She repeated the question into the phone and covered the mouthpiece again as she listened. ‘He won’t give me odds but feels if we don’t he may slip away. It will be peaceful but it will be the end.’

‘Then there’s no choice, is there?’

She spoke into the mouthpiece. ‘Go ahead. I’ll be there soon after six to sign the permissions. Don’t delay.’

She looked at Patrick, a plea in her eyes. ‘If he dies on me, I’ll kill him.’

Chapter 26

26

She arrived at the hospital to find that he’d not yet gone in. Preparing the theatre, gathering the team for a hurriedly accelerated operation still took time. She realised his decline must have been sharp and unexpected. The ward sister said they’d be working through the night; she could stay in the family room if she wanted.

Her phone rang at 6.30 a.m., soon after Fajr.

‘It’s Azhar Mahmoud. I hope it’s OK to call now.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She held her breath.

‘We’ve completed the operation successfully.’

‘Oh good.’ She said it uncertainly, knowing there was more.

‘By which I mean that we’ve reduced the haematoma and his vital signs are still functioning.’

‘But that’s not the end of the story.’

‘No. But it’s a start. He’ll stay in intensive care and we’ll make no attempt to disturb him for some time yet. I suggest you leave it till the afternoon before coming in.’

She phoned Patrick. ‘They’ve operated and he’s not dead,’ she said brutally.

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’ he replied softly.

‘I don’t know what I’m putting him through.’

He sensed the tears she was repressing. ‘You had no choice.’

‘The surgeon said not to come back till the afternoon. Home doesn’t feel too great right now, so I think I’ll go to work.’

Patrick, his back to the door as she entered the Legal office, was staring out at the American Embassy. He turned.

‘There’s someone waiting to see us.’

‘Where?’

‘Here. In Pamela’s office. A VIP.’

Sara followed him into the open-plan area towards the Secretary’s office. Clovis, guarding its door, looked up at them, eyes flickering nervously. ‘I’d better check.’ He dialled an internal number, listened for a few seconds and put the phone down. ‘You can go in.’

A tall, slender woman rose from one of four designer wood-backed chairs around the circular glass meeting table. She stuck out a thin, prominently veined forearm from a loose-fitting white blouse and offered a similarly lined hand to shake. ‘Patrick, we’ve met.’ The voice was oddly deep.

‘Yes, Dame Isobel. Fourteen years ago, to be precise.’

‘Just Isobel, please. And you must be Sara Shah.’

‘Yes.’