“Here we go,” Faulkner said anxiously, looking in the mirror.

It was a Grizzly armoured personnel carrier, a big infantry carrier designed for urban combat. The steel armour was painted jet black and angled into a V-shape to deflect explosive blast waves. There were multiple gun ports and a ring-mount roof turret with a soldier standing behind a 12.7mm machine gun. It was a beast of a vehicle, fast and almost impregnable. The Manage Risk logo, a Roman legionnaire’s helmet before two crossed gladii, had been affixed to the flanks.

“What do they want?”

“Take it easy,” Beatrix said.

“We’ve got gear in this car we won’t be able to explain.”

“I know we do. Pull over.”

Faulkner slowed and parked at the side of the road. They were adjacent to an enormous nodding donkey that squeaked loudly every time the big head dipped down and back up again.

The hatch in the Grizzly’s flank opened, and two private soldiers stepped out. They were dressed all in black, and both wore wraparound shades that obscured their eyes. They were equipped with M4 carbines, and they toted them as they approached, one on either side of the jeep.

“If they search . . .” he began quietly.

“They won’t,” she interrupted. “Leave it to me.”

The soldier on Faulkner’s side of the jeep spoke first. “Where are you going?”

“You can talk to me,” Beatrix said.

“That right? And who are you?”

“Juliet Watson,” she said, using the false name that they had used for the permit. She spoke with authority.

“Take your glasses off, please, miss.”

“I will if you will.”

The man frowned, but did as she asked. She removed hers in return.

“That’s better,” she said.

“So? Where are you going?” He was American, a low drawl of an accent that she guessed was from the East Coast.

“Down to the oilfield.”

“No, you’re not.”

“We have a permit.”

“What for?”

“I work for the BBC. The news division. You’ve heard of the BBC, haven’t you?”

“Of course.”

“We’re filming a piece about the oilfield.”

“What about it?”

She smiled at him as if he was simple. “You know this is the biggest reserve in the world, right?”

“Yes.”

“So we’re doing a piece about that. About the effect it’ll have on the local economy. About the opportunities for the Iraqis and the companies contracted to get the oil out of the ground.”

“It’s been cleared with the authorities.”

“I don’t know anything about that.”

“Would you expect to have been told?”

He shrugged.

“Want to see the paperwork?”

She took the plastic folder and handed it to him. The man opened it and shuffled dubiously through the sheaf of papers inside. They were fake, but they were good fakes. How was he possibly going to be able to tell? He glanced at the papers, but she could see that he wasn’t really reading them. He was trying to work out what he should do next.

“Do you need to speak to your commanding officer?”