The giant Chechen turned and walked to the door of the main house.

Shishani himself walked around the side of the house, to a small building where the two women had been taken.

He pushed open the door and walked in.

Charlotte Morgan started as the door opened, and looked up.

She was lying on a rough mattress, dressed now in a black cloak, a cable tie around her left wrist holding her to the heavy steel bedframe. She flinched at the sight of the man with the dark eyes.

He stood looking at her for a few moments, a mocking smile playing on his lips.

‘You are still a good-looking woman,’ he said, in English. ‘Even covered in dust and sweat and filth.’ He looked at the two men in the room – both armed, one wearing a vest packed with explosives and ball-bearings. ‘Perhaps I should send these guards away for a while so that we can get to know each other better. Your friend also.’

Charlotte coughed up what little saliva she could muster and spat it at him.

It fell well short, on the dusty floor.

He laughed, and she fought back tears of rage and frustration.

She tried to speak, but all that came forth was a croak.

What she wanted to say was: ‘You can come and have a go, if you think you’re hard enough.’

Because she had secreted the rusty nail from the fishing vessel inside herself, and if he got close enough she was going to drive it through this man’s glittery black eyeball and into his evil, reptilian brain.

‘I will leave you ladies to settle in,’ said Argun Shishani. ‘Good night.’

Chapter 71.

71.

IN THE MORNING, Mahsoud knelt alongside Tariq – who prayed ostentatiously and with too much pride, thought Mahsoud – and then the two men sat down to breakfast together.

The same houseboy from the previous evening brought out bsisa, an aromatic mixture of ground chickpeas and barley, coriander seeds, and fenugreek, mixed with honey and olive oil, a bowl of sweet Libyan dates, and glasses of hot, black tea.

‘Is there any news of your uncle’s return?’ said Mahsoud, conversationally.

‘No,’ said Tariq, with a finality that suggested he did not want to discuss the matter further.

Mahsoud watched the fat young fixer spit a date pit onto the floor, and wondered idly whether he might not get up, go outside to the old Mercedes, recover the pistol from its hiding place under the back seat, and come back in and spread the fool’s brains all over the wall.

He wouldn’t, of course. Long ago he had been trained in the use of firearms, but his own forte was not in killing: killing was a job for others, his role was to pass through unseen, to observe the workings of the operation and report back.

And, unfortunately, he still required Tariq’s assistance.