They were silent for a few moments.

Then Kadyrov said, ‘We must make her eat and drink.’

‘She’s wilful.’

‘She is. But we will break her.’

43.

AT JUST AFTER 5 P.M., Justin Nicholls’ phone went.

It was Alec Palmer on the Spanish desk.

‘It’ll be on the feed in a minute,’ said Palmer, ‘but I thought I’d let you know first. We’ve got a lead on one of the shooters.’

Nicholls put down his coffee and sat up. ‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Those CCTV shots of the guy in the Manchester United shirt? The DST have come back to say he’s one of theirs.’

DST – the Direction Générale de la Surveillance du Territoire, or – in the local tongue – the Mudīriyyat Murāqabat al-Turāb al-Waaniy.

Morocco’s domestic intelligence agency, based in Rabat.

‘He’s Abdullah el Haloui,’ went on Palmer. ‘Former Royal Moroccan Army soldier, kicked out for petty theft, then believed to have joined AQ in the Maghreb. He’s been wanted since 2011 for involvement in the Marrakesh café bombing.’

‘Recent movements?’

‘He’d dropped off the radar, unfortunately. The Spanish are now liaising with Rabat, obviously trying to find out where Mr el Haloui’s been, where he might be going, and who he’s been talking to recently.’

‘Nothing back on the other guy, yet?’ said Nicholls. ‘The pictures taken in the marina?’

‘Not so far. They’re not great shots, and the Spanish haven’t found anything else yet. However he got to Spain, it wasn’t via an airport. He’s been very careful.’

‘Let me know, if and when?’

‘Of course.’

44.

AT ABOUT THAT moment, an encrypted Thuraya satellite phone rang on the floor of a filthy cabin in a boat in the Med.

It awoke Khasmohmad Kadyrov from the light sleep into which he had been lulled by a hearty feed and the throbbing of the diesel engines pushing the vessel steadily onwards through the light seas.

He answered it, and listened intently for a few moments.

Then he ended the call, wrapped a dirty green shemagh around his head and face, and went in search of Shishani.

The dark-eyed Chechen was sitting in the wheelhouse, drinking masala chai with the skipper.

Kadyrov sat down next to him.

‘Rig the wheel and leave us for a few minutes,’ he said to the sailor.

Obediently, the man tied the wheel, so that the ship would continue on its course, and left.

‘I just took a phone call,’ said Kadyrov.

‘Oh?’ said Shishani.

‘Don’t worry, brother, it’s secure, as you said. And we were careful, anyway.’

‘So… what was it about?’ said Shishani.

‘It was about my friend in Balochistan,’ said Kadyrov, pulling at his beard. ‘Saeed al-Shafra? The Yemeni who gave me his blessing, and arranged our funding?’

‘Yes,’ said Shishani.

‘He has been detained by the authorities.’

Fear flashed across Shishani’s face.

‘ISI?’ he said.

Pakistan’s ruthless and dreaded Inter-Services Intelligence agency.

‘Army.’

‘When?’

‘Not sure. A day or two past. My contact couldn’t telephone before now.’