‘One, we could concentrate on the genuinely bad boys at home, identified for us by Kareem. Two, he could give us the names of young warriors planning to head East for a slice of jihad. Names, departure dates and times – sometimes he even arranged their tickets – and therefore arrival times. Istanbul airport usually. Where there might be people to meet and greet. Like MIT.’

‘MIT?’ asked Sara. J rolled his eyes.

‘Turkish intelligence,’ interjected Patrick.

‘Yes. Maybe other interested parties too. Nothing to do with HMG.’

‘How many of these warriors were “disappeared”?’ continued Sara.

‘You should watch your grammar,’ said J. ‘It’s another jurisdiction. I’ve no idea. That’s if there were any.’

‘You know there must have been. Didn’t Kareem ever tell you?’

‘Why on God’s earth would I ask him?’ This time, he made a 360-degree scan. ‘Ten more minutes.’

‘Did you know Maryam/Marion?’ asked Sara.

‘Knew of.’

‘What was her role?’

‘Ornamental. Kareem wanted her there. I doubt she saw much.’

‘And after she left?’

‘We kept an eye on her for a while. I understand she was unwell.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘That’s enough on her.’ His reply triggered a few seconds’ break. Waves crashing around them, it was like boxers preparing for the final round.

‘How long did you continue on Operation Pitchfork?’ asked Sara.

‘I retired – say again, I was retired – in 2011.’ J raised a handkerchief to his mouth and spat into it. ‘By then Isobel was pretty much running Kareem solo. Even though it was my idea. She’d brought in a new sidekick. Middle-ranker called John Donald. I understand he’s now her new head of counter-terror.’ Patrick momentarily froze, hunching his shoulders against the wind to cover up the shock. That was the name. ‘John Donald’. The man who’d greeted him so warmly outside his flat, aided by his muscled friend with karate skills.

‘Did you stay in touch with Kareem?’ continued Sara. Patrick relaxed; she and J were too locked in their quick-fire exchange to notice his reaction.

‘Occasional calls maybe. Twice a year. Nothing of consequence. Just to check we were both on this earth.’

‘Still in touch?’ asked Patrick.

‘No. No calls since 2016. No answer to my calls, that is.’

‘Any whispers?’

‘Nothing. Silence of the damned,’ he rasped.

‘What about after you retired?’

‘You’ll have to speak to Isobel.’

‘Please, J,’ interceded Patrick.

J turned slowly to Patrick, then stared at the sea beyond. The sky had darkened, a storm brewing in the channel. His own face seemed to cloud over in sympathy. ‘Think about it,’ he finally said. ‘What’s going on with our jihadist friends?’

‘They’re returning,’ replied Sara.