‘Kate,’ he said, ‘this is our number one priority. They must be taking her to Sirte. That’s where their safe house is.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘For now, that’s our focus. Let me know what comes in, any time, day or night. And good work.’

Nicholls put down the phone and sat back in his chair.

He pulled up a map of North Africa.

Form their beach landing spot in Al Hoceima to Sirte was some 1,600 miles, all the way through Algeria and Tunisia, but the roads were good, and there was no way of knowing what vehicles they were in.

They could be there well inside two days, and there would be limited opportunities to identify and interdict them.

He needed to start the ball rolling with friendlies in those countries.

But first…

He looked at his watch.

Close to 1.30 a.m., but she was barely sleeping anyway.

He picked up his phone and called the Prime Minister.

Chapter 51.

51.

SOME TWO HUNDRED miles north, in a darkened terraced house in the Bradford suburb of Little Horton, a mobile telephone rang on a bedside table.

After three rings, Zeff Mahsoud emerged from under a thin duvet, muttering to himself, and switched on his bedside light.

Picked up the phone.

Rubbed his eyes and squinted at the screen.

Pressed the green button.

Said, ‘Yes, who’s this?’

The voice on the other end of the line said, ‘Brother, it’s me. Have you heard the news? The attack in Spain? They got the Prime Minister’s daughter. It’s just been on the news.’

Mahsoud was suddenly wide awake, and propped up on his elbows. ‘Really?’ he said.

‘Yes, brother. They took her and some other women. What a blow they struck!’

‘Alhamdulillah!’ said Mahsoud, allowing a note of excitement to enter his voice. ‘But you should be careful what you say on the phone. Don’t call me about things like this.’

‘Sorry, brother. I was just… I thought you’d want to know.’

Mahsoud tried to sound more sympathetic. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘It’s marvellous news. But we have to be very careful what we discuss. They can listen in.’

‘Sorry,’ said the man, again.

‘Okay. Thank you. Goodnight.’

Mahsoud clicked the phone off, and replaced it on the bedside table.

Then he lay back on his pillow, arms folded behind his head.

Thinking about his next move.

Heart beating a machine-gun rhythm.

The familiar acid burn rising from his throat to his stomach, a legacy of years spent watching his back, second-guessing everything, planning in secret.

Waiting to be exposed and captured.

His mind conjured up an image of Charlotte Morgan, in her robes at the High Court in London.

It’s Marbella for me, I’m afraid. I’m all about the sun, sea and sand.

He reached into the drawer of his bedside table, took out a packet of Rennies and a strip of omaprezole.