He felt a sudden wave of emotion come over him, and coughed to hide it.

Get a fucking grip.

‘How about your lot?’ he said. ‘Did I hear George was thinking about Selection?’

‘Aye,’ said Carr. ‘Next course.’

‘Will he do it?’

‘Good a chance as anyone.’

‘And your little girl? After that shit on the beach with these cunts?’

‘She’ll be okay,’ said Carr. ‘Saw shit she shouldn’t have seen, but she’ll get over it.’

‘Fucking lucky,’ said McMullen. Then he brightened. ‘How’s your love life?’

‘Complicated,’ said Carr. Then it suddenly occurred to him – a juicy bit of gossip to take McMullen’s agitated mind off things. ‘I’ve not told anyone this,’ he said, ‘and it’s between me and you, yes? It goes no fucking further.’

McMullen looked sideways at him, intrigued. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Guy de Vere’s daughter.’

McMullen looked at him, eyes wide.

‘What?’ he said.

Lieutenant-General Guy de Vere had served with both of them, first as a young officer in 3 Para and then as he rose through the ranks of the SAS and beyond. He was currently a very big noise indeed – Commander Field Army, the British Army’s second-in-command.

‘I know,’ said Carr, wincing. ‘Met her at a party in Fulham. I had no idea who she was. Must have seen her at Regiment family days over the years, but she’s certainly grown up since then.’

‘Does Guy know?’

Carr glanced at him. ‘Well, I’m not going to tell him,’ he said.

McMullen cackled. ‘Fucking hell,’ he said. ‘He’ll go fucking mental if he finds out. I heard she was getting engaged to some duke. What was she thinking, knocking you off?’

Carr grinned. ‘She’s only human,’ he said.

McMullen smiled and turned his eyes front.

Carr watched him for a few moments. He didn’t believe in premonition, but he’d known a number of men who had somehow got it into their heads that their numbers were up, and it had turned out that they were.

Something about Kevin McMullen put him in mind of those men.

They rumbled on in silence for a kilometre or so, and then Carr said, ‘Mileage?’

McMullen glanced at the odometer.

‘Just under 150 klicks inside the Libyan border,’ he said.

‘Okay,’ said Carr. ‘I think we should…’

But then there was a clunk, and the front end of the Hilux dropped.

‘Flat,’ said McMullen, through gritted teeth. He shook his head, the nerves reappearing in his belly, the sense that this whole thing was jinxed. ‘Shit. Brand new fucking tyres.’

He slowed to a bumpy, rumbling stop.

Fred West, at the wheel of the second Hilux, pulled up behind them.

All four men dismounted, Diemacos in hand.

‘Problem?’ said Geordie, as he swept the terrain to their rear through his scope.

‘Nearside front’s gone,’ said Carr.