“Hello?”

“Is this Sascha Duffy?” Faulkner said.

“Yes. Who is this?”

“My name is Doctor Miles Farrow. I’m calling from the al-Jamhourua Hospital in Basra. It’s about your husband.”

“Bryan?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Oh my goodness. Is he alright?”

“I’m afraid he’s been quite badly hurt, Mrs Duffy. I don’t know if you’ve seen the news today, but there was a bomb . . .”

“Badly hurt? What does that mean?”

“He’s unconscious. We don’t think he’s in immediate danger, but you should probably come to the hospital as soon as you can. Do you know where we are?”

“Yes, I was there a month ago. A friend . . . oh, my goodness. I’ll come right away. Which ward is he in?”

“He’s in ICU, madam.”

“Thank you.”

Sascha Duffy rang off.

They waited. All they needed to do was to get her out of the gated compound, away from the security.

It didn’t take long.

Sascha hurried out the front door and got into the Audi TT that was parked on the drive. Beatrix had wondered whether she would usually travel with a guard, but if she did, she was in too much of a hurry today to worry about it. She reversed off the drive and sped up to the lodge with the armed guards inside. She exchanged a quick few words, the gate slid to the side and she accelerated quickly away.

Faulkner pulled into the traffic behind her. They headed to the middle of town and the al-Jamhourua hospital.

“She’s going to come off here,” Beatrix said, pointing to the slip road that fed off the main route.

Faulkner fed revs to the engine and picked up speed.

Sascha Duffy stopped at a red light that filtered traffic onto a roundabout. She was first at the light, and they were second. There was no one behind them. It was perfect.

Faulkner drew up to a stop behind the Audi.

Beatrix opened the door, got out and, drawing her Sig, jogged up to the passenger side door. She knew that it would be locked—that was de rigeur for a Western woman driving around Basra on her own—but that was not a problem. She used the butt of the pistol to smash the glass, reached in and opened the door from the inside and got in.

Sascha Duffy screamed and fumbled the car into first gear. Beatrix reached across and laid her right hand across Sascha’s hand on the gearstick.

“Relax,” she said. “I’m not going to hurt you. Your husband is fine.” She laid the Sig on her lap, drawing the woman’s eyes to it. “But I need you to come with me.”

They waited until the GPS tracker on Duffy’s car was on the move and then set off. Faulkner was in the Freelander and Beatrix was driving Sascha Duffy’s Audi. Sascha was in the back, her hands fastened behind her back with cable ties.

Duffy had been at the Rumaila complex all day and into the night, and now he was coming back into Basra. That was ideal for what they had in mind. The road passed through the occasional village and shanty, but for the most part, it sliced through barren desert. It was a sixty-minute drive. There would be plenty of opportunities to do what had to be done.