She made her way across the dusty, unfinished floor to the side of the building that overlooked the prison. The windows this high were open and unguarded, and she edged ahead while crouched low until she was confident that she wouldn’t be observed from the street below.

She stood to the side of the window, took out her binoculars and quickly scouted the prison.

There were guards on foot in front of the main entrance and another two in a thirty-foot-high watchtower that looked over it. She focussed on them: they were toting rifles, probably Tabuks, the modified version of the Zastava M70 that the Iraqi army used. They were reliable weapons, chambered for 7.62x39mm rounds, meaning the rifle had a maximum effective range of six hundred metres. Even then, it was hopeless unless you were no more than two hundred metres away from the target. It was only good for “spray and pray,” and Beatrix was not concerned about the threat that it posed. In any event, they would neutralise them first of all.

She examined the walls and the buildings. They looked as flimsy from up here as they had from the street.

An idea began to form.

She noticed a structure was being erected in the courtyard between two of the larger buildings. A wooden floor on stilts had been constructed with a staircase to one side. A long frame was lying in the dust, consisting of two 3-metre-long posts that had been fashioned into square diameters with a third post, perhaps two metres long, fixed between them and supported by braces. There were slots in the wooden floor where the frame might be inserted. A man was working on the frame, using a power saw to cut out a notch in the middle of the shorter post.

It was a gallows.

The notch would be where the noose would be fitted.

It was mid-afternoon when she returned to the derelict foundry. There was a rental car outside the building. Beatrix was expecting company, but experience had taught her that assumptions were dangerous. She took the Sig and shoved it into the waistband of her trousers.

Faulkner was in the canteen with the Group Fifteen quartermaster.

“Hello again,” he said. “You wanted some extra hardware?”

“Something came up. Different needs.”

He indicated Faulkner. “So he said.”

“Can you help?”

He nodded. “I can. I have just what you need.”

Beatrix had called Faulkner with the list of equipment that they required. The man took a long canvas bag from the floor and placed it on one of the canteen tables. He unzipped the bag and took out an M40 bolt action sniper rifle. “Not easy to get this on short notice,” he said. “A friend of a friend had it. It was left behind after Enduring Freedom. It’s not the best example I’ve ever seen, but it’ll do. It should be good enough for what you want.”