'Have you heard anything that would confirm it? Even a hint?'

'I don't know. I have been to North Pakistan and the border areas as an art dealer, and of course there are many Brits in that area, contractors dealing with the Pakistan Army, others offering their services as security experts, many of them obviously ex-soldiers. I am sure there is a lot of illegal arms-dealing with the Taliban, too. But these are just guys out to make a buck. This other business, this Shamrock…' He sighed wearily. 'It's so nonsensical that it must be true. I shall ask around.'

Holley got up and picked up the Gladstone bag. 'I'd appreciate it. I'm at the Dorchester. I'll see myself out.'

Selim sat there thinking about it, then reached for his mobile and started to ring round, choosing a few old friends only, people he'd known in the art world for years; people he felt he could trust.

Military rule was the accepted way in Algiers, certainly to men such as Hamid Malik. Law and order was an essential requirement to the development of good business, and this benefited the poor as well as the rich. But even for a wealthy man, it was sensible to cultivate people in the right places. The man he was enjoying coffee with was certainly that: Colonel Ali Hakim, a no-nonsense military policeman. He and Malik had been close friends over years of political upset and violence, the kind that had made military rule so necessary in Algiers in the first place.

What Malik didn't realize, however, was that Hakim had orders from the Foreign Ministry to cultivate him, with the aim of keeping an eye on Daniel Holley's activities. Holley's access to the international scene was undoubtedly of advantage to the government, but his past argued the need for a certain control as well. Which was where Hakim came in.

Malik poured the Colonel another coffee and Hakim said, 'And how is Daniel? I was told he went to Paris on your company plane.' He smiled gently. 'Forgive me, but air traffic control passes such information to my office on a regular basis.'

'Of course,' Malik said. 'And I understand.' He was tense and his hand shook as he poured another coffee.

Hakim said, 'You seem out of sorts. Is something worrying you?'

Malik said, 'How long have we been friends?'

'I would say thirty years. What's brought this on?'

'Through years of unrest, bloodshed, revolution, fundamentalist terror, one government after another-and yet here we are, still just as much friends as when we were dodging bullets together back at the university. If I can't trust you, I can't trust anyone. Would you agree?' Malik asked.

Hakim said, 'Of course.' He put down his cup. 'What is this, old friend?'

So Malik told him everything. The Albanians and the business with Putin, Afghanistan and Shamrock.

When he was finished, he said, 'What do you think?'

He had made the worst mistake of his life, but Colonel Ali Hakim, delighted at such a treasure trove of information, managed to look alarmed and worried at the same time.

'This is grave news indeed. We must proceed very carefully. Daniel will be seeing your cousin, Selim, in London?'

'That's right. He said he would value his opinion.'

'And this General Charles Ferguson? I know of him, of course. He is a major player in the world of anti-terrorism and covert operations. So Daniel intends to offer his services in this affair?'

'So he says, but what do you think about British Muslims operating with the Taliban?'

'My friend, thirty years in my line of work means that nothing surprises me any longer. The Muslim population of Britain is substantial these days. That a few misguided young men would be tempted to join in the battle for the prospect of glory would not surprise me. But only a few, I think.' He reached for his cap and swagger stick and got up. 'I must go now. Try not to worry. I'll keep a close eye on things, I promise you. If anything of interest turns up, I'll report it to you. It would be useful if you could do the same.'

He went down the outside steps and walked away through the garden. Malik watched him go, suddenly feeling very much better.

Like many Arabs, Ali Hakim had grown tired of the uncertainty of Arab politics, the power usurped by one general after another, and the autocracy of the men with their oil billions to back them up. And then Osama bin Laden had appeared like an avenging angel, instantly embraced by Muslims all over the world, Colonel Ali Hakim among them. In spite of NATO and Britain and America, Hakim still believed in what to him was the nobility of bin Laden's message. He had served Al Qaeda ever since.

He sat in his police Land Rover on a bluff looking out to sea, an encrypted mobile in his left hand. It had a tape device as well, and he switched on to record and dictated everything Malik had said. He felt no guilt. This was too important. He ended by punching his personal recognition button and hitting 'Send'.

Hakim dealt with a man known as the Preacher, the individual responsible for all London-based operations, who had been placed in charge by Osama bin Laden himself. Thanks to modern technology, the Preacher remained anonymous and untraceable, though he knew the identity of everyone with whom he dealt.

But this did not apply to Ali Hakim. Uncomfortable with entrusting a mystery man with his life, Hakim had sought expert help from Wali Sofit, a computer expert of genius who, unfortunately for him, was serving fifteen years' imprisonment for transferring many thousands of dollars to various bank accounts in Algiers. Presented with Hakim's special problem and even more special mobile phone, plus the promise of future leniency, Sofit had gone to work. Hakim had told him he believed the Preacher to be a major criminal of some sort. Sofit had been somewhat surprised to come up with the name of a Professor Hassan Shah, based in London, but was delighted to be transferred to a soft job in the prison administration offices as a reward for his skill.

Ali Hakim waited in the Land Rover until a reply came back. Your information of crucial importance. It will be dealt with as a matter of the highest priority.

Hakim switched off. So that was that. He felt sorry for his old friend Malik, and he'd always liked Holley, but the cause he served was more important than individuals. He switched on his engine and drove down into the city towards the police headquarters.

The man known as the Preacher, Hassan Shah, continued to sit on the bench outside the London School of Economics, where he had taken Hakim's call. A pleasant-looking man of medium height, he was wearing a khaki summer suit, a faded denim shirt and tinted Ray-Ban sunglasses with steel rims. His black hair was too long.

Forty years of age, an academic and a working barrister when he wished it, with no wife or girlfriend (which made some people talk), he lived alone in the pleasant Edwardian villa where he'd been born in Bell Street, West Hampstead. His parents had departed for Pakistan years ago, his father having retired as a surgeon.

He was thinking of them now because of Hakim's recording, thinking of Pakistan and the visit he had made on a holiday when he was sixteen, when he'd been taken to a youth camp and Osama bin Laden himself had appeared. The speech he had made had shaped Shah's life.

Shah was a practising Muslim, but in a quiet way, nothing flamboyant. His rapid rise both as an academic and a barrister had, to a certain extent, been because he was a Muslim. The Foreign Office had sent him to Bosnia to investigate war crimes and then, pleased with his work, had sent him again and again, to Iraq many times and Kosovo. He'd been noticed, no question of that, and his success in court on a few difficult cases had led to the position he held now: Professor in International Law at the London School of Economics.