The trawler slowed, slipping gently through the oily, black water as it approached a less-than-glamorous part of the industrial harbour of St Petersburg in the late hours of the morning. It was a grey, overcast day, which only intensified the desolate atmosphere of the harbour. The skipper thought it was not a place to send postcards from, as he manoeuvred the trawler to dock between two gigantic, rusting container ships while the crew prepared to throw a line ashore. The Maritime & Coastguard Agency never came to this part of the harbour – if they did, all vessels here would be given the thumbs down. Neither were collective bargaining agreements with the National Union of Seamen an overriding concern in the area: an entirely different set of prospects made it attractive to be moored here. The common denominator was industrious people with a distaste for too much paperwork.
The Chechen brothers pulled Kaare from his foul-smelling abode in the hold and shoved him onto the pier. His legs were wobbly, and with his hands tied, he tripped and fell. He bit back curses as the Chechens swiftly yanked him from the floor and threw him into the back of an old Russian van, where they blindfolded 156him. Shamil lit one of his scrawny, crumpled cigarettes and turned the ignition key; with a trail of thick, black smoke billowing from the exhaust, the car pulled out of the harbour. No one had paid attention to this remarkable occurrence. In this part of the docks, the affair did not even come close to qualifying for attention.
In the back of the van, Kaare was now fully conscious and trying to work out where they were, without much success. All sounds are strange when hogtied awkwardly in the back of a noisy old van. There was nothing he could identify when the car stopped or turned corners. It’s only in the movies that you can memorise the route in your head, Kaare thought bitterly and resigned himself to making the journey as comfortable as possible. The pile of reeking, old sacks absorbed a little of the impact from the uneven road, and Kaare allowed his thoughts to focus on Ulla. She must have notified someone of his disappearance. The thought of his colleagues looking for him slowly filled him with confidence. He had no doubt that they would find him. Kaare’s team had regularly trained in hostage rescue situations with foreign Special Forces units and police hostage rescue teams. And he was very comfortable with the thought of an armed rescue attempt. They had modelled such situations, with live rounds, at the Swedish Jägers’ kill-house in Karlsborg. It was second nature to them to breach entry and take out all hostage takers without touching a hair on the hostages’ heads. The team members had taken turns playing hostage while their colleagues breached into the room on the back of the explosion’s shock effect to hit every hostage-taker target. The worst part was not sitting there waiting for your colleagues to fill the room with deadly fire. It wasn’t even the live ammunition which would 157be whistling a hair’s breadth from your head. No, the worst part of the exercise was being on the attack team. The slightest mistake would be fatal and result in the killing of one of your mates. Kaare was already looking forward to evaluating the boys’ performance afterwards.