'Consider it done.'

'Good lad,' Lancy told him. 'But remember that right hand. You're leaving yourself wide open when you punch.'

'Fuck off,' Hasim told him.

'Not nice, a decent young Muslim talking like that,' and then he surprised Hasim by speaking in Arabic for the first time. 'Allah is great and Osama is his prophet.'

He switched off and drove away. Meanwhile, the Preacher was contacting his most important Al Qaeda asset in Peshawar. He got an instant response.

'The day of wrath must come,' Shah said, establishing his credentials.

'Then only the believers will survive. It is good to hear you, Preacher. How can I help?' his asset answered.

'Not me, but the cause of Al Qaeda. You are to have two visitors. They have just left London by Gulfstream. They are important because they are on British government business, but they are a problem for us.'

'Who are they?'

'A General Charles Ferguson and Major Harry Miller. They are there on a fact-finding mission. There is alarm in London over reports of young British Muslims fighting for the Taliban.'

'Which is true.'

'Yes, but there is more to their trip. There is evidence of a mercenary commander operating with the Taliban who uses the code name Shamrock. Have you heard anything of such a man?'

'Not a whisper. Are you sure about this? Perhaps it's only rumour?'

'No. Shamrock is one of Al Qaeda's most important assets. His identity must be protected at all costs. As far as you are concerned, he doesn't exist. My information is that Ferguson and Miller have been promised the assistance of two men in Peshawar. Their names are Dak Khan and Jose Fernandez.'

'I know these men well. Illegal arms dealers, amongst other things. I can put my hand on them at any time. As regards the visitors from London, do I frighten them or kill them?'

'Both Ferguson and Miller have done great harm to Al Qaeda in the past. I think it is time that their debts were paid.'

'No problem. Leave it with me.'

'Osama's blessing on you.'

Shah hung up, and the man at his desk at Military Police Headquarters in Peshawar, Colonel Ahmed Atep, lit a cigarette and sat back, smiling. So, life could get interesting. The prospect pleased him very much.

Earlier in the day, Justin Talbot's flight had taken him over North Wales and Anglesey, and now he was sweeping in towards the Mourne Mountains, a wonderful sight on a perfect day.

It had been an excellent flight, but he hadn't enjoyed it as much as usual. His dealings with the Preacher had been deeply disturbing. It wasn't just the shock of discovering that his mother'd had him baptized a Catholic as a baby. It was more that the Preacher knew about his exploits with the SAS, which were supposedly top secret. Where in the hell had all that come from? The power of these Al Qaeda people was frightening, and he cursed the day he'd ever got involved.

He wondered for a moment if he could buy his way out. On his grandfather's death, he would become fabulously rich, and he was cynical enough by nature to believe that most people in life had their price, particularly when you were talking in the millions. But on the other hand, Islamists like Al Qaeda, men who could kill and execute without a second's hesitation, had rigid moral and theological codes that Westerners found it difficult to understand. In the end, money meant little to them.

He doubted that was his escape.

He turned parallel to the Mourne Mountains as they swept down to the sea, and dropped on to the long grass runway of the Aero Club just outside the village of Drumgoole. There were three hangars, five small aircraft parked on the grass, a small terminal building with a cafe and a stub of a control tower above it. In front of the terminal was a maroon Shogun, his mother leaning against it, wearing sunglasses because of the glare, watching as an overalled mechanic waved him in to park in the right place. The club's chief pilot, Phil Regan, was standing with her, and they came towards him as he got out of the Beech Baron.

'Wonderful to see you, darling.' She flung her arms round him and hugged him fiercely. 'My God, but you're brown.'

'Good to see you, Justin.' Regan shook hands. 'If you wore the right clothes, people could mistake you for a Pathan.'

'It's fierce sun up there on the North-West Frontier,' Talbot said. 'I've never experienced anything like it. The plane did well, Phil. I hope I'm staying for a few days, but give it a full engine check, full everything, so that it's ready to go at a moment's notice.'

'We'll see to that, never fear.' Regan turned to consult the mechanic.

Jean said, 'Do you want to drive?'

'I've just clocked three hundred miles or more flying that plane, so I think I'll take a rain check.'

'Fine by me.'

They got in and she drove away, following the coast road. 'I was worried when I didn't hear from you on this trip. I always thought that's what mobiles were for.'

'Service can be difficult if you're in the wrong terrain. It's a hard, unforgiving landscape out there. It's defeated everybody who invaded that bloody country, even Alexander the Great.'

'But that's Afghanistan. I thought you never went over the Pakistan border.'

He'd made a mistake and struggled to make it right.

'Borders meant nothing to Alexander.'

'Of course, silly of me.' She concentrated on the road, but, glancing sideways at her face, he knew that she didn't believe him, just as she hadn't believed so much of his army life over the years. Secrets, always secrets between them, but also a love that was so deep it was never mentioned.

'How is he?' he asked, referring to his grandfather.

'Pretty bloody awful. Dr Ryan said he really did think he might go this time. That's why he phoned me to come. Dad insists sometimes on getting up with two sticks and lurching around and striking out at any servant within range. This time, he lost his balance and fell over, and that's what brought on the attack. We've got a local man with him now named Tod Murphy; he spent years at the Musgrave Park Hospital in Belfast. He's sixty, a hard man, and deaf as a post, so your grandfather's rantings pass right over him. He'll just sit reading in the conservatory, ignoring him, until Dad needs feeding or toileting or putting to bed. And, of course, there's Hannah Kelly,' mentioning the housekeeper. 'Couldn't manage without her, so I pay her a damn good salary, and thanks to her I don't have to be over here on a regular basis.' She shook her head. 'What's the solution? It drives me mad thinking about it.'

'He dies, I suppose,' Talbot said. 'He could stumble and fall at any time and break his bloody neck and do us all a favour.'

'You really hate him that much?' she asked.

He shrugged. 'I was his Protestant bastard for years, so what did that make you? How could you ever forgive him for that?'

'I know, love,' she said. 'Such behaviour goes beyond any hope of forgiveness.'

'Mind you, what would life have been like if I'd been a Catholic bastard? Imagine, Colonel Henry Talbot's grandson! What would the Orange Lodge have made of that?'

Because of the special bond that had always been between them, she could tell he wasn't quite ready to face the house, so she swerved to the side of the road by the sea wall, switched off and got out. She leaned on the wall, took out her cigarettes and lit one, and he joined her.

A narrow road dropped down to a hamlet called Lorn: seven small cottages if you counted them. Several fishing boats were drawn up on the narrow beach and there was a boat-house and jetty that belonged to the Talbot estate. A sport fisherman was tied up there, gleaming white with a blue stripe. It was called Mary Ellen.