The Reaper, its Raytheon EWS countermeasures scanning restlessly for hostile radar and any other threat, was being operated remotely by a XIII Squadron flight lieutenant, sitting in front of a bank of screens in a control room almost two thousand miles away at RAF Waddington in the flat, green countryside of Lincolnshire.

And now he picked up his mug of PG Tips and polished off the dregs, never taking his eyes from the screen.

Just as he replaced his mug on its Yorkshire County Cricket Club coaster, he saw movement on his main screen.

‘Stand by,’ he said.

The WHOT picture he was looking at showed the brilliant white figure of a man, stark against the cool black of the compound, leaving the main entrance to the villa and walking silently towards the parked BMW.

Behind the pilot, a female squadron leader leaned forward to take a better look.

Several other people in the room pushed back in their chairs and turned to a large wall monitor which was showing the same images.

The man got into the car, and a moment later there was a white puff from the rear of the vehicle, the exhaust fumes giving away their heat signature as the engine was turned on.

Ten or fifteen seconds later, three more men left the villa and walked towards the waiting BMW.

There was a slight delay while one of them opened and closed the gates, and then the car moved off, heading south-east.

The female squadron leader, pressing her headset to her ears, leaned forward again.

‘Maintain control of that vehicle,’ she said.

What the fuck do you think I’m going to do? thought the pilot, but he merely nodded his head.

The BMW moved steadily through the built-up area, the crosshairs on the screen never wavering from its roof, as the flight lieutenant waited for confirmation on what his next action would be.

He had no idea as to the identity of the men in the car: if the job tonight involved taking out a proper High Value Target then it was just possible he might find out who it was on the news in a couple of weeks’ time.

Otherwise he would never know.

As it happened, in the rear of the vehicle was a fat young fixer called Tariq.

Sitting next to him was an older man – a tribal patriarch, with a wizened face and only one eye.

Tariq’s uncle, in fact.

The driver and the other passenger were henchmen of the uncle, whose job it was to frighten Tariq into frankness.

And then to dispose of him.

Blood he might be, but the uncle had grown tired of his brother’s oafish son.

He looked out of his tinted window.

They were heading out of the city, and the traffic was getting sparse.