He found the old man sitting cross-legged on a rich-red and gold carpet in the middle of the largest room in the house.

Next to him was an ornate coffee pot, on a highly decorated silver tray.

He was alone, and he smiled up at Mahsoud as he stood opposite him.

He was clearly not a man who smiled much; rather than put Mahsoud at his ease, it looked sinister.

‘Tariq, leave us alone, would you?’ said the uncle. ‘I would like to speak to our guest alone. Just for a few moments.’

Tariq’s face fell, and it looked for a moment as if he was about to protest.

But he thought better of it, bowed slightly, and left the room without speaking.

When he had gone, the old man gestured to the carpet in front of him.

‘Sit with me,’ he said. ‘Please.’

Mahsoud sat.

‘Coffee?’ said the old man, pouring out a small cup without waiting for a reply, and handing it over.

‘Thank you,’ said Mahsoud.

As he took the small cup, he saw that the old man had only one eye, and that the empty socket was heavily scarred.

He sipped the coffee: it was black and bitter and very sweet.

The old man looked at him, through his one eye, and said nothing.

Mahsoud had the feeling that his mind was being read, but he had many years’ experience of hiding his thoughts and emotions – had his religious beliefs allowed gambling, he would have made an excellent poker player.

He knew that the old man would see nothing.

‘I am sorry I was not here when you arrived,’ said the old man, eventually. ‘I am a bad host.’

As he spoke, he tried to smile again.

‘Please do not be sorry, sayidi,’ said Mahsoud. ‘I have enjoyed Tariq’s hospitality.’

The old man laughed, mirthlessly. ‘My brother’s son is a half-wit,’ he said. ‘But we’re not supposed to notice.’

He took a sip of his own coffee.

‘I know a little about you,’ he said. ‘When my brother called me to ask me to give you shelter, he told me all about your recent trouble with the British government. It must have been a terrible ordeal.’

‘British jails are not like Libyan jails,’ said Mahsoud.

‘Quite so,’ said the old man, with a chuckle. ‘But still.’

Mahsoud inclined his head, slightly.

‘I know you are waging the jihad,’ said the old man. ‘My time has gone, but if I were young again…’

If you were young again, you would only be interested in the money you could make off the back of chaos, thought Mahsoud. No different to now.

But he said nothing.

‘When I was away, it was because I wanted to find the man who was providing your Chechen friends with their safe house here,’ said the old man. ‘Took me two days, but I found him.’

Mahsoud felt his heartbeat rising, and the acid bubbling in his stomach.