Zhilev felt relief in the silence, with the cessation of the vibrations that had been slowly making him numb. He let go of the wheel and squeezed and released his fingers repeatedly, getting the blood flowing around them again to relieve the pins and needles that came without fail at the start of each day of his journey. Ironically though, the vibrations appeared to stop the aching in his neck. Hour upon hour at the wheel in the small cabin, standing or slouched in the uncomfortable wooden seat with its lumpy cushion, should have left him in an agonising mess, but there was no sign of the pain as long as the engines hummed and his hands were on the wheel.

The boat rocked and bobbed gently in the light swell caused by the prevailing southeasterly wind which had been at his back all the way down the Suez Canal. The worst part of the journey from Kastellorizo had been crossing the Mediterranean to Port Fu’ad, the entrance to the canal. Zhilev had topped up a dozen large cans with fuel for the non-stop journey and lashed them to the decks forward and aft of the small wheelhouse. Fortunately the weather had remained calm, a surprise for the time of year, allowing him to snatch a few hours’ sleep while the wheel was tied in position, without straying too far off-track. The small marine GPS he had bought in Marmaris along with all the relevant charts had proved more than adequate. He had never used one before, having learned sea navigation in the Spetsnaz using a compass and dead reckoning. He was hugely impressed with the modern technology that told him where he was at any given time. It even calculated his average speed and distance to his destination, once he had read the manual several times and thoroughly understood the complicated device.

By day three he was so engrossed in the journey he began to daydream about other sea journeys he would like to do now that he had re-acquired a taste for the ocean, and then something horrific happened. A tinge of doubt had somehow crept into his head about his mission. The doubt was laced with a kind of fear that spread through him like fire in a field of wheat until he reached out for the key on the tattered control panel, turned off the engine and sat in silence in the choppy water, staring at nothing while his mind raced to find a foothold of sense amid the sudden panic.

Finally the Zhilev of the past emerged once again and stood tall to take charge, cursing the weak old man for allowing uncertainty to take a grip and demanding he find his spine. He reminded himself about one of the many lessons he learned in the ranks of the Spetsnaz, that it was during those times when a soldier felt at his weakest that he had to recognise the dangers of making decisions he would regret. This mission was revenge for the murder of his brother, but it was something else. It was an opportunity to put his glorious Spetsnaz on the map. Once Zhilev’s mission was complete, the practically unheard of unit would be on everyone’s lips and it would have the respect it had always deserved as the finest Special Forces the world had ever known. Even those among his peers of old who would not openly agree with his mission would grudgingly have to admit it was a deed few could have accomplished.

Zhilev took the photographs of his brother from his pocket and looked at the one on top inside the now wrinkled and worn plastic bag. Vladimir was standing alone on the deck of a supertanker, wearing his white engineer’s boiler-suit and hard-hat, the wind tugging at him. He looked strong and at ease with the world. It had a controlling effect on Zhilev even though he could not remember when the photo was taken. Vladimir was wearing a slight smile as if he could see Zhilev. Zhilev asked himself what his brother would truly say about this mission. It was easy to imagine him disapproving, but Vladimir was quite capable of picking up a weapon and fighting to protect his beliefs, let alone his family. He could quite easily approve of Zhilev’s actions and tell him to push on and destroy those who had killed him and left his family without a father. But it did not matter what Vladimir would have thought. He was not always right about everything. It was Zhilev’s choice to avenge Vladimir’s death, and this was the way he was going to do it.

Zhilev turned the key and ignited the engine. He put the photo away, took up his GPS to check the bearing and adjusted the wheel.

Zhilev’s arrival at Port Fu’ad and his first contact with an Arab since working with the Palestinian Liberation Organisation more than fifteen years earlier reinvigorated his contempt and hatred for the race, and, combined with the inconsolable grief for his brother’s death at their hands, only served to fuel him further. As he arrived at the entrance to the canal, a pilot boat, crewed by the pilot and his assistant, sped out to meet him. Zhilev slowed to nearly a stop as they approached, expecting to receive information about port fees, agents and where to get his boat measured for the canal transit fees. But the first demand the pilot shouted at him was the singular word ‘cigarettes’. Zhilev did not have any cigarettes and informed them of the fact as best he could in English, the most common language between them although neither of them spoke it well. Zhilev was not prepared for the pilot’s reaction to his apparent refusal to provide any baksheesh. The man threw his throttle forward and rammed the small fishing boat while at the same time shouting what were no doubt obscenities in Arabic. But neither was the pilot prepared for the fury he unleashed from the giant Russian as a result of his attack. The blood rushed to Zhilev’s head, filling him with violence. He ran to the front of his boat, found an old shackle and launched it with such force it crashed through a window in the pilot’s bridge, bounced off his control console and almost took out his assistant. If the pilot had been stupid enough to repeat his attack, Zhilev would not have been able to stop himself leaping aboard and smashing the pilot’s and his assistant’s skulls together. But the pilot must have sensed something of that order was probable from the hairy, bedraggled and enraged monster he had awoken and elected to back smartly away and depart altogether. All he dared offer in reply was another volley of abuse as he accelerated away.

Zhilev chastised himself, aware that his response had been a senseless one. Had he indeed boarded the boat he would probably have had to end up killing both men and sinking the boat, something he might have gotten away with since there was no other vessel close by, but had he been seen it would have meant the end of his mission. As it was, he still had to make port and run the risk of having to deal with the pilot on land.

The visit went smoothly. The man who measured his boat for the transit fees also asked for cigarettes and was content to receive ten US dollars instead. Zhilev resented paying that much but decided it was wiser not to cause any more trouble and keep as low a profile as possible.

Early the next morning he caught the south-bound convoy and spent the following night at the halfway point of Ismailia where he stayed aboard in the yacht club’s marina. He ate from the ample supply of rations he had bought from the small grocery shop on Kastellorizo, practically emptying it of its tinned goods which he ate without heating, and ventured ashore only to refill his water containers.

On the evening of the second day of passage down the canal, he left Port Suez and headed into the Gulf of Suez where he moored for the night prior to cutting across the Red Sea and into the Gulf of Aqaba. The journey along the monotonous, mainly rocky eastern coast of Egypt had been uneventful. The only points of interest were the occasional clusters of barbed wire and dilapidated signs in Arabic and phonetic English warning against coming ashore.

That was yesterday and now the lights from the city of Aqaba, Jordan’s most south-western town and only seaport, were to the north and less than a mile away. A short distance to the west of those lights, separated by a narrow dark area, was the even more brightly illuminated holiday town of Elat, across Jordan’s border, and Israel’s southernmost town. It was this cluster of brightness, formed by a dozen towering hotels and dense harbour life, that held Zhilev’s gaze.

He studied the panorama for a long time, looking for any signs of security measures such as military vessels that might approach to investigate his little boat, and then looked at the waters to estimate the speed and direction of the current before finally turning to face his large bag which was on the deck.This was it, he told himself, the point of no return. Once this next phase was complete and he was on Israeli soil, there was no going back, not that Zhilev had any doubts now about completing his mission.

He crouched in front of his bag, cracked his neck which had begun to ache a little, and opened it. He removed various pieces of diving equipment, one by one, like a priest reverently sorting out his altar before a mass, and laid them neatly on the deck. He removed a black, rubber dry suit from a plastic bag; it was covered in talcum powder to prevent the thin wrist cuffs and neck seal from adhering to themselves, which would cause them to tear when pulled apart. Beside the suit he placed a pair of black fins, a facemask and a black board the size of a small tea tray that had a depth gauge and compass fixed to it. He then removed a small oxygen cylinder the size of a water bottle and what looked like a coffee tin with Russian writing on it describing the contents as carbon dioxide absorbent powder.The last and heaviest item was an old Spetsnaz re-breathable diving apparatus which Zhilev had purloined while in service - along with all the other equipment. The diving set was some twenty years old but because of its basic design and solid construction it was as good as the day it had been made. It comprised of a large, thick rubber bag the size of a small backpack attached to a harness made up of a series of broad, heavy rubber straps. Fixed to the bottom of the harness, under the rubber bag, was an oxygen-flow regulator, and beside that was strapped a canister the size of a small cake tin. The mouthpiece of the apparatus was similar to a regular scuba’s in so far as it was made up of two flexible rubber concertina hoses attached either side of breathing valves, one leading to the canister and the other fixed directly into the large rubber bag.

Zhilev unscrewed the side of the canister, which was empty, and then opened the sealed tin which contained white granules. Zhilev poured them into the canister until it was full, discarded the empty tin over the side and re-screwed the canister tightly shut again. He picked up the oxygen bottle, checking a small gauge on the side to ensure it was full, and fitted a short, high-pressure hose attached to the regulator, tightening it with a wrench, and then strapped it into its place on the harness. After checking all the seals were secure, he turned on the oxygen bottle and lowered it over the side into the water to check for leaks, and finally opened the bypass valve on the regulator partially inflating the bag. He took a couple of breaths through the mouthpiece to ensure the breathing circuit was functioning. Everything appeared to be working perfectly.

The system was ingeniously simple. High-pressure oxygen trickled from the oxygen cylinder, through the flow regulator and into the rubber bag at low pressure. With the mouthpiece in his mouth, when the diver inhaled fully he emptied the rubber bag containing the pure oxygen, which passed along the concertina hose and into his lungs.When he exhaled, the gases, which were made up of unused oxygen and a small percentage of carbon dioxide, travelled through a valve, along the other concertina hose and into the canister where the carbon dioxide was absorbed by the special powder. The unused oxygen continued through the canister and back into the bag where the spent oxygen was replaced via the regulator attached to the oxygen cylinder, completing the closed-circuit system. The result was a sealed breathing apparatus that did not release any bubbles and therefore did not betray the presence of a diver beneath the surface.

Zhilev looked around to see if any boats were approaching, and when he was satisfied he was alone made a final check of his breast pockets to ensure he had his passport and all his money.

He picked up the diving suit, sat down on the deck, removed his boots, pushed his legs inside and, lying on his back, wormed his way into it. Once he was inside up to his chest he got to his feet, pushed his arms through, being careful not to tear the cuff seals, then lifted up the front and pushed his head through the neck seal. After putting his boots inside the suit, one down each side, he made a quick adjustment of his clothes to ensure comfort and yanked tight the watertight zip across his back to create a seal. After slipping on his fins he picked up the diving apparatus, placed it over his head and buckled the rubber straps that criss-crossed his back so that the bag fitted snugly across his chest.

The nuclear device in its log-like casing was neatly wrapped inside a canvas bag and had a short length of line tied around it that he attached to one side of the diving apparatus harness. The atomic bomb was waterproof to a depth of one hundred feet, more than enough since he would not be going deeper than a quarter of that. The final items were a pair of rocks he had brought from Kastellorizo, which he placed in pockets on the thighs of the suit. Zhilev had carried out a ballast test in a quiet cove of the island prior to leaving, to ensure he had the precise weight including the nuclear device to keep him below the surface. He tied the line connected to the compass and depth gauge board to his harness and picked up his facemask. He was ready.

Zhilev checked around the deck one last time to ensure he had everything then put the facemask on. A quick turn of the regulator bypass valve filled the bag and then he switched the regulator to a trickle flow. He placed the mouthpiece in his mouth, checked his watch and began to breathe. Zhilev stood quietly for two minutes, the prescribed time to test the set and ensure it was working properly. If the gas was bad or the system faulty in some way, it was better to collapse on the deck than in the sea. He looked out over the water once more to check for boats then picked up the nuclear device, climbed carefully over the side and lowered himself into the sea.

As he let go of the boat and quietly drifted away he was suddenly filled with sadness for the little craft. They had not spent very long together but in that short time she had become a friend to him. They had had their ups and downs, such as the times the engine would die suddenly and for no apparent reason. He would curse and shout at it, but after a little tinkering here and there, patching a leaky fuel hose, or unclogging a filter, and always accompanied by words of encouragement, it would run once again as if all it really wanted was some love and attention. In an odd way Zhilev felt the little boat had similar affections for him. They made a fine pair, both old and in their winter, but plodding on without complaint, needing little more than fuel to keep going. It was love, or the lack of it, that was the great sadness of Zhilev’s life and one he was hardly aware of. He had never known it from, or given it to, anyone but his brother. Perhaps that was the deeper reason for his mission, the severing of his last emotional attachment to the rest of humanity, but he would never admit as much. Watching the little boat drift off into the darkness, he was alone again. He had thought about sinking her, and knew it was the wisest course if he was to maintain the strictest security, but his heart would not allow it. At least the boat had a chance if it did not founder, but both their fates were uncertain. Hopefully it would be discovered by a fisherman, the plight of its crew a mystery, who might love it as Zhilev did.

He turned away and faced the lights of Elat, putting the boat out of his mind, and concentrated once again on his task.

The air in his suit gathered at the top keeping him on the surface like a large float. He raised an arm, pulled the cuff away to allow the air to escape, and as it did so he sank slowly beneath the water.

The sea was pleasantly chilly around his head and he swam slowly to keep himself just below the surface while he felt for the line tied to his side and pulled the compass board attached to it into his hands. The nuclear device hung heavily from his waist several feet below but out of the way. He checked the compass that he had already preset, levelled off and started to fin gently along. He did not have to look at anything other than the compass and depth gauge to get to his target. The estimated time it would take him to cover the distance was somewhere around two and a half hours. His oxygen bottle should provide enough gas for three. The depth gauge was needed to keep him close to the surface and important for two reasons: first, the deeper he went the more oxygen he would use because of the increased pressure; and second, pure oxygen could become poisonous beyond a depth of ten metres. The one factor he had not been able to calculate was the tide. The charts were not accurate enough for that and he was going to have to rely partly on luck to get him to his target before he ran out of oxygen.

Zhilev had not swum with a compass board in almost two decades and he had forgotten how boring it was, like a pilot flying a plane at night with no visibility and nothing to look at but his instrument panel. The tiny fluorescent sea anemone glowed around the board, across his hands and along his body, streaming off him as if he were a spacecraft on reentry into the earth’s atmosphere. This was the time for silent thought while his feet beat a constant rhythm propelling him along slowly, and Zhilev went over his plan for the next phase of the operation. He had no doubt that he would come ashore, one way or another, in Israel.

After thirty minutes, Zhilev stopped his forward passage and headed slowly up. He controlled his ascent carefully allowing only his head to break the surface, hoping to see Elat directly ahead, but it was slightly to his right. That indicated a current pushing him to the left, but, thankfully, it was small. He had carried out dives such as this for thousands of hours in his lifetime and was confident he had maintained a true course. All he needed to do was make a slight adjustment to counter the current. The town seemed as far away as it had been when he started but he was aware this could be more illusion than fact. He studied the lights for a moment and decided some aspects had changed and he was indeed getting closer. He pushed himself below the surface using the board as a fin and checked the oxygen gauge. It was still three quarters full. Had it been much less, he would have turned the bottle off and risked swimming on the surface for a while, breathing air, but he felt that would not be necessary. There was enough O₂ in the cylinder, he was sure of it.

Now that he was actually crossing the Gulf of Aqaba, he wondered if he would have got away with swimming in from the Mediterranean, directly on to the Israeli coastline, but he was confident he had made the more difficult but wiser choice. Fifteen years ago he had been part of a team that had supplied the Palestinians with arms from one boat to another in the Mediterranean, and he remembered the briefing regarding the Israeli coastal defences and how good they were rumoured to be in places. The Gulf of Aqaba was much more difficult for them to secure because of the diving and water sports which took place in Elat harbour, as well as the many pleasure boats that sailed this Gulf. The defences here were weak against this kind of approach and the risks for Zhilev greatly reduced.

An hour later he stopped to check his position, gently breaking the surface once again, and this time he was pleasantly surprised to see that he was not only bang on target but quite close to the port. He could make out dozens of boats alongside the jetty and the windows of several towering hotels just beyond. He estimated the distance to be around six hundred yards and dropped below the surface once more. The gauge on the oxygen bottle indicated it was a quarter full, more than enough to complete the journey. He set off at a steady pace and spent the time going through the final surfacing procedures.

Twenty-five minutes later lights appeared above him, diffused and rippled by the water, and a few minutes after that they disappeared indicating that the jetty had cut them out and he was now very close. He slowed his pace and was about to reach in front of him for obstacles when suddenly his head slammed into something solid, the shock almost making him lose his mouthpiece. He dropped the compass board that sunk to the end of its line and felt the object. It was rough and barnacled, with a curve to it that dipped away below him. A boat. He followed it down, passing beneath it, and followed it up the other side.

Zhilev carefully broke the surface to find himself between a pleasure craft of some kind and the jetty. He pushed his facemask up on to his forehead and looked around. The rusty corrugated metal wall of the quay went straight up to a line of rails running along the top of it. A few yards away a ramp came down on to a floating platform that pleasure boats used to load and offload passengers. There were voices, the thud of disco music and then a burst of laughter that sounded like girls.

He made his way to the edge of the platform, keeping beneath the ramp and out of sight from the quay above. Once he reached it, he moved around until he was close against the wall of the quay and in the shadows, then held on to the side while he untied the device and attached it to a ring on the platform. He unbuckled the diving harness, pulled it off his shoulder and, with a firm yank, ripped the air hoses out of the bag. Oxygen gushed from it as it deflated and he released it to let it sink to the seabed. After dumping the two rocks from his pockets, he removed his fins and let them sink along with his facemask. He then took a firm hold of the top of the platform and hauled himself out.

Sitting on the edge of the wooden platform, he unzipped the suit and pulled it off as quickly as he could, placing his shoes to one side. Zhilev dug a penknife from a pocket, slashed the suit from toe to neck and lowered it into the water, pushing it under until enough bubbles escaped and it sank. He pulled on his boots, tied up the laces and stood up to sort out his creased clothes and smarten himself up as best he could. The bump on his head throbbed and he felt it to check for blood but the skin was not broken. His sleeves and collar were wet where water had seeped in but otherwise he was dry. He untied the device from the ring, hauled it out of the water and headed up the ramp and into the bright lights of the quay, acting as naturally as a worker coming off one of the boats.

As he stepped off the ramp, several young girls dressed sexily despite the cool air walked past talking energetically. The source of the thumping music was a building in front of him on the corner of the quay, the windows in the top floor washed in coloured lights flashing to the rhythm of a heavy beat. Zhilev hated disco music and did not understand the Western nightclub culture having never experienced anything like it in his life. Young people were everywhere, on balconies around the club, and walking up and down the broad exterior stairs that led to the entrance. None of them seemed to give him a second glance as he walked away.

In front of him, across a broad paved concourse, were several towering hotels vying for an ocean view with massive neon signs on top of each displaying such names as the Hilton and Sheraton. He headed for a dark area to the side of the nearest where a thick collection of manicured bushes grew.

As he walked towards the bushes he looked around to see if many people were about. Several couples were strolling casually, enjoying the night air, or moving to and from the disco in various directions, but none immediately close by. He slipped into the bushes and crouched by the windowless side wall of the hotel that towered above him. From his hidden position he could see the next hotel’s car park which was almost full. He checked his watch. It was ten to eleven. His timing was perfect. Any later and it might have proved much more difficult to carry out the next phase.

A pair of headlights turned a far corner and headed along the road that ran along the back of the hotels connecting their main entrances. Zhilev hoped this would be his quarry, but as it passed the entrance and continued along the road, it became quite recognisable as a police Land Rover. It drove out of sight and another car turned the same corner in the distance and followed the road. When it reached the car park entrance it slowed, turned into it and came to a stop in a space. A moment later the lights and engine died, the doors opened and an elderly couple climbed out. Zhilev shifted his weight in anticipation, watching them unblinkingly like a leopard weighing his prey. The couple removed some plastic shopping bags from the back seat and unenergetically made their way along the back of the hotel towards the main entrance, the opposite side to the waterfront. Zhilev left the device on the ground concealed by the bushes and stepped out and on to the concourse. He looked back to see if the log was visible, suddenly feeling naked without it. It was the first time in almost two weeks it had left his side. He looked back for the couple and lost sight of them as they passed the corner of the hotel. He walked quickly through the car park and on to the pavement where he located them at the main entrance. A security guard was talking to them, and, after he had made a cursory check of their baggage, they entered the building.

Zhilev moved smartly off after them and as he approached the entrance the security guard turned to look at him. The guard was a young man in civilian clothing and had a metal detector in his hand.

‘Hello,’ Zhilev said with a broad smile as he headed for the single glass door. He must have looked an unlikely guest with his dishevelled clothes and hair, and matted growth of beard.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ the young man said in a heavy accent, holding his arm out to bar Zhilev’s way. ‘Are you staying in the hotel?’

‘Not yet,’ Zhilev said, smiling. ‘I look for a friend here. If he is here, I stay.’

The guard looked Zhilev over from head to toe as if he was unsure about letting him in.

‘Sorry for clothes,’ Zhilev said in a friendly manner. ‘I on boat, fishing. My friend has clothes.’

The young man stared into Zhilev’s unwavering eyes, shrugged and held up the metal detector.‘I need to search you,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Zhilev said acting surprised, and raised his arms. ‘I have nothing,’ he said as if it were a joke.

The guard did not return the smile and ran the detector across Zhilev’s body. It beeped loudly as it passed one of Zhilev’s side pockets.

‘Ah,’ Zhilev said as if remembering what it was. He reached into the pocket and held out the small knife, his smile just as broad.

The guard ignored it since his prime function was looking for guns and bombs, and scanned the rest of Zhilev’s towering frame. There were no other beeps.

‘Okay,’ the security guard said and stepped back to allow Zhilev entry. Zhilev nodded a thanks and headed through the door into the cavernous lobby with varying ceiling heights and floor depths defining a bar, restaurant and seating areas. Zhilev could sense the guard watching his back but ignored him as he scanned quickly about. The reception desk was the other end of the lobby and the elderly couple were in front of it talking to the receptionist.

As soon as he saw them, they moved off and headed down a corridor behind the reception counter. As they turned a corner and out of sight he set off briskly after them.

He walked past the receptionist who did not look up at him and followed the corridor to the corner where he paused to look around it. The elderly couple were standing quietly looking up at a line of floor numbers above a pair of elevators. The sound of a bell announced the lift’s arrival and the doors opened. As the old couple stepped inside, Zhilev followed.

The old man pushed the tenth-floor button and as Zhilev jumped through the closing doors, the couple could hardly take their eyes off him. Zhilev went to push a button then acted as if the tenth was also his floor, nodded, smiled at them and then went back to staring at the doors. Zhilev could feel their eyes looking up at him as the lift gently ascended. He glanced at them for a second and they looked away but only until he faced the doors again, then they continued to stare at him, unsmiling, habitually suspicious. In the confined space Zhilev was suddenly aware of a foul smell and realised it was coming from him. He had not washed for a week or more and in the warmth of the hotel, with the sea drying in his hair, he must have smelt much worse to the old couple since he had grown accustomed to it.

The lift came to a stop and the doors opened. No one immediately moved and Zhilev smiled, motioning politely for them to alight first. They stepped out of the elevator and Zhilev followed, trying to walk much slower than them, which was impossible as they shuffled up the corridor.The old man turned to look at Zhilev who passed alongside his wife doing his best to act as if he was not sure where his room was. The couple stopped outside a door and Zhilev carried on.

The old woman had the key card in her hand, wiggled it into the slot and pushed down the handle but the door would not open, and after several failed attempts the old man forgot about Zhilev, put the bags down and took over, snapping at her in Hebrew. Zhilev glanced over his shoulder in time to see the handle go down and the door start to open. He turned round immediately, gauging his pace and, as the old man picked up the bags and the couple stepped over the threshold, Zhilev accelerated forward and brutally pushed them inside. He threw the door closed behind him and as the old man regained his balance and turned to face his assailant, Zhilev delivered a blow to the side of his neck so powerful it must have snapped a vertebra for the man’s knees immediately buckled and he dropped to the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. The old woman watched her husband fall in horror and as she turned to Zhilev she let out a shrill scream. Zhilev reached out and placed one of his massive hands over her face and the other behind her head, squeezing them together as tight as he could. She continued to scream but it was muffled to near silence as he increased the pressure, her bifocals shattering against her face as if in a vice. The hold was airtight and she grabbed at his fingers to prise them off but for this feeble old woman it was an impossible task. Her nails clawed at his hands and broke against the leather skin leaving barely a mark. Her legs kicked out as the last vestiges of oxygen in her lungs were used, and her eyes bulged then turned up in their sockets as her life ebbed away. Her hands dropped to her sides and hung limply and only then did Zhilev realise he was holding her off the floor. He gently lowered her down and released his grip, and stepped back to look at his work.

He suddenly felt ugly and turned away so that he would not have to look at them. He had had to do it, he told himself. They were old and at the end of their lives anyway and there was no other way to complete the next phase of his mission. Then he saw himself in the large mirror on the wall above the bed and did not recognise himself. He looked far worse than he had imagined and appeared to have aged years in the last few weeks.

Zhilev removed his jacket, unbuttoned his shirt, removed the rest of his clothes and placed them on the bed. When he was naked, he walked into the bathroom and climbed into the bath. It took him a minute to figure out the shower and get it warm and then he immersed himself in the spray. He went through several bottles that lined the bath, unscrewing the caps and pouring the contents on to his head until they lathered, and began to wash himself thoroughly. He rinsed himself off, stepped out of the bath and grabbed a towel off the rail. As he dried himself, he searched through the washing bags, found a razor and shaving foam and set about removing his facial hair. After drying his face and feeling and looking a little younger again, he went to a cupboard outside the bathroom and sorted through the old man’s clothes. He’d hoped there might be something he could wear but it was all ridiculously small. A pair of socks and underpants was all he could find to fit and he went back to his musky clothes on the bed and got dressed, leaving his old socks and underwear on the floor.

Zhilev searched the old man for his keys, picked him up, placed him inside the cupboard and went back for the woman. He packed her on top of her husband and closed the door, the intention being that the maid might not find them immediately the next morning, giving him as much time as possible before the search for him commenced. As a final touch he ruffled the bedclothes, making it look as if they had spent the night in bed.

Zhilev went back to the front door, listened against it for a moment then carefully opened it. The corridor was clear.

He closed the door behind him, walked to the elevator and pushed the call button. He checked his watch. Eleven thirty. The lift arrived and he stepped inside and pushed the lobby button.

The journey seemed to take an age and when the doors opened several young couples were outside, talking and laughing and barely giving him a chance to get out before they piled inside.

Zhilev headed across the lobby to the entrance and stepped through the door ignoring the young security guard who watched him as he walked away.

Zhilev went directly through the car park and into the bushes. A few seconds later he emerged carrying his bag, walked to the couple’s car, opened the driver’s door and climbed in. A quick search of the glove compartment produced a couple of tourist maps, which he quickly studied. The road system looked uncomplicated and if it was well signposted he would have no problems finding his way out of the town.

A minute later he was driving out of the car park and on to the road.

Despite the map it took Zhilev a good five minutes to find his way out of the confusing patchwork of streets that connected the dozen or so hotels in the resort, and when he finally found the main road a sign indicated the Taba Border crossing into Egypt was to the left. He turned right and headed north. Half a mile up the road he hit a junction where a series of signs indicated the Yitzhak Rabin Terminal into Jordan was right and Tel Aviv and Jerusalem were straight on. He continued over the crossing and left the town behind on the virtually dead straight road where there was one other car some distance ahead and nothing behind. He took a deep, relaxing breath and concentrated on removing the tension from his shoulders as the ache in his neck returned.The petrol gauge indicated the tank was over half full, ample fuel to get well away from the town without having to stop. He decided to give it an hour before looking for a petrol station and if it was not open he would park and wait until morning.

As he drove over the crest of a slight hill, a cluster of lights appeared up ahead and he tensed when he realised it was a military checkpoint. Adrenaline trickled into his veins but he remained calm and did not alter his speed until he was close, then he began to slow down.

A soldier with a rifle across his back was standing in the road by a barricade system that narrowed oncoming traffic to a single lane. As Zhilev approached, the soldier stood to the side watching him. Several metres from the barricade Zhilev slowed, preparing to stop alongside the soldier, but he waved him through.

Zhilev maintained his speed and waved as he went by the soldier, then kept an eye on his rear-view mirror as he accelerated up the road. The soldier walked casually away from the barricade towards a hut on the side of the road and disappeared from view.

Zhilev went through the relaxing process once more and concentrated on the road ahead. A couple of distant red tail lights showed that it continued straight for several miles and he suddenly felt a burst of exhilaration. He was in Israel, having covered thousands of miles from his home in Riga, by car, ferry, on foot, by boat and then swimming. Despite his belief in himself he was still impressed he had got this far and with an atomic bomb. It was not that he ever had doubts about the effectiveness of his plan, but there were so many things that could have gone wrong, even relatively small things such as a car accident, or the boat breaking down, any one of a dozen things that could have meant the end of the mission. But none of them had happened and he was within reach of his goal. The next couple of phases would be extremely tricky, with the added danger of the Israeli police and an extremely paranoid military defence force. But then, if the checkpoint he just went through was anything to go by, perhaps that was not going to be as much of a factor as he initially feared. Then again, Elat was a tourist resort. Things would be very different the closer he got to the West Bank and Jerusalem.

Despite his efforts to relax he could not release the tension in his shoulders and the pain in his neck increased. He felt his breast pocket for the small packet of painkillers and thought about breaking his rule, part of him arguing that under the circumstances it would be forgivable. This was not the time to show vulnerability, but as the pain increased, the temptation grew stronger.

Zhilev opened the window, removed the pills from his pocket and tossed them out where they bounced off the black tarmac and rolled into the barren desert.