That might have sounded preposterous, even comical, but Ben knew it was just another example of the colonel’s meticulous attention to detail. In the new normal of life in Afghanistan, the wearing of beards was basically compulsory for all adult males, in line with the Taliban’s strict interpretation of Sharia law. A clean-shaven man walking about the streets of Kabul was an instant target for beating, flogging, or much harsher punishment if he was discovered to be a westerner. Far worse still, if his captives could make him confess he was an enemy operative. The relaxed grooming standards of Special Forces personnel operating in that environment, where most or all of the guys sported bushy beards in defiance of all normal military protocol, were a necessary means of blending in. Ben had worn one for months on end during his combat tours, though his didn’t grow dark enough to pass convincingly for a native. This time around, with all the will in the world there just wasn’t time to let things take their natural course before going into action. And while a false beard wasn’t going to fool anyone except a blind man close-up, along with the right kind of ethnic garb it could allow you to deceive the enemy from a distance. Ben had no doubt that the supply pods also contained items of clothing that would allow the task force members to blend in as much as possible with the local population.

Smart thinking all round. But then, the old man had been actively involved in these kinds of covert operations since Ben was a young boy.

‘I almost forgot,’ Buchanan added. ‘Colonel Carstairs asked me to give you this, for old times’ sake. Remembered how attached you were to these obsolete relics.’ He handed Ben a small oblong aluminium box, like a camera case. Inside was a Browning Hi-Power 9mm pistol, the same make and model Ben had used with the SAS years ago, superseded now by more modern versions. A tubular silencer and a loaded magazine containing thirteen rounds of full-metal-jackets nestled in the black egg-box foam lining next to the weapon. Ben took them out, snapped in the mag, put the gun in battery, made it safe and stuck it into the natural hollow behind his right hip that the very same model pistol had moulded into his body after so many years of concealed carry. To this day, he always felt strangely naked without it there. Now he was fully dressed again, and it felt good. Hell, if one of the most efficient and reliable close-quarter combat weapons ever devised was an obsolete relic, then so was he.

‘That colonel’s a real sweetheart, isn’t he?’

‘Thought you’d be pleased,’ Buchanan said.