It was a pretty unremarkable start to the day, with no hint of what was to transpire before it was over. The alarm clock rang at its appointed time. The usual grumbles preceded the morning trek to the bathroom for a shave, shower and relief of other bodily functions. The milk wasn’t off, so breakfast ran as smoothly as can be expected.

When he stuck his head outside, the sun was shining, the birds were singing and the rest of the world was just starting to go about its daily business. The car started first time, and there weren’t any major dramas, traffic-wise, on the drive into work.

So how was it then that he hadn’t seen this coming? He was, after all, supposed to be one of MI5's smarter operatives. Wasn’t he the one they turned to when there was something sticky that needed that 'safe pair of hands'? Wasn’t it him that had made so many potentially embarrassing situations 'go away'? Wasn’t it him that so many of our high profile household names owed a big debt of gratitude to? There was that time when Tony B, ooops, sorry you aren’t cleared are you? Best not mention any names then! But anyway, you get the idea.

It would have been very politically uncomfortable for a certain, well known person in High Office, if he hadn’t have had a quiet word with that young lady of dubious reputation before she spoke to the newspapers.

That seemed to be the direction that his career was taking these days. Baby sitting, sanitising awkward situations, clearing up the mess made by those who should know better, sparing the blushes of ungrateful politicians and the like. Gone were the good old days when we had wall to wall Eastern Bloc spies hiding under every bed. Russians, East Germans, Czechs, every shade of red imaginable. All hell bent on stealing Her Majesty's secrets and his job, to track them down and neutralise them. He knew it was a game, but it had rules, protocols, ethics, it was an old school way of doing things. Theirs was an honourable profession, and contrary to what you might see in the James Bond films, there were no 007's and no licenses to kill. They made do with expelling a few dodgy embassy staff, and then sitting back and waiting for the inevitable tit for tat reprisal.

Nowadays though, there didn’t seem to be any honour. It was as if everyone made the rules up as they went, to suit their own sordid ends. With the plethora of terrorist organisations that had sprung up, with new ones joining them every day, it was hard to keep track of who the enemy actually was. Let alone what their aims and ambitions were. They all used different methods to get their evil message across, with the only common theme being violence and terror. They had no regard for innocent civilian lives, unlike his adversaries from a previous age. It wasn’t the world that he had learned his trade in and getting used to the new rules was hard.

But hard as it may be, he was still one of the best. Maybe a little out of practice, more used to bailing out wayward politicians and minor Royals, but still capable of being in the front line when the chips were down.

That's what made it all the more galling. How did he get here?

How did they catch him? Even though he wasn’t 'front-line' any more, he still observed the basics of his trade. Field craft was second nature to him. He hadn’t noticed any 'tails', no one seemed to be taking more than a passing interest in him or his movements.

He varied his route so that he wasn’t predictable. His car was locked in his garage overnight, protected by every modern alarm system known to man. His phones and computers were heavily encrypted. So how did they get to him?

In his brief interludes of consciousness, before drifting back into the blessed blackness, he was aware of the shadowy figures drifting about, behind the bright light that they were shining into his eyes. That was all that he seemed to be able to focus on. He was aware of the excruciating pain that seemed to radiate over the whole of his body, as if he was being stabbed by hundreds of needles. He tried to concentrate, to pinpoint the source of the pain, but failed. All he knew was that he was in agony, and couldn’t move. The bastards must have tied him down, knowing full well that he would have tried to escape, given half the chance.

Once he realised that he was helpless, fully under their merciless control, his ingrained survival instincts took over. Don’t give them anything that might be useful to them, and if that fails, at least make them work for it.

Everybody breaks eventually; his job was to drag the process out for as long as possible. The powers that be would have realised that he was missing by now. He would be flagged as 'Out of Contact' and that could mean only one thing to them, that he'd been 'lifted'! The whole gamut of damage limitation procedures would swing into action like a well oiled machine.

Passwords would be changed, any information that might have been compromised would be reviewed, security at key points and buildings would be stepped up, all he had to do was to hang on and buy them some time to accomplish these things.

In the Security Service's training academy there had been extensive training about how to withstand various forms of torture.

One of these techniques was to imagine a good place, somewhere associated with happy memories, where you felt safe and secure.

The trick was, you had to put your self there. You had to imagine, for example, a nice warm sunny beach. Where, you can feel the sun, beating down warmly on your back. Where, you can feel the waves lapping at your feet, the warm breeze ruffling your hair.

Where, you can hear the sound of laughter, of people having fun. But you have to picture the sights, smell the smells, hear those sounds and believe that you really are there. You have to believe that the unspeakable things being done to your body are being done to someone else. You have to stand outside of yourself and just focus on that good place.