare at them for a few seconds before I could make them out. Then I realised that the tickets were for 21 October – that very day – and that the departure was scheduled for 12.45 p.m. Eh, I said to myself. These guys were about to do a flit.

As I flicked through the documents, Barrakuda watched me without moving, but I could feel controlled hatred emanating from him. I was glad we had him cuffed. I still had my MP5 on its sling over my shoulder, so I moved in on him, jammed the muzzle into the front of his expensive-looking cream shirt and jerked it violently sideways, ripping off two buttons. Sure enough, under the hair on his scrawny chest was the tattoo of a long, slim fish.

‘You speak English?’

He said nothing, but lifted both elbows outwards to mean, ‘No.’

I gave him a crack on the right ear with the barrel of the weapon, and although the blow rocked his head sideways, he hardly flinched.

I turned to the big man and asked the same.

‘A little.’

‘Where’s the bomb?’

He pretended not to understand. I repeated the question. Again it produced no answer. Then I heard a movement behind me, and there was Mike, the interpreter, in the doorway. Behind him I saw police officers moving in to evacuate the other flats.

‘Tell this guy I know who he is.’ I pointed at Barrakuda. ‘His real name’s Gaidar, Supyan Gaidar. Tell him I want to know where they’ve put the nuclear device.’