Trapnell looked up at him from inside the car and wound the window down. “Where’s the restaurant? What the hell are we doing here?”

Vronsky looked down at him, no longer the friendly university English lecturer. He needed the Americans to do exactly what he told them and that meant he was now cold-eyed, his voice ice-calm and ruthless. “Do exactly as I say. Come with us. Quietly. All of you.”

The Americans were aghast, shock taking over their faces as they began to absorb what was happening. With their eyes locked onto his, they did not see the four men who were now emerging from the ground floor of the apartment block.

Vronsky motioned to them to surround the cars. In moments the Americans were being hauled out of the vehicles, arms locked behind their backs, mouths gagged with gaffer tape, heads covered with blankets, and then dragged toward the building.

All but one.

Master Sergeant Scott Trapnell was a man apart. Not for him the interminable muscle building in the gym favored by most American soldiers; small, wiry, seemingly the most unobtrusive of men, he was an Aikido sensei and black belt and trained obsessively. Instinctively, in the face of an attack, the long hours of Aikido practice kicked in. A quiet calm came over him as his assailant yanked him out of the car. Then, using the other man’s weight, the American dropped a shoulder and swung his assailant, applying the classic bent-armlock technique to turn his arm at the elbow and throw him onto his back and onto the road. As the man fell, his head snapped back against the tarmac with an audible crunch and he was silent.

The next man whirled to face him, hands up, ready for another such move. From his stance he was obviously well trained in martial arts.

Trapnell, wearing a sharp pair of leather cowboy boots for his big trip downtown, instead kicked him full force between the legs. Nothing subtle, nothing ninja, just a good, old-fashioned kick for goal, with all the force of his anger and betrayal that he could put behind it. “Fuck you!” Trapnell screamed, as his boot connected with his balls.

The man dropped. Gasping. Eyes bulging in speechless agony.

Satisfied that the man was staying down, Trapnell looked around him and saw his fellows already being bundled away. For a moment, and with two men down, there was nobody to hold him on his side of the car. He ran. Hard and fast. And he was a good runner. Half-marathon was his specialty, but he was still very useful at a full sprint.

“Get him!” Vronsky yelled from the other side of the car. But there was no one to get him.