J rose, stretching his shoulders and neck. ‘Ever been to Islamabad, Patrick?’

‘No.’

‘Wouldn’t bother. Kareem lands, the MI6 man puts a cheap tail on him. Leaving the airport, he splits from the other five and takes a taxi to a four-star hotel. Day one, he doesn’t emerge from his room. Day two, he visits the HSBC bank’s local headquarters and the offices of a shipping and construction company. In the evening he stays in his hotel, ordering room service. Day three, he exits the hotel ground-floor lift – he’s carrying a packed suitcase and wearing weather-beaten jeans, hiking boots and a khaki jacket. He pays his bill and strides out with purpose. The tail notes he rudely brushes aside a commissionaire offering to summon a taxi. He walks along the main street and an earth-spattered Range Rover draws up. He jumps in. The local watcher reports the car heads north-west out of the city in the rough direction of Shangla province. The number plate’s obscured by baked mud but he says it’s far from new and has a noticeable dent in the exterior of the front passenger door. The watcher doesn’t have a car and there the tail ends. Limited intelligence which the station head sits on.

‘But of course,’ said J, now circling the small room, ‘what the station head does have is the time and date of Kareem’s return flight. Something intriguing happens. Again it’s a first-class ticket but Kareem doesn’t show up at the airport. The ticket’s never cancelled or changed. That means two things. First, there’s enough cash flowing around for the money to be waived. Second, it turns out after further checking that Kareem booked a completely new return flight with a different airline a week earlier than the original.’

‘That could have been a decision on a whim by a spoilt rich boy,’ said Patrick.

‘Yes,’ agreed J, eyes shining. ‘However, the flight was to Amsterdam where Kareem hung out for a couple of days before changing to a domestic European flight to London.’

‘Perhaps he was interested in marijuana cafés.’

‘Indeed. Or Rembrandt.’ They exchanged a quick grimace, a mutual understanding that the possible excuses were ceasing to add up. ‘Put it this way. A series of mild, possibly meaningless actions but, pooled together, an indication at the very least of a man who did not wish to be intercepted on his way home.’

‘Or, perhaps, a man who thought he was being watched already,’ said Patrick. ‘Maybe the station head asked the tail not to be so invisible for once.’

‘Smart, Patrick,’ said J. ‘I wondered if he did too. If so, he was too modest – or too cautious – to admit he rolled that particular dice.’ J snatched a look at his watch. ‘Good heavens, tea-time.’