‘Not yet. But we’ll get there.’

‘I think we should move,’ said Carr.

‘Are you sure you want to go before we’re certain?’

‘I want to be close enough to launch as soon as we get the location,’ said Carr. ‘We can stand off and stay hidden in the desert, fifty klicks to target, for as long as we have food and water. Then, you give us the word and bang. Better that than sitting on my arse in Primrose Hill, Justin. If it’s on, it’s fucking on.’

‘Your call,’ said Nicholls.

‘We’re happy with the weapons and other shit,’ said Carr. ‘You can have it collected and transported whenever you like. What about vehicles?’

‘Already sourced and serviced,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’ve got trusted people in-country waiting to move you.’

‘Book our flights,’ said Carr.

Chapter 73.

73.

FOR ZEFF MAHSOUD, the following morning began much as the first had, with breakfast followed by a lazy hour on the veranda.

But as he sat watching the Mediterranean, day-dreaming of the Phoenician and Greek and Roman galleys that would have plied their trade up and down this stretch of water in ancient times, there was the noise of a flyscreen door opening behind him.

He turned.

It was Tariq.

‘I need to go into town,’ said the young Libyan, tersely. ‘It’s okay for me, but not for you, not without my uncle’s permission. I’ll take your car. I’ll be back before dusk.’

Mahsoud nodded.

The flyscreen door banged shut again, and he listened carefully for the sound of the Mercedes starting up on the other side of the house, and then the noise of the steel gates clanging shut.

He waited for half an hour, and then he went back inside, took his encrypted satellite phone from his bag, and walked back onto the veranda.

He was followed by the houseboy and another man.

The man said, ‘Mr Tariq says we must keep you safe, and watch over you.’

Mahsoud smiled. ‘Of course,’ he said, calmly. The man had a handgun tucked into his waistband, badly hidden beneath a flowing white shirt. ‘I need to make a call. It’s private, so don’t get too close.’

He walked out into the sandy garden area, and stood under the shade of a large pink bougainvillea.

He turned, breathing in the scent of the flowers, and watched the two men watching him from the veranda.

He dialled a number and put the satphone to his ear.

It rang out for a while, and when it was answered, he covered his mouth with his hand and spoke quietly.

He went through the usual coded identification protocols that his trade demanded, and then said, ‘I can’t speak freely, and I can’t leave. The uncle is away.’ He smiled, for the benefit of the men watching him. ‘He’s trying to find out what is going on, just as I expected.’