To my agent Barbara Levy, editor Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock, Charlotte Bush and the rest of the team at Century.

Iraq . 2003.

Baghdad had fallen.

The streets were filled with troops, panic and fear. Sam Redman could taste it. The newswires buzzed with scenes of jubilation, with images of the grotesque statue of a hated dictator being toppled by the newly liberated citizens. But that was only half the story. The cobra’s head might have been cut off, but its body was still flailing dangerously. There was talk of killing squads of former Iraqi Republican Guards tearing through the streets on white trucks, brandishing AK-47s and settling old scores. Earlier they’d come across a dismembered torso lying in an alleyway. The legs, arms and head were missing and the rest was covered in flies. A witness had seen the man, a Western security guard, get pinned down during an ambush. His captors showed no mercy. In full view of the street they forced him to the ground and hacked off his limbs with a machete. The witness told them that the captors had made a mess of it; the blade wasn’t sharp enough and it took two men several minutes to hack through the bone and gristle. When they were down they peeled off his skin and beat his torso with his own limbs. Nearly an hour after they had captured him, the killing squad put a bullet through his forehead. One of the guys had filmed it on a camera; no doubt the footage was being uploaded on some dodgy Arabic website at that very minute. It was a sign of the way the country was headed: to hell in a fucking hand-cart. Only the presence of the Coalition forces held it still. If they were to leave now the city – the whole country – would be held to ransom by the looters, the rioters and the profiteers. By people like the man who sat in front of Sam now, sweat shining on his dark-skinned face and a nauseating stench of halitosis drifting from his gap-toothed mouth.

‘Miaat elf doolaar Amreekee,’ he said, before spitting on the floor and then setting his lips into an oily smile.

Sam turned to his brother. Jacob’s command of Arabic was better than anyone’s in the Regiment. He’d been over the Iraqi border more times than he could count in the past few years and he knew how to play it with these people.

‘A thousand American dollars,’ he translated flatly.

Mac Howden, the third man in their unit, sneered. His left hand wandered up to his right ear, half of which was missing – a scar from a firefight in Borneo. An inch to the left and it would have been a different story. ‘I could do with a thousand Yankee dollars myself. Difference is, this greasy little fucker’ll probably just go straight out and spend it on an RPG. He’ll be taking potshots at Chinooks in two hours.’

The Iraqi tout had said his name was Sadiq. None of them believed him, but in a situation like this one name was as good as another. Whether he knew that Sam, Jacob and Mac were SAS – or what the SAS even was – was anybody’s guess. Beyond doubt, however, he knew the value of the information he carried. Sadiq’s face remained fixed in that unpleasant smile as the three of them talked. Discuss it among yourselves, his expression said. I’m in no hurry.

‘And anyway,’ Mac continued, ‘rule of engagement number one: never trust a fucking raghead. How do we know he’s telling the truth?’

‘We don’t,’ Sam growled. He didn’t care about the money – it wasn’t like it was his – but he cared deeply about this guy pulling a fast one on them.

Jacob sniffed and his eyes narrowed slightly. Sam knew his brother well enough to realise he was about to do something. But with Jacob, you could never quite tell what. His brother took a step towards the straight-backed chair where Sadiq was sitting. They’d put him there, in the middle of this gloomy basement on the outskirts of Baghdad, so that he would feel intimidated while the three of them loomed over him. He didn’t appear to be intimidated at all, however. As a beam of the morning sun shone on to his face through the air vent at the top of the outside wall – the only source of light available to them – he looked quite at ease. As if he had the upper hand.

That look of smug satisfaction did not change as Jacob approached; but it soon fizzled away as Sam’s brother wrapped his big hand around Sadiq’s neck. The tout looked angry first, then frightened as Jacob pulled a handgun from his belt and crushed it against the Iraqi’s skull. There was a moment of silence, broken only by the faint gasping sound as Sadiq struggled to breathe, before Jacob spoke.

‘I know you speak better English than you’re letting on,’ he hissed.

Jacob’s fingers twitched as he squeezed Sadiq’s bulging neck a little harder. A croaking sound came from the Iraqi’s throat.

‘Please,’ he croaked. ‘You hurt me…’

At first it looked as if Jacob hadn’t heard. He just kept his fingers firmly in place. Then, with a sudden explosion of force, he thrust his arm forward. Sadiq’s chair toppled backwards. As he fell he hit his head against the stone floor, crying out with pain. Like a rodent that has been suddenly disturbed, he scurried on all fours towards the back wall, then pushed himself up to his feet.

Jacob had been watching him dispassionately. Now that Sadiq was standing again he advanced. He put the butt of the handgun flat against the tout’s forehead and looked directly into his frightened eyes.

‘I’m going to speak very slowly and very clearly so that there’s no risk that you don’t understand what I’m saying.’ Jacob’s voice was calm and insistent. Sadiq nodded to indicate his agreement.

‘Good,’ Jacob whispered. ‘Now it’s very simple. You’re going to show us where he’s hiding. We’ll give you something to leave outside his house as a signal. After that we never want to see you again.’

Sadiq nodded even more enthusiastically.

‘But if we find that you’re lying to us,’ Jacob continued, as though talking to a child, ‘we’ll come looking for you. And you know what will happen then, don’t you?’ He tapped the end of his gun against Sadiq’s head to reinforce his threat. He was a sweaty, shady little prick. Jacob would slot the fucker given half a chance, and from the look in Sadiq’s eyes the Iraqi understood. He started to breathe heavily. ‘What about my money?’ he asked in awkward, stilted English.

‘You’ll get your money,’ Jacob replied. ‘You’d better just make sure we get what we want, otherwise it could end up being an expensive day for you.’ He rapped the end of the gun against the Iraqi’s sweaty forehead.

‘Please,’ Sadiq whimpered, jolting as though he had just received an electric shock. ‘Please. I do as you ask…’ His knees buckled.

Jacob nodded slowly, then lowered his gun. As he turned, the light from the air vent caught his face. He winked quickly at Sam, who did his best to stop himself from smiling. If everything went according to plan, this had the makings of a very good day.

‘Let’s get ready,’ Jacob announced. ‘We’ll get on to the Farm, request air support. Strike at midday when our friend is sheltering from the heat.’

Sam looked at his watch. 10.00 hrs. Two hours to go.

‘Where’s the house?’ Mac demanded of Sadiq.

The tout sniffed, apparently relieved to be talking to someone other than Jacob.