She took out the field glasses and put them to her eyes.

Her heart jolted. “Shit.”

She pressed the binoculars tight to her eyes and looked again.

“What is it?”

“Stop the engine.”

He did as she asked, and she opened the door and hopped down.

“What is it?”

She ignored him and went around to the back. She opened the bag and, as discreetly as she could, took out the Sig, pressed in a fresh magazine and then pushed it into the waistband of her trousers. She took the abaya and pulled it over her head.

“Rose,” Faulkner said. “Stop. What is it?”

She balled her fists, clenching and unclenching impatiently. “It’s Duffy,” she said. “Over there. Behind the gate.”

Faulkner turned to look. There was no reason why he would recognise Bryan Duffy, but similarly, there was no way she could ever forget him. He was standing behind a line of soldiers, directing them. He was obviously the most senior man present. He was in command. She stared at him, remembering the way his hair swept back from his temple, the sharp nose, even the way he moved. He had grown a wild beard since the last time she had seen him, but it couldn’t disguise his identity.

Faulkner suddenly looked very nervous. “Are you sure?”

“Completely.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Just get a little closer.”

“Don’t forget about . . .”

“Don’t forget about Mackenzie West,” she finished for him, “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

She walked to the back of the crowd. Her Arabic was excellent, and she understood the chants. They were loud and angry, declaiming the Americans for their imperialism and demanding jobs for local workers. The men and women thrust out their fists and stabbed upwards with the placards that bore their slogans. A cheer sounded to Beatrix’s left, and she saw a flash of flame as a barrel-chested man set fire to the Stars and Stripes, inky smoke curling into the scorched air. The cheer was taken up by the others until it became a bellow of rage.

She stared through the forest of limbs and the bars of the gate at Duffy, and the flame of her hatred flickered and caught hold.

Another group of workers joined behind her. The atmosphere was febrile and capricious, and seemingly at the flick of a switch, it curdled from rowdy to ugly. The newcomers surged at the gate, and Beatrix was pressed deeper into the throng. She was heaved right into the middle, the eddies and currents of the crowd drawing her ahead against her will. She found the man with the burning flag to her right and a girl, incongruously young, small and fresh faced, to her left.

She turned her head. She couldn’t see Faulkner anywhere.

The crowd pressed up against the gates, hands laced around the bars, and started to yank at them.

The chanting became angrier.

Beatrix tried to force her way back again, but the men and women behind her were pressed too tight, and there was nowhere for her to go.