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full capacity with their troops and armament - instead of building forces back up again - and would now be thinking about a strategy of moving against other, more important enemies. It was what other countries were now doing, Germany included, from what Bohuslav was hearing.
    Hood may have dealt the blow, but Tanek brought them all together. And, while it was true being the new Tsar of Russia did have its benefits, Bohuslav would still prefer to have been more behind the scenes.
    Pulling on a robe, he walked over to the bar and poured himself a generous measure of Smirnoff; he preferred this to drugs when his stump was aching. By the second glass, the pain had dulled considerably.
    Even after the alcohol, he heard, and felt, the person outside his room before they knocked. The sickle attachment was back in the bedroom, but Bohuslav never answered a door unarmed, even if there were guards out in the hall. He settled for a nearby ice-pick, concealing this behind his back as he looked through the spyhole.
    It was a member of his staff called Klopov, but still Bohuslav kept the pick hidden as he opened the door.
    Klopov smiled inanely as the new Tsar bid him enter. It was obviously good news , thought Bohuslav. If it wasn't, the man might have been more reticent. Bad news ran the risk of enraging him. And very bad news meant the same for the messenger. It was how any military dictator would act.
    "Sorry to call at such a late hour," Klopov said.
    "Yes, yes," said Bohuslav. "What is it?"
    For a second an image of stalking Klopov through the corridors of this hotel flashed through Bohuslav's mind, the pulse at the man's neck exciting him. No, concentrate. Listen to what he has to say.
    "I thought you'd like to know that he's there."
    "Who is where, exactly?"
    "The arrow," replied Klopov, then added for good measure. "The arrow has landed, sir."
    Now it was Bohuslav's turn to smile. The first part of his plan had been put into effect. The Native American was on British shores. "Excellent!" If all went well, he would soon be celebrating his revenge, or at least part of it. There would be more to come eventually.
    It would be so perfect. Bohuslav looked down at his stump for the millionth time since he lost that hand fighting Hood and his men. "Would you care for a drink, Klopov?" He nodded towards the bar.
    Klopov smiled again, then nodded.
    Bohuslav was happy now, and ordinarily that meant he would leave the messenger be. It had indeed been good news; the best news in fact. But as Klopov moved towards the bar, once again the new Tsar's mind was filled with things he'd like to do to him. The way he might wish to celebrate.
    The blood. The flesh. The ineffectual pleading of the victim.
    Bohuslav smiled and followed him, pick still behind his back, having yet to decide whether the messenger would leave this room alive.

Chapter Three
     
    From the outside, it was a spectacular sight.
    From the inside, it was even more impressive. Opened in 1999, this stadium marked the end of one millennium and the beginning of another. A fresh new start for everyone, but nobody could have guessed just how radical that new beginning would be.
    He'd come here often once upon a time to watch the matches; brought by his Dad - though only after his eldest son, Gareth, had died from leukaemia. It was home to their national rugby union team, after all. He remembered their matches in the Six Nations, mainly their victories - the crowd going wild, that tribal thing of territory against territory. Mimicking his father, he'd cheer on their team. "It's all about that," his Dad repeatedly told him, pointing to the national flags some supporters were waving. Then he'd chorus with the crowd nearest to him: "We are dragons! We are dragons!" He was a poor substitute for Gareth, however, who'd always been Dad's favourite. Still was, to this day.
    When they lost Gareth, his Mam and Nan turned all their attention on him, as if they might lose that boy too at any moment.