A cold mountain wind sluices up and through a high valley deep in the Hindu Kush range that bridges northern Afghanistan and Pakistan. The valley is one of thousands that dissect the range, different from the rest of them only because of the men who lie sleeping in its myriad of hidden caves. Amongst these sleeping warriors are two members of the senior leadership of Al Qaeda. In order to avoid detection, the leaders of the insurgent forces move location every two nights, and rarely stay together. But tonight had been one of those rare occasions when two of them had met.

Around the outside of the camp, guards lie concealed in strategic spots, on the lookout for approaching planes or any other light at all in the settled night. This night was particularly dark. The moon had not risen yet, and nor would it for another three hours.

Among the many half-awake men dotted around the outside of the camp was Ushant Prabalah. He was twenty-two and he had lost his father, mother, and brother in a firefight between freedom fighters and the invading infidels in his village four years beforehand. He was smarter than most, he had learned to read and write and had been well on his way to a university education, but that had been before the fateful night his world had died. He did not know that boy anymore, that boy was as dead as his parents. As dead as the countless people Ushant had killed and seen killed since that tragic juncture.

Now he lay still. Unlike many of his fellow guards, Ushant’s eyes were vigilant. Many considered the nighttime lookout duty to be ignominious, but tonight two great generals were staying at their camp. A breeze washed over Ushant and he shivered. He could not see a thing. It was utterly dark. Only the stars provided any light. The land was black, the horizon barely discernable against the sky.

Silence.

Shahim could barely hear his own approach as he stepped lightly up to where Ushant lay. The boy was awake and watchful. He was staring out across the desert, but he was looking for sources of light: men clambering over the rocky terrain with torches, or planes or helicopters. But Shahim carried no light, and he had run the final two miles to the camp in perfect silence. Despite the darkness that shrouded him, Shahim’s sensitive eyes could see everything. Shahim approached the boy from the side and stood over him. He could hear the young guard’s breath. His heart beat. This boy was awake and keen. It was cold yet the boy was hardly moving. He was a believer, without the sullen complacency of the older men. This warrior was good at what he did and Shahim was going to need plenty of fighters like him for the coming task.