My 119 Days in the Hole ; Banker Peter Shaw Suffered a Terrifying Ordeal When He Was Kidnapped Abroad and Thrown Into a Tiny, Dank, Filthy Cell Below Ground. Now, for the First Time He Tells the Astonishing Story of How He Survived, Through Sheer Strength of Will and by Adopting a Bizarre Domestic Routine of Hygiene and 'Housework' Amid the Horror . . .

Mail on Sunday › October 22, 2006

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Summary

It was my last day in the office and I was driving to a bar for farewell drinks. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a policeman with a whistle to his mouth. 'Just my luck,' I thought. Being stopped by the Georgian police for no reason and asked for money was commonplace I'd learned this only too well during my time in the Georgian capital of Tbilisi.

True to form, the policeman blew his whistle, stepped into the road and walked towards my car. I stopped.

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My 119 Days in the Hole ; Banker Peter Shaw Suffered a Terrifying Ordeal When He Was Kidnapped Abroad and Thrown Into a Tiny, Dank, Filthy Cell Below Ground. Now, for the First Time He Tells the Astonishing Story of How He Survived, Through Sheer Strength of Will and by Adopting a Bizarre Domestic Routine of Hygiene and 'Housework' Amid the Horror . . .

'What's the problem, officer?' I asked as he drew alongside.

'You are the f****** problem!' he shouted in English, punching me hard in the face.

A minibus screeched to a halt behind me. Three men wearing black masks and military uniform and brandishing Kalashnikovs jumped out. They fired into the air as they ran toward my Skoda. At the same time, a police car slewed to a halt in front of my car. Three men dressed in police uniform got out. Two jumped into the back seat of my car, one into the passenger seat.

They tried to pull me from the driver's seat. I'm not a big man and, at 57, way past my prime, but I put up a good fight. There was a melee of fists and elbows.

Eventually, though, I was dragged into the back. We sped off, followed by the police car and the minibus. I tried to calm myself and take stock. It was 6pm on June 18, 2002. Having worked as a banker in Georgia for six years, I was just hours

from returning to Wales for good with my Georgian girlfriend Diana Khorina and Danny, our three-yearold son. Now, I was being kidnapped.

And I was about to descend lite...

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