‘Larry, you’re a gangster, not a businessman.’

McGovern pointed a finger at Shepherd’s face. ‘I have legitimate businesses,’ he said. ‘I have two dry-cleaning firms, a pub, a car wash, a florist.’

‘Cash businesses to launder money,’ said Shepherd.

‘They’re still legit, and if I’m dead they’ll fall apart.’

‘I don’t think the O’Neills are going to broadcast the fact that they’ve had you killed,’ said Shepherd. ‘So far as the world’s concerned, you’re missing.’

McGovern scowled, still not convinced. Shepherd put his arm around his shoulder. ‘Larry, trust me, I don’t want this to drag on one minute longer than necessary.’ He walked him to the SUV. There were two men in the front, MI5 heavies. Shepherd knew they were both armed. The rear passenger windows were impenetrably dark. He opened the offside back door for McGovern to get in. ‘You’ll be fine, Larry. Cable TV, decent food, and your booze bill is on us.’

‘Hookers?’

Shepherd laughed. ‘You’re dead, Larry. You won’t be needing hookers.’

McGovern climbed in and Shepherd slammed the door. The SUV drove off through the forest. Shepherd pulled out his phone and replayed the video. It looked convincing. He just hoped it would convince the O’Neill brothers.

It was a five-hour drive north along Route 6 from Palmyra to Tel Abyad. There had been three white SUVs. Mohammed al-Hussain had sat in the middle vehicle, armed IS fighters front and back. They had switched vehicles in Tel Abyad after stopping at a café down a quiet alley where al-Hussain had been given time to use a foul-smelling bathroom with an open toilet that was nothing more than a hole in the ground. After he had washed as best he could, an old man appeared with a pair of scissors and an open razor and spent twenty minutes carefully trimming al-Hussain’s beard until it matched the photograph in the British passport. Afterwards al-Hussain and the other men had prayed on threadbare carpets, then eaten a quick meal of chicken, hummus and flatbread, with iced water, sitting at a table, while above them an old wall-mounted TV showed an Al-Jazeera news programme with the sound muted.

After the meal they had given al-Hussain fresh clothes to change into. They were clearly used but had been cleaned. There was a denim shirt, faded jeans, socks, underwear and almost-new Nike trainers. His old clothes were taken from him and put into a black plastic rubbish bag. He kept the British passport that Commander al-Lihaib had given him, his prayer beads and his wristwatch, a TAG-Heuer that had been an eighteenth-birthday present from his parents.

‘I need to see the watch,’ said the fighter who headed the security team. He was in his late fifties, his skin the colour of teak, his right hand covered with scar tissue. His name was Ahmadi but everyone called him Al Am, the Uncle. His orders were obeyed without question.