With that, the line clicked dead.

Zeff Mahsoud held the receiver in his hand for quite some time, staring at it, before he replaced it.

Then he dialled a number for a local taxi firm, and hung up when they answered.

He didn’t think anyone suspected him of anything, but it was better to be safe than sorry: now any nosey person who happened to press the ‘redial’ button for the last number called would get 247 Cars.

Half an hour later, he was back at home and letting himself in as quietly as he could.

But Farzana had got up and was sitting at the little kitchen table, nursing a cup of tea.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ she said.

‘What was your question?’

‘Does this mean what I think it means?’

‘If what you think it means is that I have interesting times ahead of me, my sweet, then I suspect that it means what you think it means.’

Farzana Mahsoud sighed, heavily. ‘I just lost you for a year, Zeff,’ she said. ‘I don’t…’

‘Under the circumstances, there was not much I could do about that.’

‘I know. But does your family never come before this? What if we lose you for good? What about Aalia?’

‘This is the path we have chosen, my darling,’ said Zeff Mahsoud, tenderly. He reached over and brushed a few strands of hair away from his wife’s face. ‘Or the path that has been chosen for us.’

He clicked the kettle on, took down a mug and threw a tea bag into it.

Stood staring at his own reflection in the black kitchen window.

He had many calls to make, and a flight to book.

Chapter 52.

52.

AT 2.30 A.M. BST, two men on a battered old Honda CG125 pulled up outside the British Embassy in Abidjan, Ivory Coast.

The pillion passenger dismounted, his friend keeping the engine ticking over, and walked carefully towards the gendarmes guarding the main gate, in the shadow of the high blast walls.

They watched his approach with little more than idle curiosity – the Grand-Bassam shootings in 2016 had shown the threat to Westerners, and the embassy was certainly a juicy target, but this skinny little fellow was wearing a grubby white T-shirt, flip-flops, and a pair of ragged jeans, and was obviously unarmed.

When he was a few feet away, the man stopped and held out his hand. ‘I have a letter for the ambassador,’ he said, in the local dyula. ‘It concerns a matter of great interest to the British government.’

‘Oh yes?’ said one of the policemen, with a deep chuckle. ‘Delivered by you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Go on, get out of here. Piss off.’

‘It’s important,’ said the man. ‘I think the guy who gave it to me is from Al Qaeda.’