‘I know what it is, Justin,’ said Carr, cutting him off. ‘Do you want the Prime Minister’s daughter home, or not?’

There was a brief silence, apart from the quiet buzz of static as the signal bounced off a satellite a hundred miles above him, in the frozen vacuum of space.

‘I’ll get it approved,’ said Nicholls.

‘Good,’ said Carr. ‘And give Mark Topham a bell. If he hasn’t made a contingency plan for this, I’ll be fucking amazed and he shouldn’t be DSF.’

‘Give me ten minutes,’ said Nicholls.

‘Ten minutes,’ said Carr.

He ended the call.

In London, Justin Nicholls dialled another secure number.

It was answered by Major General Mark Topham, Director Special Forces, who was standing in the kitchen of his house in Putney.

He’d been there for several hours, expecting just this call to come in at any moment.

Nerves ticking.

‘Yes?’ he said, his hand wrapped around a mug of tea.

‘Mark, it’s Justin,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’ve just spoken to John Carr. He’s pulled it off.’

‘Bloody hell,’ said Topham, his shoulders sagging slightly with relief. He shook his head and chuckled. ‘The mad bastard,’ he said. ‘No duress code?’

‘No, it’s genuine. They have the two hostages, and are presently sitting out in the Sahara, miles from anywhere.’

Topham took a swig of tea. ‘I can hear a “but”, Justin,’ he said, with a smile.

‘The original exfil plan is no longer viable,’ said Nicholls. ‘Carr wants an aircraft. Is it doable?’

‘Of course it’s doable,’ said Topham. ‘I always thought he might struggle with his heli, so I’ve already had a preliminary plan drawn up. Where’s he want it?’

‘He’s suggesting landing on the main drag near a small town called Al Fuqaha.’

‘Send me the lat and long,’ said Topham. ‘I’ll need to get Air Ops to confirm its viability, but Carr knows what he’s doing. Wouldn’t be the first Tactical Landing Zone he’s marked. Of course, it will need authorising by No. 10. An A400, not to mention the aircrew and a dozen SAS men… That’s a very big hole to fill indeed. She needs to be aware of that.’

‘Yes,’ said Nicholls. ‘I’m going to call the Prime Minister after this. She’s bound to ask about the risks.’

Mark Topham finished his tea and put his mug in the kitchen sink.

‘Well, they’re basically as discussed before,’ he said. ‘It could be shot down. It’s unlikely, but it’s possible.’

‘What sort of percentage are we talking?’

Topham stared out of his window at the small garden, and the grey dawn.

How many times had he been asked this question, or considered it himself, over the last couple of decades?

‘Never say never,’ he said. ‘But we fly in and out of these places all the time, and we’ve not lost an aircraft in years.’