Next to him, his wife stirred and opened her beautiful brown eyes.

‘Are you alright?’ she said, in Pashto.

‘My stomach,’ he said. ‘Usual thing.’

‘Who was that on the phone?’

‘Just one of the usual idiots,’ he said.

‘What did he want at this time of night?’

‘He wanted to tell me that they managed to take Charlotte Morgan in that big attack in Marbella.’

‘Charlotte Morgan?’

‘The Prime Minister’s daughter. My barrister, from the appeal. With two others.’

Now it was his wife’s turn to prop herself up on her elbows, her eyes wider still. ‘My God,’ she said. ‘Really?’

‘Really.’

Farzana Mahsoud sat up. ‘That’s incredible.’

‘It is.’

‘Does it mean what I think it means?’

Zeff Mahsoud said nothing, but lay there, staring at the ceiling.

Then he rolled over and got out of bed, in a single fluid motion – he was in good shape, for a man in his mid-forties – and picked up his trousers.

‘You should think nothing, my love,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back in a little while.’

He got dressed, leaned over, kissed his wife’s forehead, switched off the bedside light, and padded out of the room.

He crept downstairs in the glow of the orange nightlight he had bought for their daughter, picked up his keys and left the house.

A few moments later, he was steering the little grey Citroën out of his drive and off to the north.

Twenty minutes after that, he parked up in the run-down Windhill estate, got out and jogged down several streets and alleyways until he reached a pub, the New Inn. Wrinkling his nose as he walked past, he entered a BT phone box – which bore a giant Malibu ad proclaiming Free Pina Colada for Everyone! – was there anything these people thought of other than alcohol? – and dialled a number he knew by heart.

Pound coins at the ready.

He looked around.

Empty streets.

A couple of rings, and then someone spoke.

‘It’s Ahmed Khan,’ said Zeff Mahsoud.

‘What did you eat for supper?’

‘Pigeon pie and lime sorbet.’

‘Did you enjoy it?’

‘I liked the pigeon, but the lime was too sour.’

The voice on the other end of the phone grunted in satisfaction.

‘The operation in Spain,’ said Mahsoud.

‘Yes,’ said the voice. ‘They succeeded beyond their wildest dreams. She’s in Morocco already, and they’re on their way to Sirte.’

A police car drove slowly by the phone box, the passenger’s eyes fixed on Mahsoud; he watched it until it disappeared.

‘You still there?’ said the voice.

‘Yes,’ said Mahsoud. ‘Just thinking.’

‘What are you thinking?’

‘I was wondering where my passport is.’

There was a pause.

Then the voice said, ‘Be very careful, Ahmed. There are eyes and ears everywhere.’

‘I am always careful.’

‘If they find you they will make a terrible example of you.’

‘I’m well aware of that,’ said Mahsoud.

‘Good luck, then.’