Andy McNab - Zero hour

Charles Tresillian looked like he'd sprung from a grainy black-and-white of Shackleton's final expedition and spent his Saturdays running from office to office, encouraging the troops. The set of his jaw certainly suggested he had a country to protect, and he expected to lead from the front.

A map of Moldova, wedged between Romania and Ukraine, north of the Black Sea, was spread across the screen behind him.

For fuck's sake – these guys must see me as a one-trick pony.

Tresillian kept his brooding gaze on me as I crossed the carpet. He slid two files across the table at no one in particular. I went to the right and Jules to the left.

'You're our man, are you? Are you as good as Julian says you are?' His voice was deep and clipped. His finger provided the punctuation. 'He tells me you're shit-fucking-hot.'

People expected the shits and fucks to tumble from mouths like mine because they assumed we wouldn't know the difference between a thesaurus and a brontosaurus. But from a posh well-educated lad like Tresillian they somehow carried the same gravitas as one of Churchill's soundbites.

I nodded. 'Yeah, I am.'

'Well, I'm the shit-fucking-hot man with the big picture. Sit.'

Jules and I took chairs facing each other. I leant forward and dragged one of the buff-coloured folders towards me.

'Gentlemen, shall we?'

Tresillian opened his folder and we followed suit.

'This is the situation, Mr Stone. It is one that you will endeavour to make good. Hector Tarasov is a friend of the UK in Moldova. Our sources in-country tell us that his daughter has gone missing. We want to find her for him, in as covert a way as possible.'

'What does he do?'

'He's an industrialist.' He tapped the printout of the map. 'Here, in Transnistria.' His finger stayed on the narrow sliver of land to the east of Moldova. 'When it was part of the Soviet Union, Moldova had its share of factories, many of them military. With independence, in 1991, the eastern strip of the country, known as Transnistria, east of the Dniester River, seceded.'

I tried a smile. I wasn't comfortable with the Mr Stone business, and even though my head was starting to pound again, I wanted to see if I could lighten the tone a bit. 'Sounds like one of those lunatic names the head sheds give a country during battle training.'

It wasn't going to happen.

'If only, Mr Stone. Transnistria was Moldova's most industrialized region, as well as its most Russified. Moscow intervened to stop a civil war over the secession, and since 1992 Russian troops have watched over what is being termed a "frozen conflict" that has left Transnistria isolated, unrecognized by any nation but Russia, and Moldova divided.'

He raised a finger at the plasma screen. 'The reason our friend is very important to us is because this strip of land is a major producer of Russian arms for worldwide export. It has the largest steel-production plant that the Russian Federation has access to.'

'What does Tarasov's factory make?'

'Tons of mind-your-own-fucking-business.' His lips pursed and his frown added another ten years to his age. 'This operation is about the daughter.'

I looked down at an eight-by-five colour picture of a young woman with dyed blonde hair that reached her shoulders. The roots showed through in the centre parting. She'd gone for the Goth look; her pale, almost translucent skin made her look like she belonged in a teenage vampire film. A bare male arm hung loosely round her neck. She was trying hard to smile into the camera, as you do at family events when you're having a shit time. The image almost filled the page. There was no information about where or when it might have been taken.

'Her name is Lilian Edinet. She's twenty years old. This picture was taken approximately seven months ago. We have, of course, checked on all social networking sites to see if we could get any information on her whereabouts or any more recent photos.'

Another image was pasted over the map on the screen – the wide shot her face picture had been lifted from. She stood in front of a T55 tank mounted on a stone ramp surrounded by plaques: a monument to the great wheat harvest or whatever. The arm belonged to an older man, who looked a lot happier than she did. He was in his mid-forties and had very dark, almost jet-black hair and a dental plan that only money, not God, could give you. Peas out of the same pod, they looked like a double act. Behind them was a massive chunk of boring grey factory. Red signage proudly covered the top third of the building.

Tresillian looked up. 'That is Hector Tarasov.'

He turned to Jules. 'I don't care too much for Facebook myself. I can't see why anyone would want to make so much information freely available. It's out there for ever. Good for us, though, eh?'

My head filled with questions. 'Can I make contact with Tarasov? Find out what he knows? What about her mother?'

'On no account must there be any contact with Tarasov.'

'He must be taking steps of his own to-'

Tresillian was dismissive. 'More from Julian later. As I said, it's the girl we're interested in. She is the sole reason you're here.' His eyes searched mine to make sure I was getting the message.

I nodded. 'Lilian – she doesn't look that happy, does she?'

'On the contrary. By all accounts this young woman is quite a feisty little piece. However, she is missing, and you will find her at all costs. UK plc does everything within its power to help its friends.' He paused. 'Do you understand?'

'Of course. You want leverage to score some big Brownie points off the Dadski.'

He didn't answer or smile. Nick Stone was too far down the food chain to make funnies. He reminded me of some really good officers I'd come across in the army. They weren't your best mates, but you knew where you stood with them, and exactly what was required. If you didn't fuck them over, they might not fuck you over. But it still all depended on what side of the bed they got out of that morning.

'Exactly, Mr Stone. We're not a fucking charity, are we?' He turned his head. 'Isn't that right?'

'Exactly, Mr Tresillian.' Julian's teeth gleamed in the subdued lighting. 'We have a job to do.'

He turned back to me. 'I cannot impress on you enough, Mr Stone, that this matter is of national and international importance. It is critical that this young woman be found and delivered to us. When you find her, a contact and safe-house will be available until arrangements are made to bring her back to the UK. She will never leave your sight, and only when she is physically under the contact's control will the task be complete.

'If you find her and she's dead, I still want the body. However, you will not kill her to make your job easier. Nothing and no one must be allowed to stop you achieving your aim. Nothing. No one. Is that understood?'

I nodded. Hector Tarasov must be one powerful player. Tresillian even wanted bragging rights delivering the body.

He nodded back. 'That's very good. One last thing. This situation is very fucking delicate. Only the three of us in this room and eventually the contact will ever know that it's happened.'

I nodded again.

'Good. Has Julian completed your financial requests?'

'We haven't discussed that yet, but finance-'

'Good.' He slammed the palms of his hands on the table as he stood up. 'Very good.'

Julian and I pushed our chairs back and stood up. Tresillian advanced on me with the relentlessness of a large armoured vehicle. 'Julian will brief you now. The next time we meet will be to congratulate you on a job fucking well done.'

As he gripped my hand I smelt tobacco. A splash of Old Spice and an anchor tattoo on his forearm and he could have been a ringer for my granddad.

He went out, leaving his folder on the table.