‘Tell him he’s not going to Malta,’ I said. ‘Tell him he’s not going anywhere. He’s staying here to enjoy his own little explosion.’

Mike translated. Barrakuda remained impassive but the big guy immediately began to look sick.

‘Go through the briefcase,’ I told Mike. ‘Every bit of paper.’ I turned to Darren and said, ‘Get a brew on, for fuck’s sake. See what you can find in the kitchen.’

He went out and rummaged in cupboards. ‘There’s tea,’ he called, ‘but no milk.’

‘Black tea, then.’

The big guy started trying to say something to his partner. I waved at him to shut up and asked Mike, ‘What was that?’

‘Couldn’t get it. Must have been Chechen.’

We hustled the two men to opposite ends of the room and sat them on chairs facing away from each other so that they couldn’t communicate even with a look.

‘Sugar?’ shouted Darren from the kitchen.

‘Three,’ I called. ‘Make it four.’

The scene had started to seem surreal. There were these two guys sitting handcuffed, back to back. Outside, London was enjoying a peaceful Sunday. Overhead, the cloud was breaking up, with occasional blue sky showing though. The odd jet went over on its way into Heathrow. Down in the street, cars accelerated as they headed north along Seymour Place.

Somewhere not far off, a nuclear device was ticking its way towards detonation.

I began to feel light-headed, almost as if I was floating.

Darren brought the tea. It was black as pitch and tasted like syrup, but it helped bring me back to reality. I got half the cup down my neck, then noticed some keys on the table beside the briefcase. One of them fitted the suitcase in the hall, but the luggage turned out innocent – spare suit and shirts, pyjamas, shaving kit.

Looking round the living room, I saw that it had old-fashioned mouldings, like fake panelling, on the walls, but that in an attempt to make it look more modern, somebody had put up large, abstract prints of geometrical designs, mostly black and white. The furniture was modern too, and expensive, the centrepiece a three-seat sofa covered in white hide.

Time crawled. After what seemed like an hour I found that only eighteen minutes had passed. I’d put my radio on listening watch, to conserve the battery.

Then, at 10.45, I got a double hiss and switched on again.

‘Red leader,’ I said.

‘Your two calls.’ It was Joe Darwent, the ops officer. ‘The first was from a mobile. Sweeper vans are out, but it was too short for them to get a fix. The second call came from a house in St John’s Wood, just north of you. Blue team are on their way there now.’

‘Roger. What else is happening?’

‘The top brass are meeting in the COBR. The Director’s there, with the Home Secretary and a few others.’

‘What about the police?’