Komarov entered, paused momentarily, dipped his head in salute and then walked forward. The room was spartan, minimalist, the only concession to extravagance being the green curtains edged in gold and tied back with gold ropes. Behind the President’s chair there was only one decoration, the gold double-headed eagle of Russia on a red shield. The desk was huge but empty of any papers except, he noted, the report from Kharkiv. A long conference table jutted out at right angles from the desk toward the door.

Behind the desk sat the President; pale, bloodless face, high cheekbones, oval eyes cold, menacing and light blue. It was the face of a watchful fox with sparse, short, white-blond hair; a wiry, tough physique under his usual dark suit, plain navy blue tie and white shirt. Here was a man who worked out regularly and fought in the judo hall twice a week, described by his press spokesman as being, “So fit, he could break people’s hands when he shakes them . . . If he wanted to.”

However, his voice never failed to surprise Raskolonikov. For such an alpha male it was slightly high-pitched and nasal.

“Why did they kill the American, Fyodor Fyodorovitch?” the President demanded, using the formal patronymic. “The mission was to capture the group. I wanted them all alive on television so that I can show the world that NATO and the Americans are attacking our people from Ukraine. Not in body-bags with the Americans screaming terrorism.”

“I agree, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Komarov replied, putting his papers on the table in front of his chair. “Typical of those Special Forces prima donnas. Always promising the earth, but when they cock up, they do it spectacularly. I talked to Colonel General Denisenko, Commander, Special Operation Forces Command, this morning and left him in no doubt of your displeasure.”

The President said nothing, which meant he was still assessing how he was going to react.

“He tells me the Spetsnaz commander had no alternative once the American started running.”

The President frowned. “They should not have let him escape in the first place. Who was responsible?”

Komarov looked at the President. As an old and trusted associate he could say things others could not but he still had to be careful. “They underestimated the American. He was small but he fought like a devil. We now discover he was an Aikido expert.”

“So I see.” The President nodded at the file on the desk.

Komarov knew the President was a man who got into the detail and, as he had suspected, he had studied the report on the capture of the Americans.

“And I see he destroyed any prospects of fatherhood for the man he kicked in the balls.” The President smirked.

“We can turn this to our advantage, Vladimir Vladimirovich,” Komarov replied. “Our people can make much of his injury in the news bulletins. Insist the shooting was in self-defense.”