And had that photograph ever landed in the right place. These three Mossad hitmen had been charged with eliminating Ravi and Shakira in that highly expensive and well-planned operation only five months ago. They had been beaten in the mission mostly because of sheer bad luck. The couple had returned to their house separately, accompanied by different people, and it had been too dark to see the discrepancy. The bomb went off in the main room while Shakira was in the basement-level kitchen and Ravi was not even in the house.

But no one knew what Ravi looked like better than Colonel Joel, who had photographed the Hamas commander through a telescopic lens, from right across the street, had observed him in daylight, would recognize him anywhere.

The other two also knew precisely what Ravi looked like, and there was no doubt in any of their minds. The man in the English ferry port was General Ravi Rashood, and the lady with him was his Palestinian wife, Shakira.

For one final check, the colonel called for comparable pictures of the general, and Itzaak pulled them up on the big computer screen set into the wall like a plasma television. The group consisted of three pictures taken on a cliff top in the Canary Isles and the expansive set of photographs the colonel himself had snapped from across Bab Touma Street in Damascus.

No doubt. This was General Rashood and his wife, arriving in England, and now identified by no lesser figures than the Mossad’s top assassination squad, and Mr. Mick Barton, of the Shamrock Café in faraway Skibbereen.

Colonel Joel called for the MI-6 report, which mostly contained an assessment by Detective Superintendent McDwyer of the murder of Jerry O’Connell in County Cork, and the likelihood that the man in the picture had committed the murder. The report also mentioned the possibility that the murderer had been landed from an Iranian submarine patrolling off the coast of southern Ireland.

The Mossad men knew all about that submarine. They too had been tracking it, not with another underwater boat like the Americans, but via the satellites. And they too had been aware that the damn thing had vanished somewhere in the deep water off the eastern coast of Majorca. Like the Americans, the Israelis had not regained contact, and were more or less certain the Iranian submarine was no longer in the Mediterranean. Somehow, the Israeli Navy believed, it had broken out through the Gibraltar Strait into the Atlantic Ocean.

Colonel Joel sent a POSIDENT signal to all the appropriate departments in the King Saul Boulevard headquarters. He put it on the nets to the Navy and all branches of Israeli Military Intelligence, particularly Shin Bet, the interior intelligence operation, equivalent of London ’s MI-5. No one wanted Ravi Rashood’s head as badly as Ben Joel.

Back in England, MI-6 E-mailed the picture to Military Intelligence, with a special copy to SAS headquarters in Stirling Lines, Hereford, where once Major Ray Kerman had served with honor and courage. By the time the photograph arrived, it was mid-evening, and it would not be examined in the normal course of business until the following morning. However, an urgent communication was picked up from the Israelis at around 10 P.M., and the duty officer instantly summoned the commanding officer.

The communiqué from Tel Aviv read: POSIDENT photograph English ferry port Holyhead. The man is General Ravi Rashood, commander in chief Hamas, formerly known as Major Ray Kerman, 22 SAS Regt. The woman with him is Shakira Rashood, his Palestinian wife, last known address Bab Touma Street, Damascus.

Rashood wanted for murder in County Cork, Ireland. Local farmer Mr. Jerry O’Connell, killed by obvious Special Forces method-smashed central forehead, nose bone rammed into the brain. Looks like Rashood back in England. We stand by to help if required. Joel, Israeli Intelligence.

Lieutenant Colonel David Carter, CO 22 SAS, walked through steady rain to his office, accompanied by Major Douglas Jarvis. Neither of them had been in Hereford when Major Kerman had jumped ship back in 2004, but both of them knew the seriousness of his crimes. It was common knowledge nowadays that Kerman had murdered two highly regarded SAS NCOs and had then wreaked havoc on behalf of the well-funded Hamas terrorists. The name Ray Kerman represented the most inflammatory utterance in SAS history.

The two Special Forces officers shook off their rain smocks and made their way quickly to the CO’s office. Lt. Colonel Carter had served with Ray Kerman in Sierre Leone a dozen years ago, knew him well. The duty officer had put the photograph up on a wall screen, and David Carter took one look at it and said, “That’s Ray. Not a single doubt.”

Douglas Jarvis picked up a hard copy of the report from Tel Aviv, and said, “Christ! He’s here.”

Lt. Colonel Carter replied, “Well, he was when that ferry came into Holyhead. Who knows if he’s still here?”

“What do we do now?”

“Well, I suppose we better confirm our positive identification of Kerman to all of the interested parties, looks like Israeli Intelligence, MI-5, MI-6, CIA, FBI, and the Irish. We’ll send our confirmation direct to MI-6 and they’ll take care of the rest.”

“Did you read that bit about he’s supposed to have killed the Irish farmer, sir?”

“Not yet. What did it say?”

“Well, he used our regular unarmed combat blow. You know, smashed forehead bone and upward drive on the nose. I seem to remember from the report, he used that very same method to kill Sergeant Fred O’Hara in Hebron.”

“After eight years with the enemy, he’s probably getting careless. Thinks he’s safe. Looks like he’s getting so confident, he thinks he can move in and out of England any time he wants to.”

“Do you think we’ll ever catch him, sir?”

“Possibly. But we’d need a hell of a bit of luck.”

The Mossad communiqué, via the CIA, landed in Lt. Commander Ramshawe’s computer at 4 P.M. It was accompanied by an urgent phone call from his pal at the CIA, and then another call from Army Intelligence. General Rashood and his wife had been photographed at the English ferry port.

And at that moment, a thousand questions that had been swirling in Jimmy’s mind were answered. In fact, all the questions that had been swirling in his mind were answered. Except for one. Was the woman in the picture with Ravi none other than Carla Martin?

There were only a very few people in the world who could tell him. One of them was Emily Gallagher; another was Jim Caborn, manager of the Estuary Hotel; and, of course, there were Matt Barker’s buddies.

In Jimmy’s judgment, this required a further visit to Brockhurst. But the game had now changed drastically from a very local murder hunt to a hunt for an international terrorist with the most serious implications.

Jimmy seized the picture, and the reports from the Mossad and the Irish police, and proceeded in a major hurry to the office of the director, Admiral George Morris. The somewhat lugubrious ex-battle group commander was studying a copy of Jane’s International magazine when his deputy came through the door without knocking.

Big George knew urgency when he saw it. He looked up and said quietly, “Steady, Jimmy. What’s going on?”

“Every damn thing in the world, if you ask me,” he replied. “You know all that business I was telling you about a terrorist group trying to locate and then assassinate Admiral Morgan?”

“Of course I do.”

“Well, it’s happening. Everything just sprang into place. And you’ll never guess who’s at the back of it.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Hamas. General Ravi Rashood. And his wife. Take a look at this picture.”

He handed it to Admiral Morris, who said, “From what I remember, that’s him. I’ve never seen a picture of her. Tell you what, run me through it quickly, will you? Refresh my memory.”