They turned into Al Shazani Road and spotted the flat two-story building they needed to examine. At the far end, coming in the opposite direction, was a pair of figures in brown shawls, their size unmistakable to Alex.

“Your Franks and Eli, – don’t even look at them,” Adira said.

Alex grunted his acknowledgement, and just kept his head down. He allowed his eyes to move over the streetscape.

“Here, Café Jaralqmar.” Alex nodded to a shop entrance where a roller door had gone up. An old man was placing chairs on the pavement, and wiping down tables.

Adira half turned, her expression impossible to gauge behind the heavy head covering. “Good, but too early; we don’t want to be the first in. We’ll circle the block.”

Alex spoke softly into his throat mic as Casey Franks came abreast of them. “Franks, on your left; target is flat-topped building with the green paint.”

“Got it, boss,” came the immediate reply.

“And we already called the café.” Alex smiled within the hood.

“Shit, I need my caffeine hit,” she growled.

Adira stopped, and pulled a packet of cigarettes from a slit in her niqab. She turned and handed them to Alex. “Light one, take your time.”

Alex nodded and took the pack. “I thought it was banned.”

“It is. Like a lot of other vices it has been declared haram. But men can flout the rules.”

Alex opened the red and white pack and first took the small plastic lighter out, then one of the filtered cigarettes. He put it in his mouth. Adira stood facing him, but her eyes wandered over the rooftops, windows and dark door entrances of their target building.

“Seems abandoned,” she said. “Big enough for a chopper to land on the roof, but if it is some sort of bomb factory, then it should be heavily guarded.” She looked along its façade. “Its ground floor is fortified, steel grills across windows and doors, but the second floor is wide open.” She frowned. “Those symbols painted on the walls and door are strange. It’s very ancient Arabic, in fact I think it’s an extinct dialect of Northern Arabic – not spoken by anyone anymore.”

After a moment she said, “Hard to read, doesn’t make sense.” Alex saw her frown as she concentrated on a translation. “It says something like, praise those who choose, or are chosen, to become the fire of god.” Adira spoke softly. “Maybe a jihad reference, but why write it in a language that is mostly forgotten?”

There was a flicker of movement in one of the windows.

“Time to go,” Alex said. “Seems there is somebody home after all.” He flicked the cigarette away, and together they ambled down the street and turned the corner.

*