Instead, there was a huge noise and a flash, and all four men and the silver BMW were blown into thousands of tiny fragments by fourteen pounds of high explosive, delivered on the tip of a missile designed to take out a main battle tank.

High above, the RAF drone circled for a few moments, as the pilot assessed the damage, and then it turned north and began flying unhurriedly home.

Thousands of miles away, in the control room at RAF Waddington, the squadron leader got up and patted the pilot on the shoulder.

‘Another brew, Steve?’ she said.

Steve stretched, and hid a yawn behind his hand.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Go on then, ma’am.’

EPILOGUE 2

EPILOGUE 2

NINE MONTHS LATER

THE MAN WITH the dark eyes had taken to eating every Friday evening at L’anciüa, a small, family run seafood restaurant in the narrow Via Angelo Custode, in the north-west quarter of the old city of Lucca.

He knew it was against all the rules to set a routine, but he’d grown comfortable in this area, where he was anonymous, just another face among faces.

Not to mention, it amused him greatly to while away an hour or two in a street named for Guardian Angels, a slaughterman strolling among the unsuspecting kuffar sheep, who thought they were safe from men like him.

And the €20 set menu was very good.

Tonight he’d had cigales de mer and spaghetti alle vongole, served by a pretty young waitress who had flirted with him shamelessly.

Next week he would get her mobile phone number: a man had to have some entertainments, and it was permitted to misbehave in service of the greater cause. He hated these filthy Western whores, and taking them and ruining them was one of life’s great joys.

As he left the restaurant, and headed out into the narrow streets of the medieval Tuscan town, his mind was on a meeting he was due to have in Paris some time in the next month.

Three brothers from Syria were due to arrive, to plan and carry out an attack on the Louvre, and the tourists who filled it to gawp at its unholy pictures, and he was to serve as their armourer.

He had the contacts in Eastern Europe, so getting the weapons would be easy.

What had happened in Libya all those months ago had been unfortunate, but – what was the phrase the British used?

It was time to get back on the horse.

He paused at the junction with Via Sant’Andrea, lit a Marlboro Light, and watched two young women in short skirts and tight silk blouses wiggle towards him.

The taller of the two smiled at him, and he smiled back.

He felt nothing in his heart for her but hatred.

He pulled deep on the cigarette and turned down Via Sant’Andrea.