MAJOR ANATOLY NIKOLAYEVICH Vronsky, of 45th Guards Spetsnaz Regiment, checked his watch once again as he had done incessantly for the past hour. However, much as he wanted time to move on, it was refusing to do so and the luminous dials told him that it was still another twenty-eight minutes until 0431 and sunrise. That was when the attack on the camp was due to go in; a half-light to help his men see where they were going and distinguish between friend and enemy: dozy defenders doubtless awoken from a deep sleep and unable to react in time.

So far things had gone entirely according to plan, so now there was nothing to do but suppress his anxiety and wait. Even as he felt a drip of water find its way down the back of his neck he smiled: the light rain that had just started to fall was just what was needed. The soft pitter-patter of rain on the forest canopy would help mask any sound his team made as they moved in for the kill.

He stifled a yawn. The damp from the forest leaves he was lying on was soaking up into his body and his eyes felt heavy. It had been a long night’s patrol through the forest to move into position without being detected, and that after a day silently closing in on their enemy. His body craved proper food and drink after a couple of days’ hard routine; no cooking and only an occasional swallow from his water bottle, a couple of packets of dry crackers, and an unheated can of unidentifiable fish to sustain him. Enough of feeling sorry for yourself, this would soon be over, he told himself, and then it would be back to the barracks at Ādaži for a celebratory drink and a large steak; the Latvians had certainly known how to look after themselves and their Russian successors were enjoying the rations they had left behind.

Now it was time to focus. Once more he ran a mental check on the plan and the rapid pace of events that had brought him into the forest to attack this base, belonging, it appeared, to a particularly effective group of Latvian Forest Brothers. What still surprised him was the direct Presidential order he had received five days ago: to capture the British terrorists. Not for the first time, Vronsky questioned the wisdom of getting personal because, grateful as he was that the President had entrusted him with this mission, it smacked of the old-fashioned peasant vendetta. However, his orders could not have been clearer.