“Then you need not worry. It is.”

Beatrix knew that the Group had quartermasters positioned around the world. They assimilated themselves into local society and surfaced only when called upon to kit out agents when they were in the field. She had met plenty of them during her career, but it had been years since she was active, and so it was no surprise that this man was new to her. He led her into a smaller room at the back of the workshop. There were finished suits hung on hooks on the wall and a large canvas bag on a table.

He unzipped it and took out an FN F2000 Tactical TR compact assault rifle. Beatrix picked it up and hefted it. It was a gas-operated, fully automatic and ambidextrous bullpup rifle, equipped with both an optical sight and an under-slung lightweight 40mm grenade launcher. She field-stripped the weapon down to its component parts and inspected each of them carefully. She reassembled it again.

“You won’t get much smaller or more mobile than that,” the quartermaster said.

“Ammunition?”

He took ten 30-round magazines and five grenades from the bag and put them on the table. “It is good?”

“Very good. Secondary weapon?”

“There you have a choice.”

He laid out a Glock 17 and a Sig Sauer P226 Tactical. Both were 9mm pistols, and both had been fitted with custom suppressors. The quartermaster took out magazines for each weapon and laid them out. Beatrix took the Sig and broke it down, quickly pleased with it. It was almost box fresh. The Glock looked as if it had seen more action, and when she broke it down, she confirmed it. The parts were worn and in need of attention. The Sig was the better bet.

“And the rest?”

He retrieved a set of head-mounted LUCIE night vision goggles, six M84 flash-bang grenades and two canteen pouches for carrying them, a length of Cordex detcord, a No. 6 plain detonator, a small amount of C4, a roll of double-sided tape, binoculars, a handheld GPS unit with spare batteries and a combat first aid kit.

“Is that everything you need?”

“This is good,” she said. “There’s one other thing.”

“Yes, please, what is it?”

“I need a small GPS tracker and a receiver.”

“I have a commercial model. Quite reliable.” He went over to a cupboard and took out a small black box that was about the same size as a cigarette lighter. It had a peel-away adhesive strip on one side. “It works with a smartphone.”

“Do you have one?”

“Of course.” He took a white box from a shelf, opened it and took out an older model iPhone. “This is unregistered. The tracker app is already installed.”

“That’s fine.” She replaced the phone in the box and added it to the other items. “Thank you.”

Beatrix hoisted the bag of equipment over her shoulder and went outside onto the street. This part of the city was heaving with new money. Oil money. The road was wide, almost a boulevard, and had been cleared of the rubbish and rubble that scarred so many others. Instead of bomb craters and decades of putrid refuse were new cars and touts hawking trinkets. There were garish new shop fronts selling everything from Turkish shawls and Gulf fragrances to Lebanese sweets. Photograph shops displayed photos of chubby babies. Cigarettes, carbonated drinks, fruit, bolts of cloth and cans of petrol were piled in tottering heaps across the pavements. Neon lights were everywhere, and the streets were thronged with shoppers. Restaurants had posters offering strangely coloured kebabs.