The man looked down the street to the wall. His eyes narrowed. “One day it just appeared. I cannot read it, but an old customer who comes here told me that it is a warning.” He became furtive and leaned toward her. “Dark magic,” he said.

“Shukran.” Alex slid a five thousand dinar note across the table. The man took it and bowed his thanks before departing.

“Dark magic,” Adira repeated. “That would work to keep the superstitious away.”

“Maybe that’s why there are no physical guards – the superstition provides enough of a barrier for the locals,” Alex said, sipping his dark liquid. “And they’re not expecting there to be anyone else in this place.”

Adira sat back. “I have seen enough to know that you cannot discount magic. This land has known human habitation for nearly ten thousand years. Long before the machines there was alchemy and sorcery, and there are ancient tomes written by the foremost scientists of their times. The things they included would not make sense in these modern times.” She looked around. “Unless the modern times were being rolled back.”

“And that’s exactly what’s happening here; no music, no women on the streets, education outlawed. Barbarism is rushing to reclaim this part of the world.” He sighed and nodded toward their target.

“Looks wide open. We enter via the next building, and then onto the roof.” Alex finished his coffee. “We should head back. See what the other teams have found for us.”

As the morning began to give way to midday, the streets started to fill with people, and Adira led them quickly to their house. Suddenly the few woman started to scatter, and the remaining men moved to the walls, clearing a path and watching and waiting.

“Heads up,” Alex said, turning back along the street from under his shawl.

Adira turned away, looking in the reflection of a window. From down the street jogged a group of armed men. There were three lines of them – the outside lines all wore black balaclavas. They were strung with ammunition and were armed. The inside men had hands on their heads and were tied together, a rope looping each of their waists. Each of them was barefoot, and many had blood to the ankles, the sharp debris of the roadway uncompromising on bare flesh.

“Hezar-Jihadi,” Adira whispered.

Occasionally one of the soldiers would reach inwards to slap one of the prisoners over the head, urging them on. In among them was a man dressed in the remains of a flight uniform. This one also had the extra disadvantage of being tied to a huge man on both his left and right – a special prisoner. As he approached, Alex and Adira could see a tricolor patch in his sleeve. He was French, then. The man’s mouth hung open, and his eyes were already vacant,in a slack, blood smeared face.