He knew that it would come to him if he stopped feeling for it, so he got out and turned to look up to Geordie Skelton, down behind his Minimi, on the lip of the depression.

No, still not coming to him.

He climbed back into the truck, pulled the laptop over and began to hit the keys again.

‘Asian male,’ he wrote. ‘Mid 40s, approx 1.7m and 80kg. No other details kn—’

But before he could finish the word ‘known’, it came to him.

Zeff Mahsoud.

He finished his message, taking a guess at the spelling: ‘Asian male. Mid 40s, approx 1.7m and 80kg. Self ID ZEF MASOOD.’

It was as he pressed ‘send’ that he suddenly realised why the name had sounded so familiar earlier on.

‘Shit,’ he said to himself, standing up and turning. ‘That fucker’s not SIS, he’s fucking Muj.’

McMullen was back by his truck, kneeling over the prone figure of Mahsoud, checking the tourniquet on his thigh as he waited for the stove to boil.

‘Stop that,’ said Carr, curtly.

‘Why?’ said McMullen.

‘He’s a fucking Islamist,’ said Carr. ‘He was all over the news earlier this year… Jailed for aiding terrorists in Libya, then they let him go. He must have been in on the whole thing.’

As he stood looking down at the unconscious man, Charlotte Morgan wandered over, unsteady on her feet.

‘I wondered if I could get that fag now?’ she said to Carr.

Without speaking, McMullen dug into his combats and pulled out a battered pack of Camels and a plastic lighter.

‘Thanks,’ said Charlotte.

She lit the cigarette, her hands shaking, and inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in for as long as she could.

She exhaled, coughing slightly, and looked down at the man on the roll mat.

‘This is our MI6 chap, is it?’ she said.

‘He’s a fucking terrorist,’ said Carr. ‘His name’s Zeff Mahsoud.’

‘Fucking who?’ said Charlotte, dropping the cigarette in her surprise. She picked it back up, came closer and leaned in. ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said. ‘He looks different like that, but you’re right. It’s Zeff.’

‘You know the bastard?’ said Carr.

‘He was my client,’ said Charlotte Morgan, her mind spinning to make sense of this. ‘I got him off on appeal earlier this year. He was…’ And then she stopped, and put her hand to her throat. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, quietly. ‘He asked me where I was going on holiday. And I told him.’

Chapter 105.

105.

JOHN CARR LOOKED at Charlotte Morgan.

‘What do you mean?’ he said.

‘A few months back,’ she said. ‘He was in prison, and appealing against conviction. I was the junior barrister. After we were successful, we were in a conference room at the High Court and he… He asked me about my summer holidays. Started talking about Spain, about how great Barcelona was. I said I was going to Marbella.’