They would be going in with pistols only, for ease of concealment. Ben had the silencer threaded to the muzzle of his Browning, making the weapon feel long and cumbersome inside his waistband. With their facial disguises and head coverings in place and their firearms hidden under their shalwar kameez, the SAS men stepped out into a busy street of dirt flanked by crumbled, stained balconied buildings. Nearby was an open-air market where awning-shaded stalls displayed a bewildering array of wares, ranging from colourful fabrics to exotic herbs and spices to knock-off consumer electronics to coops filled with squawking chickens. Vendors hurried here and there with carts and barrows laden with goods. Almost every face was male, while those of the very few women to be seen were completely covered above and below the eyes. The smoke from a stall grilling meat filled the air with a charry, aromatic tang. Slow-moving pickups and motorcycles threaded their way through the throng.

The building across the street where they were due to meet Goffin’s informer, Faazel, was a balconied house on three crumbling adobe-walled floors, above a stall selling melons and a tiny repair shop where two wizened guys were dismantling a motor scooter. The task force men spread out discreetly to cross the street, pausing for a few moments pretending to peruse the market stalls as a truck filled with Taliban fighters came growling slowly through the crowds. Ben noticed the way that the locals avoided making any kind of eye contact with them. Then the truck had passed on by, and the eight men led by Goffin made their way down an alley that was little more than a crack between the buildings.

A gated side entrance was unlocked. One by one they slipped through, into a small courtyard behind the building. They followed Goffin inside a doorway and up a flight of crumbling stone steps to the dim light of the first floor, yanking off the fake beards and stuffing them into their pockets as they went. There’d be no need for dissimulation during the meeting with Faazel.

The building was divided into flats, with Arabic numbers painted on their peeling doors. Goffin stopped, pointed and said softly, ‘This is the one.’

‘We should clear the room before you go in,’ Buchanan whispered, but Goffin shook his head and replied, ‘It’s okay. I know him. He’s cool.’

Goffin checked his watch, then knocked and opened the door. Buchanan entered first, moving cautiously with his hand on the butt of the sound-suppressed Glock pistol hidden in the folds of his kameez. Ben was through next, followed by Goffin with the rest of the team bringing up the rear.