‘Up to you,’ she said. ‘Now, Ksar is just south of Tataouine. That’s five hundred kilometres from here, maybe five-fifty. It will be dark by the time you get there. You’re crossing near Wazin, which is a little further south.’

She sat back.

‘I think that covers everything,’ she said. ‘Unless you have any questions?’

‘I’ve got one,’ said Geordie Skelton. ‘Where can I get some proper scran, like?’

‘There are several very good hotels around this area,’ said Arabella. ‘The big embassies are all clustered around the lake, so the security is good and the food won’t give you any stomach problems. The Hotel L’Acropole is good. So are the Paris Concorde and the Berges du Lac.’

‘Which is nearest?’

‘L’Acropole.’

‘That’s me, then. Boys?’

Fred West and Kevin McMullen nodded, but Carr shook his head.

‘Nah,’ he said. ‘You fellas knock yourselves out. No drinking, though. We want to be on it tomorrow morning.’

‘What are you doing, then?’ said Geordie, standing up.

‘I’m going to have a mooch around the old town,’ said Carr.

Arabella looked at him. ‘Have you been to Tunis before, John?’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘But not as a tourist.’

‘Would you like me to give you a guided tour?’ she said. ‘There are some stunning sights.’

Behind her, Geordie Skelton mimicked pushing two fingers down his throat.

Carr winked at him.

‘That sounds great,’ he said, with a smile.

Chapter 75.

75.

JOHN CARR’S MIND was turning at a thousand miles an hour.

He was swimming in the sea – hidden deep under the surface, the daylight above no more than a faint glow.

He was moving relentlessly forwards, like a shark, towards unseen and unknown prey.

His mind focused, his muscles taut and coiled, he rose slowly through the cool water.

And then he broke the surface and saw himself, as though from above.

He was carrying a weapon, and wearing body armour, and wading ashore, towards that mysterious target.

Next to him was a man he didn’t recognise at first.

Then he realised it was a young Trooper, ‘Wayne’ Rooney, who had died in a house assault back in Baghdad, during the days of Task Force Dagger.

And then the dream dissolved, and he woke.

It took him a moment to find himself, lying slick with sweat, in this hot Tunis bedroom.

It was just before dawn, and the sounds of the call to prayer and a little light traffic were filtering in through the flyscreen covering the open window of Arabella Barnes’ apartment, a few blocks from the Embassy.

The ceiling fan was turning slowly and almost noiselessly overhead, but he’d told her to leave the aircon off – he wanted to acclimatise as much as he could – so he was lying naked on the bed, the covers in a pile on the floor.

He turned to his right.