‘What you need is to know what it’s like to step into a room where there’s an armed man trying to kill you. When you know that, then you’ll understand why that’s not an order I’ll be giving my men.’

Truth was, Carr didn’t have a whole lot of respect for the intelligence community: a first in Politics from Cambridge and a nice, soft pair of hands were not much use out here in the nightmarish killing zones of Baghdad, and this particular miscreant was even worse than most of them. Carr had taken an instant dislike to the superior little fucker – not that the answer would have been any different with a spook he did like.

‘One chance,’ he’d said, finally. ‘He’ll get one fucking chance, and that’s if he’s lying face down on the floor when my guys go in. If not, you get him in whatever state he comes out.’

Geordie Skelton threw away the dregs of his tea.

‘Look on the bright side,’ he said, to Carr. ‘The Squadron’ll run a damned sight better once I’m in charge.’

Carr chuckled: Skelton was due to replace him as Sergeant Major at the end of the tour.

‘I might come back and see how you’re getting on,’ he said. ‘If I fancy a laugh.’

He looked at his watch.

01:15 hrs.

Fifteen minutes until they rolled out of the gate of the FOB on the southern outskirts of Baghdad, which was home to TF Dagger.

‘Time to go, Geordie,’ he said. ‘Mount up.’

Geordie Skelton grinned and stepped up into his vehicle, which would bring up the rear of the mobile column. Carr walked down the line, telling each vehicle commander in turn to mount up, until he reached the front. The plan called for Carr to lead the blokes to the lay-up position, from where the Squadron would move the final couple of hundred metres onto the target on foot. He would remain at the rear with Geordie and his driver, the OC, a signaller and his own driver, a young Brummie trooper called ‘Wayne’ Rooney.

Rooney had joined the Squadron from The Rifles six months earlier, and he was already a promising blade. He’d looked momentarily downcast when Carr had told him he was missing out on the assault.

‘Everyone has to step out to work with the HQ now and then, Wayne,’ Carr had said. ‘Your turn tonight.’

Rooney was already in his seat, and Carr winked at him as he climbed aboard.

‘Alright, son,’ he said. ‘Ready to roll?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Rooney, not yet comfortable with calling his Sergeant Major by his first name. The informality of the SAS, when compared with the line infantry, could be disconcerting at first.