But what perplexed and bewildered Nazim far more – left him so stunned that he’d hesitated to get into the getaway car and been virtually unable to speak all the way back to his hotel – was that he knew this man. He was sure of it. Rock-solid positive. Unquestionably, they had met before, in another country, far, far away and long, long ago.

Nazim had often thought about this man over the years. He still sometimes had vivid dreams when he relived the moment of his capture by the commander of the enemy Special Forces assault team who had raided the village near Tikrit that day, September 20, 2003. The one time in Nazim’s career when he’d come perilously close to being defeated. On escaping, he’d made two vows to himself: the first, that he would never let himself be taken again; the second, that he would one day find this man who had so humiliated him and almost been his downfall.

He had tried, in vain, to find out the man’s name. He’d learned that the operation had been a joint British and American venture, but the identities of SF soldiers were an impenetrable secret even for top ISIL spies.

Nazim had always believed that he would one day meet up again with the man without a name who haunted his dreams. He would never forget his face, not even if fifty more years went by before their next encounter. From the way their eye contact had locked and held tight for those few instants that seemed like minutes, he was convinced that the man remembered him, too.

Nazim now deeply regretted not having made Muhammad wait at the kerb while he returned upstairs to confront him. A third mistake, even more painful than the first two.

The burning question was, what was the man doing there? Why would he, an enemy soldier Nazim had encountered on the battlefields of Iraq all those years ago, suddenly reappear in this way? To Nazim, the answer was clear. The foreigner must be working as an agent. Like so many of his kind, who, after fulfilling their evil service in the cause of murdering the faithful to Allah, joined the military intelligence services in order to carry on their nefarious scheme by other means.

Which, in turn, had to mean that the plans being hatched by Nazim and his associates might be known, or at least partly known, to the enemy. And now Nazim was certain why he’d been unable to find the Juneau woman’s phone. She must have given it to the foreigner, along with whatever information it contained, and whatever else she might have passed to him. It was a deeply worrying development. Something had to be done about it, before the whole plan came apart.

The man with no name must die, and soon.