Thomas put down his knife. ‘Are you saying they might withdraw support for the coalition?’

‘I’m saying they want change. And I guarantee that they will get behind anyone who offers firm leadership against this insanity.’ She waved her fork to the window. ‘As I’m sure a significant number of your own party would. As would the Herald. And neither of us want a general election right now, do we?’

Job done, thought Thomas. ‘Pudding, Lesley?’

#

Finsbury Park, North London

The entrance to the flat was at the back of a row of shops, up a metal staircase. Asad, his hood up and his face covered with a scarf, nudged the intercom four times with his thumb. The yellow pane of frosted glass blackened as the hallway light was turned off.

‘You’re late,’ said Mirza, who opened the door enough for Asad to squeeze through and led him into the sitting room. The TV was on loud, almost certainly to make it harder for MI5 eavesdroppers, if there were any. Lesley Hogarth was on and her voice dominated the room.

Asad smiled nervously as he panted from the climb. His heart was bursting in his chest, and he wiped his clammy palms on the back of his jeans. The man they were meeting wasn’t here yet. Muhid and Saleem were sat awkward and upright. Saleem’s tongue was darting out to lick his lips every few seconds and even Muhid, normally so unflustered and determined, was fiddling with his fingers.

There was a knock on the door. Mirza cast his eyes speedily around the room as if to check everything was in place, then he brushed his shirt and went into the hall.

He returned, accompanied by a weasel-faced white man with a red wispy beard. He had a bent nose and a cauliflower ear, but the most striking thing about him was his eyes. Hard, humourless, powerful.

‘Brothers, it is my great honour to welcome our Amir Sheikh Abu Mujahid al-Britani.’ Abu Mujahid smiled with his mouth – if not his eyes – and held out his hands, clasping each of the men’s palms in turn. Asad swallowed and attempted a smile. The man was a legend. He’d escaped twice from under the noses of the British establishment – once by walking free from some jumped-up trial, again by walking away under the eyes of the secret British police. And then the things he’d done in the Caliphate. He was a hero and the bravest man that Asad was ever likely to meet.

Mirza stood by the sitting room door, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other. ‘Let me introduce you to our brothers. This is Ahmed Muhid, Waheed Saleem – and this is Omar Asad.’

‘Take a seat, please.’ Abu Mujahid paused and smiled again. He leant forward, his elbows on his knees, his fingers interlocked. He spoke quietly, so quietly that Asad and the other men had to lean forwards themselves, their faces just a few inches from Abu Mujahid.