He listened for a moment, and then said, ‘I don’t think I’m in any serious danger, but these people – it’s all about money for them. They’d turn me over in a heartbeat.’

He listened to the reply.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But I’m confident. As soon as I see Kadyrov and confirm everything, you’ll be the first to know.’

He pressed the red button, deleted the record of the call, and looked at the phone, his thoughts suddenly miles away.

His mind had turned once again to his beloved wife, Farzana, and their cherished Aalia: he had no way of knowing when he would be with them again – truth be told, if he would be with them again – and he had to fight the urge to call home.

To hear Farzana’s voice, the giggles of his daughter – it would be beyond price.

But to do so would leave a trace right back to his family, and that was something he could not risk.

He turned his mind to Khasmohmad Kadyrov, and Argun Shishani.

They had done an amazing job – he had to admit it.

All the planning, the danger, the dedication.

And now they were within grasp of getting away with it.

But he wouldn’t allow himself to believe it until he had seen them – and preferably her – with his own eyes.

‘Come on, Khasmohmad,’ he breathed to himself. ‘Come to me, my friend.’

PART THREE

PART THREE

Chapter 74.

74.

JOHN CARR AND his team flew in that day on the lunchtime TunisAir flight from Gatwick.

As Carr cleared immigration and walked out into the arrivals hall, he scanned the multitude of men holding up boards.

At the far left, standing quietly at the back, was a local guy – swarthy and thick-set, and wearing shades and jeans and a plain T-shirt – holding up a plain piece of paper with ‘Mister Carr’ written on it in thick marker pen.

Carr walked over.

‘John Carr,’ he said, holding out a hand.

The man shook it. ‘Firas,’ he said. ‘Follow me, please.’

Firas led them outside to a white VW Transporter minibus.

It was mid-afternoon, and the sun was high, and the humidity was punishing: in the minute-and-a-half it took them to clear the airport and get into the vehicle, Carr’s T-shirt was stuck to his back.

‘Fucking hell,’ said Geordie Skelton, as he climbed in alongside him. ‘I knew there was a reason I didn’t like Africa.’

‘You going to moan the whole of the trip?’ said Carr.

‘Probably,’ said Geordie.

Firas eased them through the traffic south, then east, and in ten minutes or so he pulled into an underground garage.

‘Safe house,’ he said, over his shoulder. ‘Offices below, apartments upstairs.’

They followed him to a lift, and up three floors to a stark, white-tiled corridor, with half a dozen doors.

‘All are empty,’ he said. ‘So no-one will bother you.’