dressed like whores,’ he spat. ‘What is this insult?’
Shishani raised his palms in placation. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he said. ‘We had clothes for them but they were left on the boat by mistake.’
‘Which one is she?’ said Kadyrov.
‘The middle one.’
‘Wait here.’
Kadyrov returned to his Land Cruiser. In his left hand were a couple of black sheets; in his right, a digital video camera.
He dropped the sheets and handed the camera to Shishani.
‘The middle one, yes?’ he said.
‘Yes, she…’ said Shishani.
‘Give me that,’ said Kadyrov, pointing to the still-silenced pistol in Shishani’s waistband.
Shishani handed it over. Kadyrov stepped over to the women.
‘Get up!’ he said.
They stood, fearfully, not daring to meet his eye.
‘You,’ he said, pointing at the woman on the left. ‘Name?’
‘What?’ she said.
‘What is your name?’
‘Martha.’
‘Martha,’ he repeated, rolling it around his mouth. He nodded. Then he looked at the woman on the right. ‘And you?’
‘Emily.’
He chuckled softly.
‘Well, well,’ he said, and looked at Shishani, eyebrows raised.
Shishani nodded.
‘Thank you, ladies,’ said Kadyrov. ‘Everyone stand up, come with me.’
He grabbed Emily Souster roughly by the shoulder, turned her around, and pushed her forwards. The other women followed as he walked them back twenty, twenty-five metres, to the overhanging branches of the trees.
‘Kneel!’ he snapped.
‘Please,’ said Emily. ‘What are you…?’
He raised the pistol, placed it against her forehead, and said, quietly, ‘Kneel.’
She did as instructed.
‘You two kneel either side of her,’ he said.
‘Emily…’ said Charlotte Morgan.
Kadyrov slapped her in the face. ‘Be quiet, woman,’ he said, ‘and kneel.’
The three women knelt in the sand, Charlotte and Martha held in position by masked men.
Kadyrov pulled on a black balaclava and stood behind Emily Souster.
‘Turn it on,’ he said.
There was an electronic beep as Shishani clicked the video camera.
‘Begin filming,’ said Kadyrov.
Shishani nodded.
The harsh glare of the light from the camera illuminating him, Khasmohmad Kadyrov looked into the lens and spoke, in heavily-accented English. ‘Oh, Britain!’ he said. ‘This is a warning from us, the Warriors of Jihad. A taste of what is to come.’
He placed the pistol to the back of Emily Souster’s neck, and she started and looked up at Shishani.
‘What’s he doing?’ she said. ‘I didn’t…’
‘Silence,’ said Kadyrov, sharply. He looked into the camera. ‘We have the daughter of the British Prime Minister. You can see her here. Now you will see that we are men of action.’
Somewhere overhead, an owl cried out.
The huge, masked Chechen pulled the trigger of the pistol.
The shot was aimed slightly to the right of Emily Souster’s spinal column, and was designed not to kill her immediately, but to cause pain and suffering, and to increase the horror of the footage.
The round exited her throat underneath her chin and sent her sprawling forward, her eyes wide with shock as her body tried to draw in air through the ruptured airway. The noise of her dying gasps filled the otherwise silent air, as her lungs filled with blood.
From somewhere, Charlotte Morgan heard a high-pitched scream; she only realised that the scream was her own when the man holding her punched her in the back of the head, sending her face forwards into the sand.
Shishani kept rolling as Kadyrov leaned over the dying Emily and casually dispatched her with another shot to the head, as a hunter might destroy an injured rabbit.
The giant Chechen turned back to the camera.
‘We will be in touch with your government very soon,’ he said, placing the pistol back in its holster.
‘Perfect, Khasmohmad,’ breathed Shishani, before clicking the camera off.
Kadyrov pulled off his balaclava.
‘You will transmit that to our friends in the Ivory Coast, for them to disseminate?’ he said. ‘Along with our message?’
‘I will upload it as we drive,’ said Shishani.
‘And we’re a hundred per cent sure it’s secure? They won’t trace our location?’
‘We’ve been using these systems for long enough now, Khasmohmad. The encryption is superb.’
‘Designed by American nerds and made available for free to the world,’ said Kadyrov, shaking his head and chuckling. ‘It must drive the CIA crazy.’
He tapped Charlotte Morgan and Martha Percival on the heads and said, ‘To the vehicles.’
They stayed stock still, so the men who were holding them dragged them to their feet.
They were pushed roughly back towards the waiting Land Cruisers, where Kadyrov threw black sheets at them both.
‘Make yourselves decent,’ he said.
Charlotte slowly wrapped the sheet around herself, but Martha Percival simply stared vacantly at the ground, until one of the men threw the cloth over her.
Another man produced flatbreads, dates and a bottle of water.
‘Eat,’ said Kadyrov. ‘And drink.’
Martha Percival stared at her feet and said nothing.
Charlotte Morgan looked up at him.
‘No,’ she said. ‘You can kill me if you like.’
‘All in good time, my dear,’ said Kadyrov, with a smile. ‘What is your expression? Good things come to those who wait. I won’t force you to eat, but it has been some hours since you were taken, and I cannot allow you to die of thirst. So…’
He nodded at the man, who grabbed Charlotte’s face, forced her mouth open, and thrust the bottle into it.
She choked and spluttered, but a good half-litre of water found its way into her stomach.
When the bottle was removed, Charlotte looked at Kadyrov, defiance blazing from her eyes.
‘Very well,’ he said. He turned back to the other men and said, almost benevolently, ‘Now tape them. This one first.’
Two of the men approached and seized Charlotte by the arms and legs, and a third began winding white duct tape around her ankles. He worked quickly and methodically, and by the time he was finished, her entire body was taped solid; a fourth covered her head, so that the only visible parts were her feet, her mouth and the top of her hair. She looked like a mummy.
During the entire time, Charlotte Morgan said and did nothing. She knew that resistance was futile, and, while her mind was reeling in