‘Maybe,’ Scraggs replied mysteriously.

The rudimentary camp site was a hollow at the foot of the escarpment ridge, well shielded from view. Madison’s group had rigged up a tarpaulin awning to protect them from the worst of the wind and the torrential downpours of icy rain that could materialise with little warning and persist for days. But Ben, Wolf and the others had camped in far, far worse places in their lives. As for Madison, she looked completely at her ease out here in the wilderness, roughing it with a bunch of uncouth ex-Special Forces guys. Ben had had the privilege of knowing several exceptional women in his life, and admired them all for their independence of spirit, their resilience and inner strength. There was nothing remotely mannish about Madison Cahill, and yet she could effortlessly hold her own in the midst of the toughest, brawniest, testosterone-laden male company, just hanging with the guys as though she’d been around folks like that all her life. She laughed often and freely, didn’t flinch at their crude language, nor even bat an eyelid when Nobby Scraggs emitted a trumpeting great fart and said, ‘Ahhh, needed that.’

Schulz and Nielsen volunteered to take the first watch, Schulz climbing to the top of the escarpment to look east and Nielsen scanning the rest of the horizon to the west. A few minutes later they both radioed back that there were no signs of visible life anywhere for miles around. Holt said, ‘In that case I guess we can afford a camp fire.’

‘Luxury at last,’ Wolf said.

‘You don’t know the half of it, mate,’ said Scraggs, who was sitting on his mysterious cardboard box with his weapon across his knees, as though prepared to defend its contents with his life.

The blaze of dry brush and dead branches gathered from the lower slopes was soon crackling, and the ten of them gathered around, sitting on rocks and rolled-up sleeping bags or cross-legged on the ground, to crack open a few tins of the halal meat and vegetables salvaged from the Talibs.

‘This is a veritable feast,’ Ramin said, coming more to life at the sight.

‘Now, Nobby, are you going to tell us what’s in that sodding box,’ Wolf said, ‘or am I going to have to break your arms to get it off you?’

‘You can try, pal,’ Scraggs said with a smile as he stood up and opened the box. ‘I’ve been saving this all the way from bloody Kabul.’

‘No way!’ Baldacci exclaimed when he saw what was inside. ‘Dude!’

‘Black market bevvies,’ said Scraggs, taking out one of the dozens of beer bottles and fondling it with something like love. ‘You any idea how hard they were to find? This stuff’s like liquid gold in a Muslim country.’

‘Here’s one Muslim who will happily drink it,’ said Aziz.

‘And another,’ said Ramin. ‘To hell with the fundamentalists.’