‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘We’re sending you to England, brother. We have a special job for you.’ He gestured at the passport. ‘A brother in England is allowing you to use his identity to get into the country. You look very like him so you will not be stopped, and your English is good enough to pass muster. We will get you into Europe and then to London.’

Al-Hussain chose his words carefully. Islamic State did not take kindly to those who did not follow orders without question. ‘I always feel that I can do my best work here,’ he said. ‘I have support, I know the territory. No one has more kills than me.’

‘You are one of our best snipers,’ agreed al-Lihaib.

Al-Hussain wanted to correct him. He was the best sniper in the country, by far. No one else came close. But pride was not a quality that IS encouraged so he bit his tongue.

‘That is why we need you in England. We have a job that only you can do.’

‘But I can come back? Afterwards?’

Al-Lihaib smiled slyly. ‘Do you fear becoming a shahid, brother? Do you fear dying for Allah?’

‘I would die in an instant for Allah and for my country,’ said al-Hussain. ‘Without hesitation and with a smile on my face.’

‘No one is asking you to die, brother,’ said al-Lihaib. ‘We have gone to a lot of time and trouble to train you. No one is prepared to throw that away.’

‘But I can do so much more here,’ said al-Hussain. ‘I can be efficient. And the targets I take out here are our enemy.’

‘The British are also our enemy, brother. They are killing our people from the air. They invaded Afghanistan and killed our brothers and sisters. They did the same in Iraq. The British are our enemies, and what better way to hurt our enemy than to attack him on his own territory?’

Al-Hussain considered his words carefully. Al-Lihaib was smiling but he knew he had to tread carefully. He felt that he had already said too much but he had to give it one more try. ‘It’s a long way to go. Is the target so very important?’

Al-Lihaib’s eyes hardened. ‘The importance of the target is not for you to decide, Mohammed al-Hussain. You are a soldier and you will obey orders. You will obey this order, will you not?’

Al-Hussain returned the man’s stare for several seconds, then lowered his eyes. ‘I will,’ he said. ‘Inshallah.’ God willing.

‘This is fucking bullshit,’ said the man. He was standing in a hastily dug grave, just over three feet deep. His name was Laurence McGovern but most people called him Larry. ‘You’re going to shoot me here?’

‘It’s got to be done, Larry. Stop complaining,’ said Shepherd. He was holding a revolver, a Smith & Wesson 627 loaded with eight .357 rounds.

McGovern looked down. ‘It’s fucking muddy as hell. And this is a two-thousand-quid Hugo Boss suit.’