The invasion of the Western coalition following 9/11 had changed that. It quickly broke the Taliban’s grip on Afghanistan, but at the same time it had caused a humanitarian crisis of a different kind. A crisis that once again called for the attention of the international community.

The United Nations had answered the call, and with its near-unlimited funding it had gradually turned its previous Afghan outpost into virtually a city. The compound had every convenience and amenity its predominantly Western inhabitants were used to. Including, crucially, one of the few runways in this part of the country that could accommodate an Airbus A330.

Eden Grace shook her head as she descended the long staircase from the plane to the tarmac.

‘This is Afghanistan?’ she asked, looking back towards Dempsey. He was several steps behind her.

‘This doesn’t exist,’ Dempsey replied. ‘At least not officially. The actual headquarters is in the city itself.’

‘I was talking about the weather. I thought it was hot out here?’

‘In the summer it is,’ Dempsey replied. ‘But it’s winter now.’

‘So what the hell is this place?’ she asked, returning to his first answer. ‘If it doesn’t exist?’

‘This is where things actually get done. When the UN moves into a country, they get gifted a base. Usually too small, usually impractical. And always bugged from top to bottom. They always take it. Diplomacy and all that. But then they find somewhere of their own. Somewhere secure and off the radar.’

‘This is off the radar?’

‘What that means differs from country to country. If this were Europe then they’d make do with a few farms, maybe, all next to each other, disguised so as not to be too much of a public insult. But here? It helps to be a little more . . . overt. Sends a message of their capability.’

‘So the Afghans know about this?’

‘Of course they do. Every country knows about every private compound. They just pretend not to. And the UN pretends the same.’

‘Really?’

‘It’s a fiction, Eden. A smokescreen. It always has been.’

Grace shook her head again as she reached the bottom of the staircase.

‘Is anything I’ve ever been told true?’ she asked as she stepped onto the crisp snow that was settling on the tarmac.

‘I’m sure there must be something,’ Dempsey replied with a smile.

He joined her on the ground just as two UN representatives approached. A man and a woman. Both in their thirties, a few years older than Grace. And both dressed for the cold.

The woman spoke first. Her accent was Texan, for which Dempsey had a soft spot.

‘Agent Dempsey. Special Agent Grace. Welcome to Kabul.’

‘Thank you,’ Dempsey said, shaking her hand. ‘And you are?’

‘Olivia Henson.’ She indicated to the man beside her. ‘And this is Bill Walker.’

‘Pleasure to meet you.’

Walker’s accent was as American as Henson’s, but from a very different part of that massive country. Midwestern, to Dempsey’s ear.