Carr was suddenly guilty, and ashamed that he hadn’t seen the fear in the old man’s eyes.

He leaned forward and gripped his shoulder. ‘You have nothing to fear from us, Qamar,’ he said, with an open smile. ‘There is no harm here.’

‘You look like men who would do harm.’

Carr shook his head. ‘Only to our enemies,’ he said. ‘And you are a friend.’ He looked at Kev McMullen. ‘Kev, get this old boy a bottle of water and a packet of biscuits.’

McMullen was back in a moment or two, and handed them to Qamar.

The old man took them, uttered a low shukran, and stared at Carr for some time.

Then he looked around the other men, nodding his head slowly. Then he stood up, in an easy motion which belied his years, and started walking away.

A few paces off, he turned and looked at Carr.

‘I see many things in the desert, Scottish man,’ he said. ‘I do not speak of them. Peace be upon you, my brother.’

‘And upon you,’ said Carr.

Geordie broke the silence as the old man disappeared on up the wadi with his camels.

‘Hard bugger, man,’ he said. ‘Fancy spending your life tabbing across this bastard.’

‘You reckon he’ll tell anyone he saw us?’ said Kev McMullen. ‘It’s bad news if he does.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Carr – though he was wondering, as he spoke, if he was correct. ‘But if he does, he does. Let’s mount up and get out of here.’

They got into the vehicles and continued on their way.

Chapter 80.

80.

TWO KILOMETRES ON, Carr reached into the back and grabbed a fresh litre of water, glancing to his left as he did so.

Kev McMullen was scanning the horizon methodically, his jaw tightly clenched.

He looked to be concentrating too much, his thumb drumming out a staccato rhythm on the steering wheel.

‘You okay, pal?’ said Carr, casually, taking a long swig of water and grimacing at the heat of it.

In fact, Kevin McMullen wasn’t okay: he was worried. He’d always been a superstitious sort of bloke – probably a relic of his Roman Catholic upbringing – despite the fact he’d survived fourteen years on ops with the SAS. He had hidden it during that time behind the black humour that soldiers often use as a defence mechanism.

But he’d had a bad feeling about this job, right from that day at Geordie Skelton’s place when they’d all met up to talk the whole thing through.

He couldn’t explain it, or even name it – it was just a sense of unease, over and beyond that which you’d expect to feel, deep into a desert teeming with ten different sorts of maniac.