“I’ll get it.”

She went into the room that had once been the riad’s hammam, the traditional steam bath. They had installed a series of shelves and hooks and a large gun cabinet. The Heckler & Koch was on the workbench next to a box of ammunition. She took a Glock, shoved it into the waistband of her trousers and then took the submachine gun.

She left it on the table next to the pool and climbed the stairs to Isabella’s room. The door was unlocked. She opened it quietly and went inside. Isabella was asleep, lying with her arms spread wide and the sheets wound around her legs.

Beatrix crept across the room.

“Isabella.”

She woke at once.

“You’re dead. Right now. I killed you.”

“Mummy!” she protested.

“Is this what I taught you?”

“No, I . . .”

“You have to be alive to threats, sweetheart. All the time. It doesn’t matter what time of the day it is. It doesn’t matter if you are awake or if you are asleep. What are you supposed to do last thing at night?”

“Block the door.”

“That’s right. Block the door. So what happened?”

“You’re home,” she said. “I thought . . .”

“That you’d be safe? You’re not safe. There are still three of them out there. Until we’ve eliminated all of them, they are still a threat. Do you understand?”

“Yes. I’m sorry.”

Beatrix relented a little, regretting the harsh tone in her voice. “It’s alright. I’m only angry because I love you. And because the people we are dealing with are very, very dangerous. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Get dressed. I’ve got a surprise for you.”

Mohammed had parked the jeep in the street into which the alleyways and passages eventually led. Beatrix had stowed the H&K, the cartridges and two watermelons in a nylon duffel bag. She unlocked the doors and slung it into the back.

“Where are we going?” Isabella asked as they pulled out into the quiet street.

“Somewhere we won’t disturb anyone,” Beatrix answered.

They headed south. It was a little after seven in the morning, and the city was still rousing from its slumber. The traffic was sparse, and they cleared the usual bottlenecks without delay, breaking out onto the wider roads that terminated in the city like the spokes of wheel. In an hour they were out into the desert.

Beatrix wondered, again, if she was doing the right thing. She had started to doubt herself, and the hesitancy was beginning to nag. She had spent much of the last year on Isabella’s training, accelerating the syllabus when she realised that her illness was progressing faster than it could be controlled. Her aim had always been to ensure that her daughter could defend herself, but lately she had admitted to herself that she had another motivation.

A selfish motivation.

What if the cancer made her unable to do what needed to be done? What would she do then?