Major Matthew Worden, an intelligence officer with Great Britain’s Internal Security Service (MI5), had driven past the residence twice. It was owned by Pyotr Nikitin, a Russian businessman who was suspected of being a member of the Great Britain Communist Party.  World War II had ended two years before, and the Soviet Union was now no longer an ally of Britain.

MI5 had evidence that subversive activity was now taking place across the island. In London, this house was one of several which MI5 had been monitoring for evidence of illegal proceedings. Worden did not have the manpower to watch them all round the clock, therefore soft surveillance had been arranged.

He had chosen an evening when there was a meet of the GBCP in the hope that the house, a neat but plain structure set back from the street, would be unoccupied. Indeed, the windows that faced the street were dark, and the winding driveway that curved round to the back of the house was free from any vehicles.

Worden was accompanied by his team. All wore dark clothes, and they planned to make entry silently, by disabling the lock instead of resorting to a battering ram. They all knew that sound travelled better at night, and it was imperative to avoid any noise in the quiet neighbourhood.

When Doug Giles felt a tap on his shoulder, he knew it was time to move. He, Glen Stuart, Roger Dunn, and Worden stepped quietly inside, but once there, they heard weak screams and guttural shouts. Instead of spreading out to conduct their search, Worden directed them toward the sounds. The cellar door stood open. They drew their weapons, and Worden nodded to indicate that they should move forward.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, they could see three men and one woman. One of the men, heavyset with dark hair, had a knife in one hand. With his other arm he was supporting a young woman whose clothes were covered with blood. Her body was limp. If not completely unconscious, she was nearly so. Another man with similar coarse features stood next to him, also gripping a knife. An older and slightly less stocky individual with glasses – Pyotr Nikitin – was seated in a chair across from them.

“Drop the knife!” Worden yelled. “Drop the knife!”

When the man holding the woman moved his knife toward her throat, Dunn fired. The man dropped, and the woman fell. The thug next to him released his knife and backed against the wall, both hands in the air. Nikitin rose suddenly, and with an unintelligible cry and fists at the ready, attacked Stuart in an effort to reach the cellar stairs. Giles joined in Stuart’s defence, and when the man was pushed back, he lost his balance and toppled over backward, his head striking a large wooden chest. His body was motionless, his head was at an awkward angle, and Stuart confirmed that he was no longer breathing.

“Damn!” Worden exclaimed. He had wanted to interrogate him. “Dunn, secure your prisoner. Giles, stand watch. Stuart, take one car, locate Marston, and transport him to the clinic. I’ll take the woman with me in the other and meet you there. Return here soonest.”

He reached the young woman and lifted her from the floor. Blood from her injuries, which had stained her clothes, now coloured his. “Dear God,” he whispered.