He squatted down next to the Londoner and told him what he’d told Geordie.

‘We might be moving tonight,’ he said.

McMullen nodded, his eyes sweeping the horizon behind a pair of matt black Oakleys.

Carr patted him on the shoulder.

‘It’s going to be good, mate,’ he said.

The confirmation arrived in the 18:00hrs report from the SIS.

Nicholls himself had sent the information – the exact co-ordinates for the target compound, which was down at the extreme southern edge of the town of Houn, a hundred kilometres south-east from Carr’s current position.

He included some detail about the area, and a series of photographs of the compound, taken from close up, and reiterated that the intelligence suggested that this new location was itself temporary.

Carr looked at the pictures. They were at a strange angle, and slightly blurred – probably stills from a video filmed from a moving vehicle – but he was impressed: Nicholls clearly had people on the ground who were actually coming across with the intel he needed.

‘That’s a first,’ he said to himself, quietly.

He saved the images, took the dish down and stowed it, and looked to his left.

Fred West was out of sight, on stag.

Kev McMullen was cleaning his weapon and smoking.

Geordie Skelton was sitting with a brew, reading a battered Bernard Cornwell paperback.

Carr wandered over to him, carrying the laptop under his arm.

‘Reading without moving your lips, mate?’ he said, with a smirk. ‘Any good pictures in it?’

‘Fuck off,’ said Skelton, never taking his eyes from the page.

Carr squatted down next to the man from Newcastle and bent his neck to look at the front cover.

‘The Pale Horseman,’ he said. ‘One of his early Saxon series? That’s a good read, mate. Uhtred dies at the end, though.’

Geordie looked at him.

‘You wanker,’ he said. ‘I was fucking getting into it.’

Carr chuckled quietly and looked over at McMullen.

‘Kev,’ he hissed. ‘Over here.’

The Londoner came over and Carr opened the laptop.

‘Phots,’ said Carr. ‘And the location.’

The three men looked at the compound – it stood some ten metres off a wideish track, with sizeable date palm plantations to either side. It was surrounded by a wall, which was estimated at 2.5 metres high and laid out in a rough square, each side approximately fifty metres in length.

There were two gates, both solid plate steel, and both a dusty, rusty blue – a double at the front, wide enough for vehicles and with a judas gate built in, and a single at the rear, which led out into barren wastelands.

An overhead, probably shot from a satellite, showed the layout.

There was a large central house – white, two-storey, with a balcony to the front and a flat roof with a waist-high wall around it.

Skelton pointed to something on the roof.

‘Gun position,’ he said.

‘Could be,’ said Carr.