Author: David Brining
Date: 2014-10-18 07:00:00+00:00
Keywords: teenager spy middleeast islam counterterrorism humanbomb wmd
Description: when 15 year old ali al-amin’s parents are killed by an al-qaeda bomb in baghdad, he is recruited by arab intelligence to spy on a syrian school for suicide-bombers. there ali is turned into a human bomb, a dead boy walking, and sent to blow up a wedding reception as prelude to the most dreadful terror-attack ever devised, the release of two litres of sarin from saddam hussein’s missing wmd stockpile into the audience at the jerash arts festival in jordan. with 3 days to stop the plot, ali must grow up fast and face his destiny as the lone wolf defending islam from the extremists who would des
Publisher: Createspace

Dead Boy Walking

- Dead Boy Walking

- Midpoint

Ebook edition for Smashwords

Written and published by David Brining 2014.

Copyright registered and all rights reserved

Ali Al-Amin is

Codename: Salawa

MURAIDI MARKET, SADR CITY, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Friday May 1, 11:54

SADR CITY'S Friday Market was a sustained assault on the senses. Each stall was a riot of colour: the vivid orange, yellow and green of fruit and vegetables, the pink and purple of T-shirts, baseball caps and socks, the black and brown of plastic sandals hanging from strings, the red, pink and white of meat spread-eagled on slabs, the grey, blue and silver of fish stuck in ice, and everywhere noise, overwhelming noise. People shouted, haggled, bargained, argued, laughed, and shouted some more. Bodies jostled bodies as women and children shoved through the throng. The air stank of dust and sweat and humanity. Over it all rose the call to prayer, ''Allahu Akbar'', GOD IS GREAT, amplified, commanding, resounding, inescapable. On the corner, American soldiers in desert-khaki camouflage, stab-vests, flak-jackets and helmets cradled semi-automatic rifles, chewed gum and observed every movement.

Ali Al-Amin followed his mother's broad black-clad back. She had the shoulders of an American footballer and she used them in a similar way, charging a goal-ward path through the scrum. Heba had once been slim, something of a beauty, but bearing four children had taken its toll and she had thickened to the point where her hips were indistinguishable from the rest of her frame. Ali's twelve year old sister, Fatima, in pink skinnies, pink plastic sandals and a white T-shirt with pink flowers, tried to keep up. Ali's older brothers, Mohamed and Hussein, slunk beside him, eyeing up girls and complaining about having to carry the shopping.

The call to prayer rang out again. ''Allahu Akbar!'' GOD IS GREAT, the muezzin cried.

"Let's go pray," muttered Mohamed, "Get out of the sun." There was a small mosque in the centre of the market.

Hussein handed Ali the plastic bag bulging with fat purple aubergines, ripe scarlet tomatoes and small, thin yellow-green cucumbers. "Here, squirt. Don't drop it."

Ali felt the jerk in his muscles as the bag hit the road.

"He couldn't lift a banana," said Mohamed.

''Not even his own,'' scoffed Hussein. The brothers laughed.

''Why are you wearing those shorts?'' Mohamed demanded.

Ali had dressed carefully today. He had put on his favourite grey T-shirt, the one with Mickey Mouse on it. He had chosen beige Bermuda shorts in light cotton. He had selected grey socks to match his T-shirt and the white Adibass trainers his father had worked so hard to buy him for his fifteenth birthday last week. He was hoping to meet Sour, the girl from school that he liked. She had fair skin and a pretty face, although she wore glasses, and always wore a fashionably coloured headscarf. He thought she was a Sunni but, since he had never really plucked up the courage to say more than ''Hi Sour'' when they met at the school gates every so often, he did not really know. Today he had decided to ask her to help him with his Maths homework. He was lousy at Maths, but she was really good.

''Don't you know it's a sin to show your knees in public?''

''That's only for men, brother,'' Hussein said spitefully, ''Not 'ickle boys who wear Disney pictures on their chests.''

''I like it,'' Ali protested.

''Course you do,'' sneered Mohamed. '' 'Ickle weed.''

''Shut up,'' said Ali, ''Leave me alone. Anyway, the shorts cover half my knees so is that only half a sin?''

''Tch,'' said Mohamed, slapping Ali lightly on the back of the neck. ''Argumentative dog.''

"Mum!" cried Hussein, "Mum! We're going to pray!"

Their mother was too busy arguing over the price of oranges to hear.

"I'll come," said Ali.

Mohamed mimicked his reedy voice, still settling down after recently breaking.

"You stay with the women," Hussein added, ''Where you belong.''

''I want to pray too,'' Ali protested.

''Not with the men.'' Hussein smoothed his black hair. ''You go in with the girls.''

''Besides,'' added Mohamed, ''If you come with us, people might think we're related.'' Cackling and nudging each other, the brothers made for the mosque.

''Hussein,'' called their mother. ''Call in at the coffee shop, will you? See if your father wants anything special for dinner.''

Every Friday, before midday prayers and while the family was shopping, Ali's father took himself off to Islam's tiny coffee shop facing the market-place mosque to read the paper, play backgammon and 'chew the fat' with his friends. Several cups of bitter-sweet Arabic coffee were consumed and maybe the odd water-pipe smoked before the Call to Prayer drew them from their earthly pursuits to things more spiritual.

''I'll go,'' Ali said quickly. He loved Islam's coffee shop. He loved the smells of cardamom and coffee and the smell of apple and aniseed from the pipes. He loved the hissing sound as coffee boiled over the rim of the little bronze pot to sizzle fiercely on the hot stove. He loved the sight of the old men, their wrinkles, furrows, knots and gnarls, clicking dice and shifting counters on the backgammon boards. He loved it when Islam, ancient and wizened, called out ''Here's Ali, son of Hassan'' and gave him a fruit drop, usually orange. He would watch his father's strong, hairy fingers manoeuvre the counters and breathe in the aroma of coffee, sweat and aftershave.

''Bah,'' said Hussein, ''The coffee shop's a place for men. No room for the squirt.''

Mohamed slapped the back of Ali's neck again. ''Stay here with the girls, squirt.''

Ali often hated his brothers. He was five foot four, weighed forty-six kilograms whilst they were tall, stocky and broad-shouldered like their father. Mohamed even had a moustache coming.

They shared a room. Mohamed slept on a couch whilst Hussein and Ali shared a bed. Every night Ali went to sleep with the sweet stink of aftershave, the cheesy smell of sweaty feet, the boiled cabbage scent of stale farts and the reek of testosterone clogging his nose. He hated his brothers even more at night.

On the other hand, they had defended him against a neighbour's boy. Sherif had demanded Ali hand over his bicycle then punched him in the stomach and taken it when he had refused. Ali had gone home crying so the brothers had tracked Sherif down, blacked his eye, bruised his lips and bloodied his nose. When they returned, Hussein had slapped Ali's neck.

''Toughen up, squirt,'' he had growled. "It's a cruel world and we won't always be around to protect you."

Ali caught up with his mother and sister. The handles of the plastic bag were cutting into his hands. "Mum, Mum …," he started.

"Be quiet," she snapped, picking an orange off a pile and squeezing it. "This fruit's soft," she told the greengrocer, a wiry man with rolled-up sleeves. "You're selling old fruit."

"Do you know how difficult it is to get fresh fruit these days?" snorted the trader. "There's a war on, in case you hadn't noticed. Fruit trucks get hi-jacked, you know."

One of the oranges, dislodged from the pile, rolled slowly along the table. Ali watched it turn over in the air and bounce into the gutter.

"You gonna pay for that?" snarled the man.

"Mum…," Ali tried again.

"Oh, for God's sake, Ali, do shut up." His mother poked a strand of grey hair back inside her head-scarf and turned back to the fruit-seller. Fatima smiled maliciously and stuck out her tongue. She loved it when Ali got into trouble.

"But Mum..."

"You're giving me a headache!" she snapped. "Go and play in the traffic!"

''I wanna find Dad,'' he said sulkily.

''Make yourself useful for once in your life and go get some bread,'' growled his mother.

Ali glared triumphantly at his twelve year old sister and returned the stuck-out tongue.

"You take the shopping," he hissed, shoving the heavy bag into her hands.

''Muuummmmm!'' bawled Fatima, letting the shopping sink onto her sandals. ''Ali stuck his tongue out at me!''

Before his Mum could slap his neck, Ali slunk under somebody's arm and into the crowd. God, his family was driving him crazy!

The bread-stall was at the far end of the street. Ali squirmed through the press of bodies, wiped the sweat from his face and asked for ten pieces. An American soldier was standing nearby. His smiling face, under the desert-camouflage helmet, was deeply sunburned.

"All right, kid?" he said.

Ali nodded. A sharp jolt against his shoulder made him look round. A boy had knocked against him.

"Hey!" Ali shouted irritably. "Watch where you're going."

The boy looked through him. He had a weasly face, bad pus-oozing acne, furry brown teeth, the look of the gutter. He stank of garlic and fear.

''You like Mickey Mouse?'' The soldier indicated Ali's grey T-shirt.

''Hmm.'' Ali nodded uncertainly.

''Me too,'' said the soldier. He had blue eyes. Ali had never seen blue eyes before. He handed over two faded banknotes and took the plastic bag of flat bread.

''Want some gum?'' The soldier held out a stick of Wrigley's Spearmint.

''Sure,'' said Ali.

''Live round here?''

''Near,'' said Ali. His English was not so good and the American's Arabic was patchy. He unwrapped the stick of gum and put it in his mouth. ''Sank you.''

The soldier's weather-beaten features crinkled into fine lines and crow's feet. ''Got a kid about your age back home,'' he said conversationally.

''Vere zat?'' Ali said through the gum. The mint flavour was strong.

''Oklahoma,'' said the soldier. ''Farming country. Lots of wheat.''

''Huh?'' Ali did not understand.

''Wheat,'' said the soldier. ''Makes bread.'' He pointed to the bag in Ali's hand.

''Ah.'' Ali glanced back towards his mother and sister. Mother was still arguing with the greengrocer, this time waving a cucumber under his nose. Fatima was shuffling her feet under the heavy bag, shifting it from side to side. She saw Ali looking and stuck out her tongue again. Behind her, Ali could see the mosque where his brothers were praying, a bunch of sandals piled on the steps. He thumbed his nose at Fatima then stuck out his own tongue and waggled his splayed fingers for good measure.

''Your sister?'' asked the American.

''Yes,'' said Ali grumpily. She's such a princess, she…''

There was a sudden, loud, ringing cry of "Allahu akbar!", a rumbling roar shredded the air, the front of the mosque erupted outwards in a brick-dust volcano, and the world exploded. Everything went silent, totally, utterly and scarily silent.

Blasted off his feet, Ali was hurled backwards like a rag-doll and crashed down, onto and through the bread table which, smashed in half, fell across him and pinned him to the ground. A cascade of bread poured over his head. Oranges, aubergines, onions, apples bounced around him. Thick wooden splinters thudded like arrows into his shield. One sliced open his shoulder. He howled in pain as blood poured down his left arm. Blood and glass rained from the sky, spattering him and everything round him. He grunted as something punched him hard in the chest then a heavy weight on the table began forcing the air from his lungs as it pressed down upon him. It was the American soldier. Another pain-wave flooded his frame and something hard and wet smacked into his foot.

He could see smoke, thick, black and oily, billowing out of the ruined mosque, fire too, orange flames worming up the walls. Smaller fires flared on the ground. He could see people running, some in clothes rent ragged, some totally naked, all streaming blood, all caked in dust, their hands aloft, their mouths open in silent screams, curses or prayers. He could also see people lying dead in the street. To his right, the bread-seller was crawling through a carpet of glass. To his left, he could see a young woman stripped down to blood-stained pants sitting in a puddle of water, mouth open, tears streaming. Her hair was covered in dust. Her bare breasts were smeared with blood. In front of him, on the wooden half-table, lay the soldier. He was very still.

It was so quiet, as though the whole world had been rendered dumb by the blast.

It seemed to be raining blood.

Suddenly sound returned, a deafening roar of screaming, sobbing, shouting and sirens. Somewhere in the distance he could hear a low, animal moaning, a constant keening, like a cow mooing. He frowned and glanced round for the source of this inhuman, animal sound, then he realised it was coming from him. He was moaning like a gutted cow.

The weight of the soldier was crushing his chest. Squirming, he tried to shift it. Pain shot through his body. He raised his hand, realised he was still holding the bag of bread. It was covered in blood.

More pain swelled through his limbs. More blood surged down his arm. Every inch of his body ached. He screwed up his face. The chewing gum tasted of blood. He spat it out, gathered his strength and strained every muscle. His body screamed a protest. Blood gushed from his shoulder. His legs hurt. Nevertheless, with a near-superhuman effort that drained every last drop of strength, he managed to push the wooden trestle aside. The soldier tumbled onto the stones.

Ali looked down. His clothes had been shredded. His T-shirt was ripped into strips and his shorts hung in tatters round his thighs. There were cuts and grazes all over his chest and legs. His trainers were gone altogether. His left sock was wet with blood but then he had blood all over him anyway. He could now see what had smacked into his foot. It was a blood-soaked bundle of fur, the remains of a cat with its guts hanging out. Perhaps it was the cat's blood on his sock, not his. Nevertheless, his ankle, like his shoulder, throbbed with fire and his head and ears were still ringing from the blast. Otherwise he seemed unhurt. Tentatively he sat up and saw a scene from Hell.

Every part of the market was burning. Water from a fractured pipe surged into the sky. Dust clogged the air. Fragments of glass, spars of wood, pulverised bricks and twisted pieces of metal lay strewn on the ground. The mosque had vanished behind a curtain of choking smoke. Most people were lying, sitting or crawling. Very few were standing or walking.

He crawled to the American soldier, now lying on his back. The face was a mask of blood and dust. He put his ear to the mouth and heard a faint gurgling sound. With his fingers, he scooped out thick, bloody saliva then rolled the man onto his side, manipulating the limbs like one of his old Pokémon action toys. The soldier muttered something then vomited over the pavement. He was alive.

Ali thanked God and stood up. The pain in his ankle got suddenly worse and his head span, everything blurring for a moment. He waited for it to pass, understanding that he would not be able to walk far in his socks without shredding his feet. His arm was still bleeding.

He tore the rags of his T-shirt into three pieces. One he used to bind the gash at the top of his left arm, tying the knot with his teeth. Then he stripped off his socks, grimacing as he realised the blood on his left foot was not that of the dead cat but his own, leaking from a large, deep wound on the top. He wrapped the T-shirt strips round his feet and started to move but pain shot through his ankle again. He cursed and sat down again. The ankle was swelling rapidly. There was nothing else to do. He removed the tattered remnants of his shorts and tied the broken table leg to his left ankle. Now he really was showing his knees in public, and more. His brothers would make his life a misery if they could see him now, limping through the streets in his Spiderman undies, he thought.

He carefully placed a coat round the naked woman's blood-spattered shoulders then crawled to the blinded bread-seller and wrapped a cloth round the bloody face. There was little he could do. He had to find the trainers. Although they were fake, his dad had worked so hard and had been so proud when he had presented them as his birthday gift last week. ''Now you're a fifteen,'' Hassan had said, ''You are nearly a man. Time for some proper shoes.''

They had ice-cream and chocolate and his favourite syrup-thick mango juice and sung songs and everyone, even his brothers, had been happy. Fatima had hugged him and given him a hairbrush, Hussein and Mohamed had got him some perfume, Uncle Wagdy had brought a roasted chicken and Aunty Nour had danced. Bombs had burst in the Baghdad night, fireworks lighting up the sky for Ali's birthday, and everyone had been happy. So he had to find the trainers. For his family.

He limped through the fires, glass crunching under his feet as he squinted through the falling white dust, the spiralling ash and the smothering haze. The smell of burning was horrific, rancid, fatty. It was burning people. He had smelled it before.

A little boy sat on the ground bawling. Ali went to comfort him.

''It's all right,'' he said, ''It'll be all right.'' Knowing it would never be all right ever again.

The boy continued crying. Ali used the back of his hand to wipe snot from the kid's face.

''What's your name?'' he asked. The crying continued. ''I'm Ali Hassan. What about you?''

''M…m…mah…moud.''

''OK, Mahmoud,'' said Ali. ''I'm going to get you out of here and home. Hold on to me.''

Sirens wailed somewhere as he gathered the boy into his right arm, fighting the pain, trying to balance the weight with his makeshift crutch. His ankle screamed at him to stop. Mahmoud needed him. He gritted his teeth and took a few paces forward. The boy was surprisingly heavy. He stumbled. He felt blood leaking from his wounds. He bit his lip hard and felt his face contorting with pain. Suddenly he spotted a white shoe lying on its side in the shards of glass and splinters of wood.

He stooped, fighting the fire in his ankle, the fire now spreading to his thigh.

The boy, Mahmoud, clung to his shoulder, still sobbing but not so loudly now.

American soldiers and white-coated medics were running through the mist, yelling orders, someone stretching out for the child.

Ali reached down, then stopped, his blood running cold. There, on the ground, next to his shoe, in a small pool of blood, was a foot and part of a leg. A white sliver of bone stuck out from the ragged edge. It was a small foot, the foot of a child. It was still attached to a pink plastic sandal.

''FATIMA!'' Ali screamed.

An American soldier, yelling for a medic, threw a silver blanket round him. A white-coated figure holding a needle loomed out of the mist.

''Fatima!'' Ali screamed again.

Then he collapsed onto his hands and knees and was violently sick.

DEAD BOY WALKING

by

David Brining

''Even those who kill people with suicide bombing, these shall meet the flames of hell.''

Ayatollah Youssef Saanei

Interview with CNN, Feb 6 2007

For Ali

#1. DAR EL-TAWHID MADRASSA, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Friday May 1, 15:30

THE PICTURES shown on the television were horrific. Limbs torn from bodies. Heads ripped from necks. Weird, indistinguishable organs scooped from bellies. Bones, jagged and glinting. Innards and guts discarded like so many deflated balloons. And blood, puddles and puddles of blood, some bright-red, some darker, some with bits floating in it…. Hisham tried not to retch. He had never known that human blood had so many shades.

Al-Jazeera's cameraman zoomed in on the corpse of an old man lying on his front. A huge wooden splinter stuck out of his back like a spear. A woman lay nearby. Her face was completely smashed in. No features were recognisable in the crimson pulp. Fires burned. Oily smoke poked its fingers accusingly at the sky. The camera caught an American soldier's helmet rolling in the gutter. Hisham felt Moussa Bashir's fingers digging violently into his shoulder. He heard the excitement in the breathing. He sensed the thrill of witnessing death all round him.

''So perish the enemies of Islam,'' said Talal Hafez.

The camera focused on a concrete crescent-moon. It had been blown off a minaret.

''Shi'ites,'' snarled Talal. ''Heretics and traitors deserving of death.''

The Al-Jazeera cameraman panned across the ruined market, found a half-naked boy, covered in blood and smoke, wandering through the wasteland in stained Spiderman underpants. Despite limping heavily, he was still supporting the weight of a smaller boy and making his way out of the carnage. The commentator made some remark about heroism in the midst of heartache.

Talal Hafez hawked and spat. ''A runty Shi'ite bastard who got away, God rot him.''

Hisham felt Moussa Bashir's excited breathing harsh in his ear. He knew that tonight he would earn his board and lodging.

He glanced at Mr Mokhtar. There were tears in his eyes. This new Geography teacher seemed a nice man, a gentle man, one who seemed to care about his charges, even the flinty-eyed Osama and the weasly Yasser who had just died over there in Baghdad.

Yasser had been a withdrawn, sullen, spotty refugee from Ramallah in the Occupied Territories. He had barely spoken to anyone in the month he had been in the school. Hisham had recruited him, like so many others, in Zenobia Park and brought him to Moussa for 'induction'. He had not befriended him. He had not seen the point. He had known the boy was going to die. That was what they did at the Dar El-Tawhid School. They turned street-boys into suicide-bombers. They taught their students how to kill, and how to die. The message of direct entry into Paradise, of seventy-seven virgin girls oiling your bits for all eternity, of everlasting glory as a Martyr for the jihad, was powerful, especially for street-kids with nothing to lose, not in this life anyway, but Yasser had failed to please Moussa Bashir and that was why he had been chosen so quickly. Hisham knew the value of pleasing Moussa Bashir. It kept you alive. Yasser had chosen a different course. Now he was strewn in bloody pieces round a Baghdad market.

Hisham turned his head and smiled up at Moussa Bashir who ran his tongue-tip over his lower lip and winked. Hisham felt sick. He had been hanging out at the Dar El-Tawhid, or House of Unity, for nearly a year. Moussa had found him sniffing glue in an alley and offered him cash for a quick fumble, pressing the boy's thin body up against a parked Hyundai and panting as he had satisfied himself on Hisham's joggers. Since then Hisham had done things he had never imagined a fifteen year old could do, and in places where there was always a risk of discovery, by the police, the public or just passers-by, for Moussa was a man who seemed to get off on the thrill of people's proximity and the possibility of getting caught in the act.

The Call to Prayer that was the ring-tone on Talal Hafez' mobile phone jarred Hisham from his reflections.

''Wa aleikum sala'am,'' said the teacher. ''Peace be upon you.'' The long, bushy black beard which fanned across his broad, powerful breast bristled triumphantly. ''Yes, we are watching the news. All of us. Together.'' There was a pause. ''United in pride. Indeed we are.'' Another pause. ''We try.'' Talal Hafez seemed to swell. ''Yes, the package you ordered will be ready soon. We will find someone to deliver it…yes, in person.'' He fixed his black eyes on a tall, skinny, thin-faced youth whose owl-rimmed spectacles were constantly sliding down his beaky nose. ''Yes, it may be Osama. He's certainly committed to jihad.'' Osama almost smiled. ''Or someone less vital.'' His eyes met Hisham's. ''Hisham might fancy the trip.''

Moussa Bashir slid his arm round the boy's narrow shoulders and squeezed him happily.

''Talal thinks you're ready…'' he said in his strangely strangled voice.

But I'm not, gulped Hisham, not for that.

''You send us the money,'' said Talal briskly, ''And we'll do the job…. Well, thank you...''

The conversation was closed. Attention returned to the images of destruction on the television screen. The light glinted off the hook Talal had in place of a left hand.

''One day, boys,'' he said, ''One day soon, you too will do this. You, like the Martyr Yasser, will destroy the infidel in Holy War and take your places in Heaven.''

Hisham wondered which of the blood-lakes had burst out of Yasser and shivered. He caught Mr Mokhtar's tear-filled eyes. No, you don't, mouthed the Geography teacher. You don't have to do this.

But Hisham knew, in his heart, that one day he would. One day he too would be blasted to bits around some foreign bus station or market. One day some paramedic or soldier would scoop his guts into a bucket, pick his head from the gutter, hose his brains off the pavement and curse his very birth. It was the way of the Dar El-Tawhid, the House of Unity. There was no escape. It was just a matter of time till Moussa Bashir grew bored with him. That was why he had recruited others so enthusiastically. He believed he could make himself indispensable by seeking out and befriending the poor, desperate children of Damascus and delivering them to these evil men. They died so he could stay alive.

Talal Hafez gestured with his hook. ''A small party is in order, I think,'' he declared. ''Mr Mokhtar, be so kind as to fetch us some pizzas and a carton or two of orange juice. Today, after all, is a day to celebrate Yasser's entry into Paradise!''

#2. AL-QADISIYA GENERAL HOSPITAL, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Friday May 1, 20:13

ALI HASSAN slumped in a wheelchair in a white-tiled cubicle. He was wearing a white cotton gown tied at the back and a red woollen blanket round his shoulders. Brown daubs of iodine spotted his legs, chest and face. He had stitches in his left shoulder and stitches in his left foot. His left ankle, compressed within a tight white bandage, throbbed continuously. A plastic tube fed saline into his left wrist whilst another fed glucose into his right. He had been given a morphine injection but he was still shaking uncontrollably. His head ached and he was desperately thirsty. Snapshots of the horror flashed across his eyes.

The blood.

The fire.

The haze of dust.

The oranges bouncing in the road.

The woman in her pink knickers trying to cover her blood-spattered breasts.

The dead cat.

The American soldier vomiting blood.

The bag of bread covered in blood.

Oh God. The bread! He'd lost the bread. What would his mother say? He started to rise from the chair. A white-coated orderly moved towards him.

''Must get the bread!'' gasped Ali. ''I lost my bread.''

The orderly pushed him gently back into the wheelchair and gestured to a nurse for another sedative.

The American soldiers had grabbed both him and the little boy. A paramedic had fired questions at him. He'd nodded or shaken his head, not really understanding anything. Something had pricked his arm. He could not remember much more. He had been in an ambulance. He had been on a trolley. Someone had swabbed his wounds. Every bone in his body felt broken. He had seen dozens of people pass through the clinic, all bleeding, all broken. He had seen

Fatima's foot.

He closed his eyes. He knew the truth now. Uncle Wagdy had told him. Uncle Wagdy had looked tired, eyes red-rimmed, each line on his face carved more deeply than ever.

''Uncle,'' Ali had croaked. ''I lost my shoes. I lost the bread.''

Wagdy, sobbing, had gathered his nephew into a hug.

Ali had escaped with superficial cuts, bruising and a badly twisted ankle. He had been lucky. His sister was critically ill. She had indeed lost her foot. She had also lost a lot of blood. She had head injuries and spinal damage. She might recover, the doctor had said, but she needed a transfusion and had internal injuries to her kidneys, spleen and liver. When she had been blasted from the street, leaving her right foot behind, she had smashed through a solid concrete wall. She might still die. But she was lucky too. Their brothers had been blasted into hundreds of bloody fragments inside the mosque. A concrete block had smashed through their mother's head. Their father's remains had not yet been recovered. The coffee shop facing the mosque had taken the full force of the outward explosion. Policemen were still bagging up the thousands of pieces and trying to separate the fragments into individual corpses. It was likely that the remains of Hassan, Mohamed and Hussein would fill one small bucket.

''But the bread,'' Ali had croaked.

They did not understand. The word for 'bread' in Arabic is 'aish', the same as 'life'.

''Yes, you're going to live,'' said the doctor, cheerfully ruffling his hair.

Thirty-four people had died and a further hundred and six had been injured. Because a weasly faced runt had decided to blow himself up for the Glorious Victory of Islam.

''What shall I do? Where shall I live?'' he asked his uncle pathetically.

''You'll be all right.'' His uncle patted his knee. ''You're a survivor.''

Ali's eyes had filled with tears. ''Can I see Fatima?'' he had asked.

''Later,'' Uncle Wagdy had said. ''She's in surgery right now.''

Sour came to see him. She wore a green-and-blue headscarf, a soft blue jumper and jeans. She looked tired and anxious. Her younger brother was on life-support and fighting to survive. Her mother too was dead. They cried together. She held his hand. Ali cried some more.

''Poor Fatima,'' Sour kept saying, ''Poor Fatima. What will she do?''

What will we do? wondered Ali.

''We need to be brave,'' said Sour.

Ali could not think straight. What would she do? Their parents had spoiled her, their brothers had spoiled her. Everything had been done for them, not just the cooking and washing, but the tidying up, the cleaning, the shopping. Ali had been born the youngest son, but Fatima, she was the princess. She wanted to be a princess. She was her family's princess. Her room was pink and covered in pictures of fairy-tale castles, princesses, the Queen of Jordan, and ponies. Lots of ponies.

The bomb had brought back all the bad memories, of his childhood, of the War, of the terror, the anxiety, the tension that had gripped his city, his family, his class-mates. He remembered how the Government had said the Americans would use chemical and nuclear weapons, how this had sent the neighbourhood into blind panic. His father covered the windows with black sticky tape then painted the glass white, to reflect the glare from a nuclear bomb. His mother stockpiled food, his uncle and aunt and their children came to stay in the living room, his grandmother, old and frail even then, moved into his parents' room and Fatima moved in with him and his brothers. He slept on the floor with Hussein. They squabbled incessantly and never left the flat, especially when the bombing started, great roars of aircraft sweeping overhead and deep booming explosions rocking the buildings. The men tried to play cards whilst the women hugged the smaller children. Ali, just turning ten, held on to Fatima whilst Mohamed and Hussein stood on the balcony shouting defiance until Hassan yanked them inside and slapped their necks. An especially loud blast made Ali wet himself.

When the power failed, his mother lit candles. They ate fuul and soup cold from the tins. When the water was cut, they used buckets for toilets and washed in water from bottles. Ali felt dirty all the time, and never slept, sitting awake on the mattress staring into the darkness of those long, cold nights, rocking himself silently backwards and forwards.

Two days after the bombing began, a fierce dust-storm whirled in from the desert. They had not known it was a dust-storm then. All they had seen was clouds of red dust billowing through the air-holes in the bricks, under the door, through the grille of the air-conditioner.

''Oh my God!'' his mother screamed. ''It's the chemical weapons! They're going to gas us!''

They held on to each other, sobbing and kissing goodbye until it passed. Which it did.

Later that day, when it was quiet, they ventured outside into the shattered street to look at the craters, the deep gashes which scarred the walls of buildings, the corpses of neighbours lying in gutters, every tree blackened and scorched, the sweet, cloying smell of death and burning human flesh hanging in the air. Surviving neighbours were dazed and shell-shocked, wandering around purposelessly or picking over the rubble for treasured possessions, a doll, a family photograph, a wedding album, a Qur'an.

Then a sand-coloured half-track with a machine-gun mounted on the front had trundled round the corner followed by half a dozen heavily armed soldiers in sand-coloured body armour, helmets and goggles. They were Americans. The Government said American soldiers behaved like beasts, raping boys and murdering girls. Ali asked Mohamed what 'rape' meant. Mohamed told him in lurid detail. It became his greatest, most paralysing fear.

These Americans, though, had marched along the street, smiling, waving and tossing out candy bars, Chiclets and packets of Marlboro cigarettes.

''Where are our boys?'' Ali's father had called.

''Run away,'' came the reply.

''And Saddam? The Government?''

''Run away too,'' said the soldier. ''They all ran away.''

So the Mother of all Battles that Saddam had promised actually lasted only two days and the American troops proved friendly, helpful and very non-threatening. Ali played football with some and learned English from others. He had slept badly, though, for at least a year, waking in the night sweating and crying, especially when a bomb went off or gunfire rattled in the darkness, but gradually he adjusted, got used to the thick, choking, black plumes of oily smoke which decorated the countless mounds of bricks and rubble, the broken, discarded corpses which littered the pavements, the twisted, charred heaps of quietly rotting, quietly rusting metal of one-time cars which lined every road.

Funny, he thought, he really had got used to it, to the point of just walking past it all each day as the conflict blended into the background. He supposed you could get used to anything if you lived with it for long enough.

He reached out and took Sour's hand.

She smiled weakly.

Then the doctor returned.

Ali felt cold and sick.

Sour held his hand and cried.

#3. ROOM 11, ARAB LEAGUE OFFICES, MIDAN TAHRIR, CAIRO, EGYPT

Sunday May 3, 11:23

THREE MEN sat round a large, highly polished rectangular table in the centre of a large, tastefully decorated room. Dominating the cream-painted walls were enormous gold-framed portraits of Salah-Al-Din, the Kurd who had beaten the Crusaders, and Mohamed Ali, the nineteenth century ruler of Egypt. An opulent room, with its gold-leaf, its silver, its crystal chandeliers, resounded of history, it reeked of power, influence and importance.

The first man, tall and slim with a neatly sculpted black beard, sat at the head of the table. He wore a charcoal Armani suit, a crisp white shirt and a dark red silk tie. Elegant, suave, a gold wedding band gleaming on his finger, Dr Seif Hazem was Security Advisor to the Arab League.

The second man, on Dr Seif's left, small, nervous and fidgety, was squeezed into an ill-fitting blue polyester suit. He fiddled with his cheap, silver wristwatch and frequently scratched his throat. His watery blue eyes seemed too small for his perpetually perspiring face. Flat stripes of black hair seemed painted on his balding skull. Ahmed Ahmed was the Director of Syria's Internal Security Service.

The third, to Dr Seif's right, wore an olive-green military uniform. Medal ribbons clung to the breast like limpets to a rock. Golden epaulettes hugged the shoulders like moss on a tree. Close-cut grey hair stuck to his bullet-shaped head like iron filings on a magnet. A broken nose marred a craggy face and a thin scar ran across his left cheek. General Omar Magdy was the Director of Egyptian Military Intelligence.

Together, they managed the Arab League's Joint Intelligence Service. Miniature flags of their nations ran down the centre of the table in a line, along with flags of the Lebanon, Palestine and Jordan. Reds, greens and blacks pre-dominated.

''This cannot go on,'' said Dr Seif. ''It is getting worse by the day. Another thirty-four killed in Baghdad and yet again a Muslim organisation claims responsibility.''

''Fighting against American oppression,'' said Omar Magdy mildly, ''Or so they say.''

''Killing Muslims,'' grated the fourth man, ''Brothers and sisters in the ulema. In the name of Islam. What the hell is that about?''

This man, dressed in an expensive dark brown suit, stood with his back to the room and gazed through the glass of the double doors, over the balcony across Tahrir Square towards the rosy pink dome of the Egyptian Museum and the monstrous concrete pillar of the Ramses Hilton. Inside the jacket, his shoulders bulged with pent-up power. His neck disappeared into an elongated, inverted pear of a head. His black moustache bristled as he listened to the conversation behind him. Seconded from the Jordanian military, Colonel Ibrahim Radwan was the Director of JAIS' Special Operations Section.

''Casualties in the greater jihad?'' Ahmed Ahmed scratched his throat. ''Collateral damage in the holy war? It's what they will say.''

''Screw them,'' growled Colonel Ibrahim, not turning round. ''Thirty-four dead, a hundred and six injured, all Muslims. All Muslims. This is not jihad. This is a slaughter of innocents.''

The three at the table shuffled their papers uncomfortably.

''What is this Islam?'' Colonel Ibrahim scowled. ''This is not any Islam I recognise. This is a warped and twisted Islam that needs to be rooted out and destroyed.''

Dr Seif examined his meticulously manicured fingernails. General Omar fiddled with the little Lebanese flag before him. Ahmed Ahmed mopped his face with a large red handkerchief.

''We have to confront this menace head-on,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, turning towards the table.'' We must stand up to this lunatic fringe that discredit and shame our faith, who make us apologise for who we are and what we believe. They are not Muslims. They are the sons of Satan and must be eradicated.''

Dr Seif glanced at Ahmed Ahmed. ''This young man who blew himself up,'' he said smoothly. ''He came from Damascus, I believe.''

Ahmed Ahmed wiped his face again. ''No, no, Dr Seif. He came from Palestine. He only went to school in Damascus.''

''Whatever.'' Dr Seif settled himself in his chair. ''He was recruited and trained in your country and sent abroad to cause untold damage.''

Colonel Ibrahim moved away from the window. ''This school, Dar El-Tawhid. It is in the Old City and run by two men.''

''We know,'' Ahmed Ahmed replied impatiently. ''Talal Hafez and Moussa Bashir are teachers, preachers and philanthropists. They take in orphans and street-boys and teach them The Qur'an. They teach moral and spiritual values. They work for the good of society.''

''The Sadr City Bomber came from their school,'' said Colonel Ibrahim firmly. ''So did the guy who blew up that bus in Alexandria. There have been others.''

''What do you know about this Talal Hafez?'' said General Omar, ''Apart from his being a teacher and philanthropist, of course?''

Ahmed Ahmed scratched his throat. ''He is an Iraqi from Fallujah who lost his hand trying to disarm a grenade which an American soldier threw into a school-bus. He set up the school eighteen months ago to care for other Iraqis but has widened his net recently to include those from Palestine and others. He receives funding from various sources, some in Syria, one in Egypt, one in Jordan.''

''The Jordanian source,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, ''Is Doctor Moustapha Al-Sekem, the environmentalist and businessman who wants to save the planet through using sustainable energy sources like solar and wind power. Builds bloody great windmills all over the desert and has a factory developing solar panels and building turbines. He runs a charity called Hands across the Sands. Gives a lot of money to hospitals, orphanages, things like that.''

''Do you know for a fact he is funding this school in Damascus?'' asked Dr Seif.

''No,'' admitted Colonel Ibrahim. ''It's more of a suspicion than a definite lead, and even if he is, it doesn't mean he knows it's a school for terrorists.''

''Who is your Egyptian suspect?''

''Amr Al-Arian,'' said General Omar. ''Owns a major construction company, gas pipelines, oil refineries. Has projects all over Egypt and in the Gulf including Abu Dhabi and Qatar. He too gives a lot of money to good causes, including Hands across the Sands, and has recently endowed a public library in Nasr City. He seems legitimate enough.''

''None of this proves Dar El-Tawhid is breeding terrorists,'' said Ahmed Ahmed defensively, ''Nor that these businessmen are involved.''

''No.'' Dr Seif stroked his beard. ''No, it doesn't. But this last bomber came from that school. Now it could be a coincidence but the bomber who blew up the train station in Mosul, and the bomber who blew up the church in Ma'an also came from that school. Not to mention the Alexandria bomber. That's four now, in Iraq, Jordan and Egypt.'' He leaned forward and folded his hands on the table. ''All these suicide-bombers mere coincidence? I think not. It appears that Talal Hafez is running a school for cross-border bombers.''

''But we don't have the evidence, just a trail of coincidences,'' Ahmed Ahmed protested.

''Exactly,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, hurling himself at last into one of the leather-backed chairs. He seemed to dwarf it. ''We have no evidence. So we need to get it. We need to send an agent into Dar El-Tawhid to find out what this Talal Hafez and Moussa Bashir are getting up to and whether Moustapha Al-Sekem and Amr Al-Arian are funding them for terrorist purposes.''

He handed each man a brown cardboard folder with OPERATION FLASHLIGHT inscribed in large red letters on the front.

''In order to infiltrate their networks and bring them to justice,'' he said, ''We need a special agent. We need a boy, gentlemen, a boy who is desperate, vulnerable, angry and down on his luck, a boy who will be seen as suitable material from which to mould a living bomb, who, in the eyes of these terrorist cells, is nothing but a dead boy walking. We need to find this boy and recruit him to our side before they recruit him to theirs.''

''Adults arouse suspicion,'' said Dr Seif. ''Boys do not. Boys are invisible.''

''It is an excellent idea,'' said General Omar carefully, breaking the pensive silence, ''But where will you find the kind of boy you describe?''

''The streets are full of them,'' said the Colonel dismissively.

''But,'' General Omar persisted, ''He has to be self-reliant, quick-thinking, resourceful, able to deal with all manner of situations, confident and tough yet appear ordinary enough to slip under the radar. He has to be a boy who knows no fear.''

''He has to be unique,'' Colonel Ibrahim agreed, ''But we shall find him. We shall find him, recruit him, train him and employ him. He will be our Super-Spy, he will save thousands of lives and he will help us reclaim our religion from the lunatics and extremists.''

''He'll be one in a million,'' said Ahmed Ahmed sceptically.

''Just so long as he is our one in a million, not theirs,'' said Dr Seif. ''Gentlemen, to Operation Flashlight and our soon-to-be Super-Spy.''

#4. JUMILIA SQUARE, SADR CITY, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Monday May 4, 13:18

ALI HASSAN limped painfully out of the hospital. There was no room for a boy with a mere twisted ankle. He peeped in at Fatima sleeping under heavy sedation, a snake-like tangle of tubes and wires connecting her frail body to a bank of bleeping, blinking machines. Her long black hair was wrapped inside a white bandage. Her right leg had been amputated just below the knee. He gazed at her sadly until a nurse chased him out then Uncle Wagdy took him back to the flat. They did not speak.

The owner of the flat, who lived next door, was a rat-faced little man with a ragged moustache. He wore a grey cardigan over a grey, washed-out galabeya. He was kind and solicitous, offering mint-tea and sympathy. Wagdy cried a little as they talked.

''All dead?'' Ali heard Suleyman say. ''God above. What will he do?''

''I don't know,'' Wagdy murmured. ''I can't afford to rent this flat, not as well as my own, and he can't live here by himself. He's only just fifteen.''

''Well,'' said Suleyman, ''Take your time, Wagdy. You'll need to get everything cleared out first. I won't re-let the flat until you're ready.''

Ali wandered numbly into the kitchen with its battered tin pots and pans, its china plates still lined up in the dish-rack, a pan of lentil soup still on the stove, his mother's yellow rubber gloves draped limply over the edge of the stainless steel sink, onions, peppers and aubergines still in the vegetable basket, and in the fridge the yoghurt and cheese and cheap cuts of chicken that his mother had been planning to cook that evening. The washing machine was half-full of dirty clothes. So normal. So sad. A home waiting. For no-one to come.

The living room was dominated by a big, black Goldstar television in the corner. His father, snug in his armchair, had loved to watch football, drinking Sprite, snacking on crisps, punctuating each game with cries of disbelief and crows of glee. His mother, reclining on the worn brown sofa, had loved Arabic movies and the Turkish soaps that came in Ramadan. He and Fatima had watched Tom and Jerry, lying side-by-side on their stomachs on the carpet, propping up their chins with their hands. Ali looked at the silver-framed photos standing on the polished cabinet that housed the best china. Mother and Father on their wedding day, Fatima as a baby, gap-toothed teenaged Hussein playing a guitar, Mohamed graduating from high school, a family picnic in a Baghdad park… He inhaled the room. It smelt of his father's cheap cigarettes.

His parents' room: a double bed covered in a brightly patterned throw-over, a smaller camp-bed that Fatima slept in, her favourite pink teddy perched on the pillow, a head-scarfed Fulla doll on the rug, a cheap dresser with a mirror, a hairbrush and a dirty tea-cup.

His own room: Mohamed's couch, a crumpled pale blue sheet, his grey and crimson pyjamas heaped on the bed he had shared with Hussein, posters of Lebanese pop-stars Nancy Ajram and Fairouz and their favourite English football club, Manchester United, tacked to the white-washed wall. Mohamed's leather jacket hung from the back of the door. The small desk they had shared for their school-work still had the books open, the pens waiting, the essays half-written. An ashtray overflowed with Mohamed's long-cold Marlboro butts. A dirty glass, rimmed orange from the Mirinda Hussein had drunk that morning, stood next to it, forming a ring on the cheap wooden surface.

Little details.

Lives lived.

Lives lost.

Ali stripped off the galabeya his uncle had lent him and rummaged in the wardrobe for a fresh white slip, clean blue jeans, a spotless white vest and a pressed Manchester United football shirt. He dressed quickly, then slipped on his orange flip-flops. He grimaced as pain swelled in his ankle. Then, thinking ahead, he took more pants, a couple of vests, two pairs of white socks, and two of grey, the worn, frayed pair of grey trousers he had inherited from Hussein, a pair of white shorts, navy blue tracksuit trousers, a bottle-green crew-neck sweater, his best shirt, which was black and shot through with silver threads, a beige Tasmanian Devil T-shirt, a blue Ash and Pikachu T-shirt, a yellow, white and grey horizontally striped T-shirt, his pyjamas, his blue and brown galabeya and his black school shoes and folded them all carefully into the blue Pokémon rucksack he used for school. A pack of playing cards, a little radio, three Pokémon comics and a yellow plastic torch went on top. He tied up the rucksack, put on his denim jacket and returned to the reception room where Wagdy and Suleyman were finishing their tea.

''Maybe we should pack a bag for Fatima,'' he said.

''She'll be in hospital for weeks,'' Uncle Wagdy replied.

''Nevertheless,'' Ali said firmly. ''We could take it to the hospital or keep it at your house till she comes out.''

He went to his parents' room and picked through Fatima's drawer. So much pink, he tutted, folding cardigans, T-shirts, variously patterned ankle-socks, white jeans, her favourite pale yellow party-frock, her hairbrush, some scrunchies and her sparkly pink lip-gloss into her pink Fulla rucksack. Then he went to the bathroom for his comb, toothbrush and Hussein's hair-gel. On impulse, he returned to the living room, removed the pictures of his mother and father and the family picnic in the park from their frames and slid them into a rucksack side-pocket.

''Let's go,'' he said.

Uncle Wagdy, Aunty Nour and their six children, all aged under seven, lived in a one-roomed flat which was even smaller and more cramped than Ali's. Before the war, Uncle Wagdy had sold imported cars. Now he drove a taxi rented from a local strong-man for seventy percent of his daily earnings. The war had wrecked the economy and many people, once-successful, were struggling now to survive. Ali's father, for instance, had run a factory which manufactured electrical cables for the military, but, after the war, the military had been abolished, and Hassan's sales outlet with it. He had tried to deal with the occupying authorities but they had shipped cables from the United States instead of buying internally. The factory had been finally looted by black-marketeers so Hassan had given it up to deliver bills and read meters for the electricity board, who spent most of the time, it seemed, cutting the power anyway.

''You'll have to sleep on the floor,'' Aunty Nour fretted.

''I need to keep my ankle up,'' Ali muttered mutinously. ''The doctor said.''

''But the children sleep on the sofa-bed,'' she said sharply.

''We'll give you a cushion,'' Wagdy smiled anxiously. As though that made a difference.

''What about Fatima?'' Ali asked.

Uncle Wagdy and Aunty Nour exchanged glances whilst Ali's cousins sat in a row on the sofa, solemn and silent and picking their noses.

''We'll see,'' said Uncle Wagdy nervously smiling. ''Get some rest now.''

Ali felt guilty for surviving the bomb. Dying would have been so much more convenient.

Later in the night, he woke with a start. The floor was uncomfortable, his ankle and shoulder hurt and he was too exhausted to sleep properly. In the half-light, he saw the six children in the sofa-bed curled up against each other like a litter of newly born kittens. A chink of light came from his uncle and aunt's bedroom. He could hear voices.

''He can't stay here, Wagdy,'' his aunt was saying. ''We don't have the space and we don't have the money. He's a teenager. You know how teenagers eat. There'll be school-books to buy and shoes every six weeks then there'll be girls and hair and… mess, then college fees, engagement, marriage... we can't afford it, not on top of our six.''

''He's family,'' said Wagdy stubbornly. ''He's my brother's son.''

''And what happens when Fatima arrives? That'll be ten mouths to feed. And you on a taxi driver's earnings.'' Aunty's tone sharpened. ''Most of your money pays for the taxi and we're in a city with no roads. Everything's pot-holed and nobody goes anywhere anyway and the taxi's falling apart and needing repair...''

''I'm doing my best,'' said Wagdy.

''I know.'' She softened a little. ''I know you are. But Fatima - we can't look after a cripple. There'll be medication, physiotherapy, trips to the doctor… think of the bills. And we'll never marry her off, not with one leg. She'll be with us forever. No, Wagdy, they need to go into care. Family or no family, we can't take them in.''

Ali closed his eyes. From favourite nephew to unwelcome burden in the space of a fortnight. He would be sent to an orphanage. Now he knew.

He closed his eyes but did not sleep.

#5. DESERT, TWELVE KILOMETRES EAST OF DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Wednesday May 6, 14:42

MOKHTAR'S EYELIDS were glued together with his own sticky blood and were difficult to open. He was buried up to his chin in earth. His mouth was parched and painfully dry and a terrible, sickening, rhythm thumped inside his head like a jackhammer slowly pounding the last remnants of sanity into dust against the bony anvil of his skull. The scorching, powerful stroke of the sun slapped the back of his neck. His lips and tongue were puffy and swollen and his nose was clogged with crushed cartilage, blood and broken bone. Despite his blurred vision, he could see, as his pupils adjusted to the fierce white light, fourteen white-robed figures swimming hazily into focus against the background brown, stone-strewn sand of the Syrian Desert. The pebbles they had pelted him with lay scattered in front of his face. Moussa Bashir, standing a few metres away, was taking photographs with a small digital camera.

Mokhtar felt tremendously thirsty and asked for water. Moussa hobbled one pace forward and spat in his face. Another stone struck him on the side of the head. Sunlight glinted sharply off Osama's round-rimmed specs. Mokhtar had always liked this intense, serious young man and tried to call his name. It emerged as a whispered croak.

They had caught him rifling through receipts in Talal's office. Finding correspondence with Hands across the Sands in Jordan, a letter confirming a $5000 deposit into the school's bank account, a receipt from an electronic goods retailer for switches and wire and one from a farm supply shop for fertiliser, and a receipt for a one-way bus ticket from Damascus to Baghdad dated the day before Yasser's gruesome and spectacular death, Mokhtar had excitedly emailed the photographs to Ahmed Ahmed, and only became aware slowly, very slowly, of the spectre in a white galabeya standing in the doorway.

''What are you doing, Mr Mokhtar?'' Osama asked primly, settling his owl-rimmed glasses on his thin, beaky nose.

''Looking for the key to the library,'' Mokhtar answered smoothly. ''Ah, here it is.'' He held up a small Yale key.

''And the phone?''

''I was about to ring Imam Talal,'' said Mokhtar. Osama's stony stare drilled through Mokhtar's eyes. ''What are you doing?''

Osama smiled icily. ''Spying on you,'' he answered. Mokhtar's heart froze.

Osama denounced him in class that afternoon. Mokhtar had not resisted. In fact, he had smiled. He had known where it would end. He had always known.

A jeep roared suddenly over the dune, sending a spray of sand shooting up from its tyres as it skidded to a stop. The street-boy Hisham stepped out, tiny alongside the giant Talal Hafez who was dressed in his usual white galabeya and round, lacy taqiyah cap. The bushy black beard which covered most of his chest bristled fiercely in the breeze. The sun, reflecting off the savagely curved, sharply pointed silver hook, threw spears of blinding light round the makeshift arena. Mokhtar had forgotten how impressive the man was.

''So, you treacherous bastard,'' growled Talal Hafez. ''Before Hisham cuts out your tongue then cuts your head off and shits down your neck, tell me who sent you to spy on me.''

Mokhtar was exhausted. His skull was bursting. He wanted to sleep, maybe to die. At least it would finish. He said nothing.

''The film of your execution, your torture, will be posted on the Internet,'' said Talal. ''Your wife, your parents, your children will see your suffering and weep at your stubbornness. Tell me who sent you, and I will not post the film. I will spare your family your pain.''

Family. Wife. Children. Mokhtar had none. He had married the Service, married his country. Ahmed Ahmed had said it was better that way. Oh, he had had a sweetheart a lifetime ago, a doe-eyed beauty called Alana Madani whom he had courted with flowers and cards and little soft toys, whose father built buses and whose mother baked cakes, whose brother Hamza, also an agent, had been his best friend… he hoped they would miss him.

He sensed a warm, wet trickle on his face and lifted his eyes. Hisham was pissing on him. Moussa was filming it. Everyone was laughing.

''Just kill me,'' croaked Mokhtar, tasting the urine musty on his swollen lips. ''Finish it.''

''Oh, we will,'' said Talal Hafez. ''But not till you talk.''

Carefully, almost tenderly, he placed the needle-sharp point of his shiny steel hook in the soft flesh beneath Mokhtar's left eyeball.

''When I have clawed out your eyes,'' said Talal Hafez, ''I shall put a biscuit tin over your head and leave you to cook. The temperature is already thirty-eight Celsius. The tin will act as an oven, concentrating the heat to perhaps one hundred and eighty degrees. Your blood will boil, your brain-fluid will dry, your saliva will evaporate, your skin will blister, your flesh will char…

The hook punctured Mokhtar's skin.

''I do not know exactly how you will die,'' said Talal Hafez, ''I only know it will be slow and excruciatingly painful.''

The hook dug behind Mokhtar's left eyeball.

The fourteen figures seemed to shimmer. God's angels, thought Mokhtar, come at last.

''The beauty of the desert,'' said Talal Hafez slowly, watching the blood burst from the wound, ''Is that out here no-one can hear you scream.'' Savagely he twisted the hook.

#6. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Sunday May 10, 12:03

IT TOOK Uncle Wagdy five days to get Ali into the orphanage, five days of fractious squabbling between himself and the Sisters of Mercy, between himself and his wife, between the six children… Ali retreated into himself and spent the hours between breakfast and bed-time sitting in a wicker chair on the balcony in his pyjamas watching people going to work, children going to and returning from school, police stopping and searching cars, the occasional US military patrol, daily life in the Sadr City slums. He only got up to visit the toilet and he did not go outside, not once in the week. When he left for the orphanage, Aunty Nour was unapologetic.

''It's best for you, Ali,'' she had said. ''You can go back to school and be looked after properly by professional carers in a nice house with other children like you.''

Uncle Wagdy had been a little more regretful. He had taken Fatima's pink Fulla bag to the hospital. As well as the amputation, the girl had lost her spleen, her spine was crooked and she was awaiting another transfusion. The doctor said she would never have children.

At the orphanage, Wagdy had been forced to plead with the walrus-shaped woman who ran the place, Sister Gihan, who wore a grey habit and headscarf and sported a coin-sized black-wire-sprouting mole on her chin.

''We're very crowded,'' she said. ''Do you know how many orphans there are in this city?''

''Please,'' Wagdy had begged. ''Please.''

Sister Gihan had revealed yellow-furred tombstone-teeth. ''Can you pay for his keep?''

''Don't you get money from the government?'' Wagdy countered.

Sister Gihan's chuckle was low and throaty. ''That is just to stay open. His parents must have had some savings. It would certainly ease his acceptance.''

So Uncle Wagdy had tried, unsuccessfully, to persuade the bank to release Hassan's savings account to him. As a minor, Ali could not sign for it. Also Hassan had not left a will. Uncle Wagdy would have to get a lawyer, which would cost more money than he had, and therefore, for the moment, Hassan's savings were inaccessible.

''You watch the money 'disappear' somewhere in the bank,'' Aunty Nour had said darkly. ''We'll never see a shekel.''

Finally, desperately, Uncle Wagdy had robbed the rent-money from his own biscuit jar and handed it over to Sister Gihan. Waving his nephew goodbye and watching the thick wooden door creak shut, he could not help feeling sad. Ali had barely smiled, had barely seemed to register what was happening to him. He hitched his Pokémon rucksack onto his shoulder and received his uncle's kiss stoically.

''Good luck,'' said Wagdy tearfully.

''And you,'' Ali replied, turning away.

Sister Gihan led Ali up a shabby flight of stairs to a low-ceilinged dormitory containing eight narrow iron-framed beds covered in scratchy-looking grey blankets and separated by cheap wooden lockers secured with small padlocks. The dormitory smelled of damp and boys, like a school gymnasium which has never been aired. Faded, dried-out paint flaked from the walls. Grey shorts, a grey T-shirt, black plimsolls, a washed-out grey towel and a bar of carbolic soap waited for him on the bed nearest the door.

''The rules are very simple.'' Sister Gihan sounded as though she were gargling broken glass. ''You will wake up at six and take a shower. Breakfast is at seven in the refectory. School is at eight. You will have lessons in Arabic, Mathematics, Calligraphic Writing, Algebra, French and Religion. There are prayers at midday and lunch is at one. After lunch, you will have a one hour nap. At three, you will do Physical Education. At four, you will learn a trade. You may choose from electrics, plumbing, carpentry and upholstery. At six you will pray again and give thanks for your miserable little life.'' The hairs on her mole quivered as she snorted. ''That's a joke, boy.'' Ali did not smile. ''Dinner is at seven. At eight you may relax. There is a television in the lounge on which you may watch religious programmes if you wish. You may also play ping-pong, chess or checkers. At nine, you will prepare for bed. You will wash your uniform, iron it and lay it out to dry for the morning. You will go to bed at nine-thirty. You may read The Qur'an if you wish. Lights out is at ten. You will go straight to sleep. There will be no horse-play, no talking and certainly none of your 'boy's things'.'' She looked physically ill at the thought. ''Do you understand?''

''When can I visit my sister?'' asked Ali.

Sister Gihan narrowed her eyes. ''If you are cheeky, you will be punished,'' she grated. ''This orphanage is run efficiently and effectively, like clockwork. We receive our funding because we are so efficient, and you will not jeopardise that. There are a hundred boys like you. We have little money and we need to teach you skills that will help you get a job when you leave us at fifteen. You may settle yourself in before lunch at two sharp in the refectory.''

Ali put his rucksack into the locker and changed into the grey uniform. It was stiff with starch and age. He wondered how many boys had worn it before him. He could not get the plimsolls on. His ankle was still too swollen. He decided to pad barefoot along the cold, hard tiles to the bathroom at the end of the passage. When he arrived, he wished he had not. The bathroom floor was rough unfinished concrete and the urinal a long, stainless steel trough with a steel piss-spattered ledge to stand on. Inside the half-dozen cubicles he saw Asian-style squat toilets, mere holes in the floor with stained, once-white foot-plates on either side. He saw lumps of shit on more than one foot-plate and wondered how anyone could miss the hole quite so badly. He also noticed there was no toilet paper. He would have to use his hand and a cupful of water.

He stared at himself in one of the scratched, pitted mirrors. His pale brown skin was grimy and his tawny eyes radiated misery. The usual fleck of gold in the pupil seemed dimmed. His short black hair, cut high off his wide, smooth forehead, felt like a stiff wire brush. His mouth turned down at the corners. He looked tired and defeated.

Just a week ago he had luxuriated in the bath at home before dressing to go to the market. So much had changed. He had changed. He had lost his entire world and been whirlwinded into something previously unimaginable.

Closing his eyes, he gripped the cold, hard edge of the wash-basin until he came to his senses. He was in some new Hell but there must be a reason behind it. There must be a reason why he had been spared the carnage. Allah had a purpose. Surely.

He thought of Fatima lying in her hospital bed, a cripple, unable to have children, at twelve years old. What future awaited her? Surely he had survived for her.

He opened his eyes and glared at himself. Her future was with him, Ali Hassan Al-Amin. He could not let go. He had to make it. For Fatima. Blinking, he dashed cold water over his face. He would find a way.

The refectory contained a dozen long wooden tables and, waiting on a dozen wooden benches, a hundred boys, from six to sixteen, dressed in identical grey shorts and T-shirts.

''Boys,'' cried Sister Gihan from a raised platform at the end of the room. ''Meet our newest resident, Master Ali Hassan.''

A few faces turned in his direction. Most did not.

''Be seated at Table Three,'' Sister Gihan gestured vaguely, ''And thank Allah for his infinite mercies that you, miserable wretch, may join us here today for this bountiful fare.''

Ali limped between benches muttering ''Table Three? Table Three? Table Three?'' until another boy seized his wrist and said ''Table Three.''

Although they squeezed up to make room, no-one spoke, no-one said hello, no-one welcomed him. In fact, they all avoided his eyes.

Lunch was a bowl of thin lentil broth followed by gluey clumps of rice on a battered tin plate with more lentils, fried onions and a brownish sauce, all eaten with a dented tin spoon.

''Any meat?'' Ali muttered.

''Meat is the Devil's food,'' whispered a skinny boy on his left. ''It makes us horny.''

The hulking boy on Ali's right laughed. ''Witty, Sayed, very witty.''

''Table Three!'' bellowed Sister Gihan. ''Silence while you eat!''

Ali sipped at the tin cup of water and forked the rice-mix into his mouth. ''What is this place? Some kind of prison?''

''Sure,'' said the skinny teenager, ''A prison for people nobody wants. Keeps us from making trouble on the streets or going back to our homes to get our stuff or going to the bank to get our parents' money.''

''Well said, Sayed,'' said the hulking boy again, ''Well said.''

''While she,'' Sayed jabbed his forkful of rice toward Sister Gihan who was tearing the flesh from a roasted chicken leg with her yellow-furred teeth, ''Tries to get her hands on it.''

''Hmm,'' Ali grunted, ''We'll see about that.''

''New boy!'' bawled Sister Gihan, ''Eat your lunch!''

Ali ate his lunch.

Physical Education was not what Ali had enjoyed in school. There was no basketball, no football, certainly no tennis, just physical jerks, star-jumps, press-ups and running-on-the-spot.

''I have a sprained ankle,'' he told the teacher, a massive, muscular tree-trunk with a vast, bushy moustache.

''What?'' yelled Mr Ala'a. ''What do you mean?'' His flat square face purpled furiously.

''I mean I can't do this,'' said Ali. ''My ankle's hurt and I have stitches in my foot.'' He touched his shoulder. ''I also have stitches in my shoulder. I was caught in a bomb, you know.''

''Sit over there, you great big girl!'' bawled Mr Ala'a. ''Sister Gihan will hear of this, you little mincing faggoty poof!''

Ali sat on a bench and watched Mr Ala'a bully the sweating boys through their routines with a finely honed combination of humiliation, homophobic tirades and cuffs to the ear. Sure enough, when it was time for Trade, Ali was summoned to Sister Gihan's office.

''We have taken you in,'' she said in a voice resembling a cement mixer churning pebbles, ''Even though we are overcrowded. All we ask is that you obey the rules.''

''I couldn't do the P.E.,'' said Ali crossly. ''My ankle and shoulder hurt.'' He rolled back his collar to show her the stitches.

''Well,'' Sister Gihan picked up a stout wooden ruler, ''Maybe your hands will out-hurt them.'' She smacked his palms, one sharp stroke on each. ''Now,'' she snarled, ''Obey the rules.''

The boy Ali had met at lunch, Sayed, was not sympathetic.

''Every new boy gets the Kiss of Gihan on his first day,'' he said. ''It's tradition, like an induction. Lets you know who's boss.''

''What's your story?'' asked Ali. ''Why the hell are you in this dump?''

They were playing checkers in recreation time. Dinner had been the same as lunch.

''My Dad was a policeman,'' shrugged Sayed. ''When Saddam fell, the mob got him. Hanged him from a tree 'cos he worked with the government. The Americans just watched.'' He jumped his counter three places. ''Ha. Got you.''

''What about your mother?''

''Ran off with an American soldier.'' Sayed gestured at the board. ''Your move.''

Ali stared at certain defeat. At least he was not ashamed of his parents. His father had been a good man who had done his best for his children, not lined his pockets at the expense of someone else's.

He moved a red counter, not really thinking, not really caring, as Sayed whooped and cleared the board. Sayed said his mother was a slut who sold her honour for dollars. Wincing, Ali told Sayed he shouldn't talk about his mother like that. Sayed simply snorted contemptuously and said 'he would learn'.

Sayed was fourteen, He had been in the home for three years. He said it was OK when you got used to it and if you didn't, well, then you disappeared in the dead of night. Simple as that. You conformed or you disappeared.

''Do many boys disappear?'' asked Ali, joining Sayed at the dormitory sink.

''Three last month,'' said Sayed, holding his T-shirt under the tap. ''No-one knows where they go. They just disappear.'' Smearing a little carbolic soap on to the itchy cotton, Sayed scrubbed the collar and armpits under the freezing cold running water. ''They say they go for 're-education', you know? Like in the old days?''

Ali scrubbed his own T-shirt then dragged off his shorts and scrubbed them too. He had heard of 're-education'. Under Saddam, it had meant torture and brainwashing. He pointed this out to Sayed who was wringing as much water as he could from the cheap cloth of his shorts.

''You think things have changed?'' said Sayed. ''Bollocks. Just because the Americans are here doesn't mean things have changed. It's just a different bunch of crooks in charge.''

Ali squeezed soapy water from his uniform and padded back to his bed in his underwear. He draped the grey clothes over the frame at the foot of the bed and scrambled under the grey, washed-out sheet.

Although his ankle and shoulder throbbed a little less as he turned on to his side, he still felt depressed. He was used to going to bed with his mother's light kiss, with his brothers arguing or discussing girls, with dreams of one day playing for Manchester United. Tonight he went to sleep surrounded by the snores, snorts and snuffles of his new room-mates. He slept badly. The noise in the dormitory was unbearable. His ankle hurt, his shoulder hurt, his stitches hurt, his palms hurt. Everything hurt. Somewhere in the next bed he heard Sayed mutter ''Don't take me. I've done nothing wrong.'' Ali turned on to his back and stared at the faded grey ceiling until six bells signalled the start of the next day. He was in for a shock. The shower was icy cold.

''What the hell is this?'' Ali gasped as the freezing water hit his chest.

''Drives out the Devil.'' Sayed's skinny body gyrated under the jet. ''You'll get used to it.''

''Bloody Hell,'' Ali cursed, shivering under the showerhead, hair doused in icy water.

''Stops you getting horny,'' gasped Sayed.

''Phew,'' gasped Ali, dancing uncomfortably in the spray.

''Soap?'' panted Sayed, holding out a rock-hard green bar.

''It's not exactly Lux, is it?'' Ali wrinkled his nose against the strong chemical smell.

''It's antiseptic, antibacterial or something.'' Sayed twisted again. ''Keep moving,'' he advised. ''Or you'll catch a cold.''

''Any shampoo?''

''Use. The. Soap.….'' Sayed's teeth started chattering. ''It k…k…kills…. lice or …. s…s…s…something like that….'' He twisted again. There was so little of him, thought Ali, as the cold penetrated his bones, that surely the water wouldn't even hit him.

''C…c…come on,'' chattered Sayed, ''Or you'll b…be l…l..late.''

For a boy used to hot water and freshly laundered clothes, this was a torture. He could not get the soap to lather. Worse, the towel was so thin it did not dry him properly so, when he got dressed, he was still so damp the shorts and T-shirt clung clammily to his skin and they were still damp from the makeshift laundry the night before anyway and this made him angry and because his ankle still hurt, he chose to wear his sandals rather than the regulation plimsolls. It turned out to be a very bad move.

Breakfast consisted of a spoonful of lentils, a scoop of watery hummus, half a piece of staling flat-bread and a glass of lukewarm tap-water.

''Lovely,'' grunted Sayed. ''Tuck in, Ali.''

They ate in silence but Ali now had a chance to appraise his table companions whilst Sister Gihan and hers demolished a pineapple, several mangoes, a number of omelettes and a vat of coffee.

Sayed was skinny and small. Ali had noticed in the shower how his ribs jabbed through the taut olive skin, stretched like a lampshade over a frame. He had a mop of curly black hair and deep brown eyes. He was nicknamed 'Mosquito', explained Salah, the fatter, slower, darker fifteen year old who sat on the right, '' 'Cos he makes a lot of noise and irritates the hell out of the Sisters.'' Salah kissed Sayed affectionately on the forehead.

The other boys at the table ranged from eleven year old 'Squirrel' Samir, all large eyes, larger teeth and rapid, pattering chatter, to fifteen year old 'Mental' Magdy, a hulking brute with a shaved scalp and a gigantic scar on the side of his neck who said nothing to anyone, ever.

''He's mad,'' Sayed told Ali, ''Stir-fry cuckoo-crazy.''

''Set fire to his mother and beheaded his father,'' Samir said nervously, ''Then stuck a knife through his own throat. That's why he can't talk.''

''The bombing drove him insane,'' Salah explained, ''So they took him away, fried his brain and dumped him in here.''

Magdy stared at the hummus dripping off his bread.

''See?'' Samir hissed. ''Mad as a monkey.''

''You boys!'' bawled Sister Gihan. ''Quiet down there!''

They quietened down.

After breakfast, the boys rinsed the gunk off their tin plates under another running cold tap in the kitchen. Ali was standing behind Sayed, who was wiping his plate with a damp, mouldy cloth, when the sky fell in.

''Ali Hassan!'' screamed Mr Ala'a, veins bulging in his neck, ''Step out of line!''

Ali handed his plate to Sayed and did as he was told.

''You're out of uniform, boy!'' yelled Mr Ala'a. ''Those shoes are illegal!''

''What are these sandals?'' hissed Sister Gihan, scraping her gnarly fingers through Ali's thick hair so hard that he cried out sharply. ''Where are your plimsolls?''

''My foot is swollen,'' Ali explained, grimacing in discomfort as the old woman twisted her hand. ''I can't get them on. I have a bloody great bandage round my ankle. Look.'' He hopped on one foot as he showed her.

''Your foot is swollen. Your ankle is sprained. You have a bandage. You were in a bomb. You lost your parents. Diddums and boo-hoo.'' Sister Gihan pushed her face so close to his he could feel her spittle on his cheeks. The wires on her mole quivered angrily. ''Life's a bitch. Get used to it. You follow the rules or you will be sent for re-education.''

''The rules are stupid,'' Ali blurted, and realised he was even stupider when he heard Sayed, Salah and Samir stop breathing and saw Mr Ala'a grin viciously.

''Rules are rules!'' Sister Gihan's walrus-face seemed on the verge of explosion. ''Without rules there is no order. Without rules there is chaos. Wear the plimsolls or you will be punished, you pathetic little Mummy's boy!''

''I can't,'' said Ali crossly, ''I can't get them on, you stupid woman. My foot's swollen to twice its usual size.''

Sister Gihan growled like a dog with a rabbit in her teeth.

''Is that so?'' she snarled. ''Maybe you will change your mind after an hour in the Cupboard. Mr Ala'a, secure him!''

The P.E. teacher wrestled him to the floor, then half-dragged, half-carried him down the corridor to a small iron door in the wall. He shoved Ali through the opening, growling happily ''Two hours'' as he clanged the door shut.

Ali sat blinking on the cold stone floor. It was pitch-black inside the small cupboard. He could see nothing. Cautiously he reached out, moving his arm in a circle. The wall was an arm's length in front of his nose, half a length to his right, about half a length over his head. It was impossible to stand up, impossible to extend his legs. He would have to sit with his knees drawn up to his chest and sweat.

Where was the air coming from? He touched the ceiling and counted six holes drilled through it, like those you might punch through the cardboard lid of a shoebox pet-carrier. Nevertheless, it was still stuffy and smelled of stale sweat, stale urine and fear.

In the blackness, Ali began to panic.

What if there was something in here with him like a snake or a scorpion or a rat?

What if he should run out of air and suffocate, gasping and clawing at the rough stones that now closed him in?

What if a boy had died in here?

What if this was where the 'disappeared' had disappeared?

What if there were ghosts?

He shook himself and muttered ''Get a grip, you imbecile.''

In the past, Mohamed or Hussein would have battered Ala'a and set him free, but they were dead. No-one was coming. He was alone. Hugging his knees, he closed his eyes.

Time passed. The cupboard got hotter and stuffier. Trickles of sweat ran out of his hair and down his face. He felt damp patches under his arms and on his back. He needed to pee. He could feel his thigh muscles starting to cramp and massaged them with the heels of his hands. His bottom was numb and his back was beginning to ache.

''They want me to bang on the door,'' he thought, ''To beg and plead for release, to yell or cry, to piss in my pants. They want me to crack. Well, to Hell with them.''

Consciously he controlled his breathing, slow and deep, counting heartbeats, conserving air, counting the pulses of blood through his throbbing ankle. Occasionally he would recite verses from The Qur'an or hum his favourite Fairouz song 'Nasseem alayna'. The Beatles' song he had learned in Primary Six also wormed into his mind. It was strangely comforting.

''Yesterday,'' he sang softly, ''All my troubles seemed so far away, now it looks though they're here to stay, oh I believe in yesterday.''

He could not remember the rest.

Eventually the small iron door opened, flooding the cupboard with harshly dazzling light. Blinking again, Ali crawled out of the space on his hands and knees. Mr Ala'a towered over him.

''So,'' he growled, ''How did you like The Cupboard?''

''Fine.'' Drawing himself slowly upright, Ali blew beads of perspiration from his upper lip. ''At least it was warm in there.''

His hair was soaking wet. His grey shirt and shorts, darkened with sweat, clung to his skin. His muscles ached and his ankle and shoulder throbbed but he had made it, and he felt fantastic as Mr Ala'a escorted him back to Sister Gihan.

''So, boy.'' She spat out the word with venomous hatred, the thick mole-hairs quivering with indignation. ''You feel fine, do you? Maybe another two hours will break your pride.''

''I'd rather go to class,'' said Ali, ''Learn something useful, you know?''

''Put on your shoes.'' Sister Gihan threw them at him. They bounced off his chest.

''I'll try.'' Ali smiled sweetly. Let her think she'd won, he thought, buy some time.

He slipped his right foot into the black plimsoll then, trying not to wince or rip out the stitches, squeezed his injured left into the other.

''May I leave it unlaced?'' he asked.

Sister Gihan's eyes widened.

''Okay, tamam,'' he said, and tied the laces loosely. The plimsoll felt extremely tight but at least Sister Gihan seemed satisfied.

''Good,'' she murmured, ''Very good. Now go to Mathematics.''

Feeling the eyes of the others scorching his skin, he slipped into the seat beside Salah.

''All right?'' grunted the boy.

''Yeah.''

''Cupboard's rough.''

''Yeah.''

''Least you didn't disappear.''

''No.'' Ali looked at the equations scrawled on the board. Most of them were wrong but he understood he should not point this out. ''When do these boys disappear?'' he asked instead.

''In the night,'' Salah muttered. ''Someone comes for them, a man with black hair in a suit and sunglasses. He always wears sunglasses, even inside.''

''Hmm,'' Ali grunted. ''Who is he?''

''They call him The Benefactor,'' said Salah. ''Apparently he funds the orphanage.''

''And maybe he buys boys,'' said Ali, ''Troublesome boys.'' He did not really want to contemplate the reasons why. Slavery. Sex-slavery. Suicide-bombers. Anything was possible.

''The last one,'' Salah was saying, ''Yasser. He was a rebel, like you.''

Ali had never considered himself a rebel before. He was 'Ickle Ali, Hassan's weedy son. In his own school he had sat silently, eyes fixed on the teachers, not daring to look left or right for fear of incurring their anger and thus that of his father. Hassan had been so big, so strong. When he yelled, Ali wanted the earth to swallow him up. He had never questioned any adult. It was not appropriate. He looked down at his exercise book. He didn't want to be a rebel. No-one liked a rebel, not really. Rebels tended to end up dead, or in 're-education'.

''You wanna get out of here?'' Salah whispered. ''Me too. If we can work together, I know we can make it.''

''You boys shut up and do your work!'' bawled Mr Mohamed.

Shut up they did, but something exciting had begun.

#7. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Monday May 18, 13:20

''WHEN HE comes in,'' Ali told Samir, ''Jump on his back and get this gag round his mouth. We don't want him shouting for help. Salah and Magdy, get him on the floor and tie him up. Sayed, you keep watch.''

Ali had spent the last week keeping his head down, toeing the line, letting his ankle and shoulder heal, being a good little boy and getting to know the others a little better.

Salah's parents had been killed, like Ali's and so many others', by a bomb. That bomb, however, had been American, a Tomahawk missile fired from a US battleship hundreds of miles away in the Persian Gulf during the Shock and Awe phase of the War. It killed six thousand civilians.

Samir's father had died from a stroke when he was six. His mother had struggled on for a year until she had given up and hanged herself from a light-fitting in their living room. He had come to the orphanage aged eight and had been there three years. His two sisters were in a different orphanage. He had not seen them since the day they had been separated by the Iraqi authorities. Samir had not only found his father dead on the bathroom floor, he had seen his mother swinging from a rope. No wonder he was so nervy, Ali concluded.

Magdy, he learned after patiently working to get the other talking, had a story quite different from the myth. His parents had been journalists. They had been 'disappeared' by the old regime for writing seditious articles about Saddam Hussein. As Magdy began to open up to his friends, he told them about secret meetings in his parents' home, writers, artists, political dissidents, talking about Saddam and 'Regime Change', excited by the Bush-Blair intervention and the future it might bring. Then, one night, Saddam's secret police had burst through their door. Magdy's scar had come that night when one of Saddam's men had slashed him across the throat with his bayonet. He had choked on his own blood then crawled across a blood-stained rug to a phone, found no doctor willing to attend, so, bandaging his throat with his mother's headscarf, staggered to a nearby mosque where the imam had stitched up the wound with a needle and thread, taken him to hospital and then turned him over to the orphanage. He had not seen his parents again.

This was Ali's army. Salah hated Americans (they had killed his parents). Magdy loved Americans (they had killed Saddam). Sayed and Samir were tragedies outside the political situation. And Ali? Ali hated Al Qaeda, Salafists, Wahhabis, mujahidin and all the other nut-bag extremists who had killed his family and put him at the mercy of the Sisters of Mercy.

''But you can't like this place,'' he exploded. ''It's worse than a prison.''

''We get fed,'' Magdy explained, ''We get educated.''

''We learn a trade,'' Sayed added. ''I can make a bookcase. I couldn't do that before.''

''I can stitch a cushion-cover,'' chattered Samir, ''And keep most of the padding in.''

They were sitting on the beds in the dormitory. It was supposed to be afternoon-nap time. Salah was keeping an eye on the corridor in case Mr Ala'a should be patrolling.

''Bollocks,'' said Ali. ''They feed us crap and treat us like dogs.''

''Not all of them,'' said Sayed.

''That's like saying not all of Saddam's policemen were bad,'' said Ali. ''You share the money, you share the guilt.''

He had spent the last three days inspecting the premises and observing the staff. The boys' dormitory was on the first floor. The bathroom had no windows. They would have to go down the main staircase to the front door, cross the garden to the railings and open the main gate, which meant getting the keys.

From a conversation with the janitor one afternoon, he had learned that most of the staff went home at ten when Mr Ala'a locked the front door. Sister Gihan and the half dozen other residential women would have another light supper before bed around eleven. At midnight, Mr Ala'a would tour the building, check on the dormitories and switch off lights before retiring to the room he shared with the only other male resident, Mr Mohamed, the rather weedy Mathematics teacher.

''Where does he put the keys?'' Ali had asked.

''Now why would you want to know a thing like that?'' The janitor had narrowed his eyes.

''Because I want to break out, of course,'' Ali had shrugged nonchalantly.

The janitor had laughed. ''In his pocket.'' He had ruffled Ali's hair. ''Break out. Ha ha. Good one. Ha ha. Very amusing.''

Ali had also crept out of the dormitory at three o'clock one morning, using his torch to explore the silent halls. He had reached the large wooden door and inspected the lock. From his Maintenance classes, he had gathered equipment just in case, a wrench, a chisel, a hacksaw, wire-strippers and a screwdriver. It would be possible to remove the lock but he wasn't entirely sure yet how to do it quietly. So he had returned to Plan A.

''Sayed,'' he instructed, ''You'll have to throw a mattress on the floor. We don't want the falling body to make a noise. We get the keys off him, tie him up and shove him under a bed.''

''But Ali,'' whined Samir, ''He's so big.''

''Which is why we need four of us to bring him down.'' Ali glared at them in exasperation. ''He won't be expecting it. He'll be off guard. We can take him if we just get him on the floor.''

The others exchanged looks of concern.

''Get him on the floor,'' Ali insisted, ''And I'll do the rest. We'll have about ten minutes before he's supposed to be in his room.''

They looked doubtful, anxious. Sayed kept chewing his lower lip.

''We'll go to my house,'' said Ali. ''I still have the key. There's food and money and stuff. We'll stay there until we decide what to do next.''

''I'm in,'' said Magdy.

''Me too,'' said Samir.

Sayed chewed his lip again. Finally, reluctantly he agreed. ''All right,'' he muttered.

''Right,'' said Ali, ''It's decided. We go tonight.''

The rest of the day dragged by in an agony of waiting. During P.E., Ali managed to complete twenty star-jumps, twenty press-ups, twenty squat-thrusts, climbed a rope and vaulted the horse. Mr Ala'a clapped his hands and praised him.

''See what you can do when you put your mind to it,'' he crowed.

Ali smiled.

In Maintenance, he learned how to replace a tap-washer without stripping the nut or being dowsed in icy water. He was getting quite good with a monkey wrench. Maybe he could get a job as a plumber's apprentice when he got out. Maybe Sister Gihan was not as stupid as she looked. He put the thought out of his mind as he joined the others in the prayer room.

''Allah,'' he prayed, ''Look after us tonight. Keep us safe and bless our enterprise.'' He prostrated himself on the mat, forehead touching the floor, and repeated his prayer. ''Keep us safe and bless us in our enterprise, oh Allah the most merciful and compassionate, and forgive me my sins and weaknesses. Help me be strong tonight, oh Allah, and help my friends. Be with us tonight and keep us safe.''

Dinner dragged. More sticky rice, this time with a thin, tasteless, brown gravy.

''What? No rancid lentils?'' he quipped. ''What a shame.''

Mr Ala'a grinned and ruffled his hair.

He felt in such high spirits that he decided to play ping-pong with Sayed. Magdy was watching an Arabic movie on TV. Salah and Samir were locked in a chess game.

''You ready?'' Ali asked as he served.

''Not really.'' Sayed returned the ball. ''You?''

''Excited.'' Ali battered the ball back. ''Exhilarated. Can't wait. One-zero.'' Adrenaline was already surging through his system. Four hours to go. He smashed another shot past Sayed's sprawling arm and pumped his fist. ''Yessss!'' he crowed. He had never felt more alive.

Later, as they stood in their underwear at the sinks in the dormitory, washing their uniforms under running cold water, Sayed said ''What if it goes wrong?''

''It won't,'' said Ali. ''Trust me.'' He scrubbed at the sweat-stains in the armpits of his T-shirt with the same stinky green soap they used in the showers. ''This soap is useless. When we get to my house, I'll put everything through the washing machine.''

His mind wandered into the coming luxury of hot baths and steam and foam and bubbles and plastic ducks and proper shampoo and soap that worked. He would also sleep alone in his own bed for the first time in his life.

That was all he wanted from life, he realised: a bed of his own, in a room of his own. If he achieved that, he would die happy.

He twisted the T-shirt in his hands, wringing out the scummy grey water, and laid it over the iron rail at the foot of his bed next to his shorts. Then he crawled under the thin grey sheet in his vest and pants and waited for the lights to go out.

In the silent semi-darkness, he could hear boys breathing, snuffling and whimpering as they fell asleep. He could also hear four others not breathing in the tense suspension of waiting.

Was this a crazy plan? Could five underfed boys really overpower a gigantic fitness instructor by sheer surprise and weight of numbers? If they didn't bring him down, the plan would fail.

What if he wasn't caught off balance?

What if he fought back?

Ali reached under the bedclothes and felt the cool metal of the monkey-wrench. Would he be able to do it? Bash someone over the head? Fracture his skull? Knock him out? Maybe kill…his mind shut that out. He couldn't kill. But what if he had to?

His palms were so damp.

Apprehension dug a hollow cave inside his stomach.

The door clicked open.

Mr Ala'a stood in a rectangle of yellow light.

It was time.

''Uh,'' grunted Ali, moving his hand rhythmically under the sheet. ''Unnh, Unnh, Unnnh.''

''What are you doing, you filthy animal?'' Mr Ala'a strode, bellowing, towards the bed.

''Unnnnh,'' groaned Ali. ''Uhhhhhh. Uhhhh.'' He moved his hand up and down again.

''What are you doing, you dirty dog?'' Mr Ala'a ripped back the sheet with a roar of rage.

''Now!'' yelled Ali, seizing the big man round the neck.

''What?'' squeaked Samir, surprised and terrified.

''Now!'' Ali repeated.

''What?'' Ala'a roared like an angry elephant. ''What?''

''Samir!'' shouted Ali as the man straightened up. ''NOW!!!!! For God's sake…NOW!''

The squirrel squeaked again and flung himself on Ala'a's back. The teacher span round, Samir clinging to his shoulders, Ali's arms wrapped round his neck, and roared again.

''Magdy! Salah! Help us!''

Nothing happened.

''Sayed! Get the key!''

Nothing happened.

''Help us!!!!'' yelled Ali desperately.

Mr Ala'a shook himself like a dog shaking off water. Samir dropped to the floor. Other people flooded the dormitory, yelling and shouting, Mr Mohamed, Sister Gihan, Sister Zakeya. The other boys were sitting up in their beds chanting ''Fight, fight, fight, fight, fight.''

While Magdy, Salah and Sayed sat still, frozen statues of inaction, Mr Ala'a kicked Samir with tremendous force under a bed. Ali heard something crack. He released his grip and sank back onto the mattress. With a lung-bursting bellow, Mr Ala'a punched him hard in the face, the massive fist smashing into his cheek like a sledgehammer. Ali's vision dimmed for a moment then he laughed. Another fist crashed into the side of his head. Dimly he saw Sister Gihan and Mr Mohamed pulling Mr Ala'a away, saw the P.E. teacher's face, tomato-red, saw Sayed crying on his bed, and laughed again as Mr Ala'a punched him pile-driver hard on the other temple.

Then he blacked out.

#8. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Tuesday May 19, 06:30

WAKING IN The Cupboard, Ali could feel the tightening skin, the thick headache, the stiff jaw and face, the swelling bruises and drying blood that were the legacy of his fight with Mr Ala'a. He rested the back of his head against the wall. Damn the others for bottling out at the last minute. Scowling darkly, he touched toes with someone hidden in the darkness.

''Ali?'' It was Samir. ''Thank God you're awake. I thought they'd killed you.''

''They won't get rid of me that easily.'' Ali touched his jaw gingerly. Dried blood was crusted on his swollen face. ''What happened after Ala'a knocked me out?''

''He just kept hitting you,'' whispered Samir. ''Sister Gihan and Mr Mohamed dragged him away. He kept yelling he was gonna kill you.'' That explained the aches all over Ali's body. ''They got him off and Sister Gihan screamed 'Put him in the Cupboard' and Mr Mohamed carried you out.'' Samir gulped. ''Then she put on all the lights and yelled at us and Salah and Magdy cried and Sayed told her our plan and she said she would kill you herself and then she grabbed my arm and yelled 'Cupboard!' and two sisters pushed me in here…'' He sobbed. ''I think he's broken my ribs.''

''What happened to the others?'' he said, closing his eyes.

''Sayed got a cookie for telling the truth,'' sobbed Samir again. ''It's so hot in here.''

''Regulate your breathing,'' Ali advised. ''Keep calm.'' He could smell the other boy's fear.

''I've never been in here,'' Samir sobbed, ''Never.''

''You were very brave,'' Ali said.

''What do you think they'll do to us?''

''I don't know.'' Ali turned his face to the wall. ''Whatever it is, it won't be pleasant.''

His father had taught him never be a rebel. He had disobeyed and now he was waiting in a suffocating cupboard with a petrified child for God knows what.

''Do you think we'll be sent for re-education?'' sobbed Samir. ''I don't want to leave. I like it here. I don't want to go away.''

''Who knows?'' said Ali despondently, wincing as pain throbbed through his sweating face. It was his fault the child was in such a state. If only he had not led him astray, he would be safely tucked up in bed dreaming of cookies or teddies or whatever little kids dream of. He would step up and take the punishment for them all. It had been his stupidity that had led them here. Let Sister Gihan and Mr Ala'a do as they wished. He would bear it for his friends, even those who had betrayed him.

After what seemed an eternity of sobbing, sniffing and snuffling, Ali and Samir were marched to the refectory where the other boys had gathered for breakfast. At the top table sat Sister Gihan and her cronies. They had been joined by a man in an expensive-looking light grey suit, a tall, athletic, handsome man in his forties with slicked-back black hair and gold rings on every finger. He wore his white shirt without a tie and Ali could see a gold chain resting against his throat. He was wearing dark glasses.

''The rebels return.'' Sister Gihan rose. ''Regard them, boys. Regard them well.''

Ali, even though he was only wearing his underpants and a vest, felt strangely calm under the gaze of a hundred pairs of eyes. Some were curious, others indifferent. Some were wide with horror, anxiety or fear whilst some were bright with excitement, expectation and enjoyment. Few showed sympathy, pity or understanding.

''Our benefactor visits today,'' said Sister Gihan, ''And the first thing he must see is a punishment.'' She bowed to the man in the grey suit. ''I am sorry, sir, that you are so troubled.''

''Boys will be boys,'' the man said simply. ''You just have to beat it out of them.''

''Ali Hassan,'' said Sister Gihan, smoothing her habit, ''You have been nothing but trouble since you arrived. I believe there is a demon in your soul and it needs exorcising before you damage yourself and your fellows any further.

''Samir Mohamed, you have been with us a long time now. I am surprised at your behaviour. Your parents, God rest their souls, would be ashamed.'' She paused while Samir sobbed his contrition. ''You will now be whipped in front of your peers, that the Devil might flee your souls.'' She folded her hands and sat down, licking her lips hungrily.

Mr Mohamed set a chair down with its back towards the boys. This meant they would be able to watch every expression of fear, every twist of pain…

''Kneel down,'' said the teacher. Ali and Samir knelt on either side of the chair, looking out at the sea of faces.

Mr Ala'a, features fixed in a fiendish grin, flexed a thin, whippy, four foot long cane with his massive, hairy hands. ''You little bastards,'' he hissed. ''I'm gonna hurt you so much you'll wish you'd died with your parents.''

''Samir Mohamed,'' intoned Sister Gihan, ''You will be first. Bend over.''

Ali noticed the man in the dark glasses tense slightly as the small boy, bending over, grasped the edges of the chair. The entire audience seemed to suck in one deep, collective breath as Mr Ala'a hooked his thick, meaty fingers inside Samir's waistband and hauled his pants down to his ankles to reveal tight, bubble-buttocks, then lifted the vest from a smooth but narrow expanse of creamy brown back. Samir's backbone jutted through the skin.

Samir started screaming. ''It was Ali!'' he screamed. ''Ali made me do it!''

Mr Ala'a flexed his cane again then rested it lightly on Samir's left thigh.

''Nooo! He's the Devil! Ali is the Devil! Beat him, not me!''

The cane lashed across the boy's flesh. Ali saw a purple line leap through the skin. Samir shrieked as though he had been scalded. Ali bit his lip and screwed up his eyes. This was coming to him.

The cane whipped across Samir's left buttock. Another purple weal sprang into view. Samir howled like an injured dog.

Ali felt sick, felt his knees shaking. Oh my God.

The cane cracked sharply against his back. Samir squirmed and screamed once again.

''Please, no, stop, I'll do anything, tell you anything.''

Another slash across his buttock brought beads of blood through the bruise.

Ali sought out Sayed and fixed his attention on his one-time friend's expressionless features. You bastard, Ali's thoughts bored through his eyes. You bastard.

Switching sides, Mr Ala'a grinned sadistically at Ali.

''You're getting it much harder than Samir,'' he said, viciously whipping the cane over Samir's right thigh and then across his back, ''So hard it'll make you bleed.''

A deep ambulance siren wail welled from the depths of Samir's soul.

Two more slashes across his bottom, and Ali saw urine dribble down the inner thigh. Sister Zakeya murmured ''He's had enough.''

Ali gulped. His stomach had disappeared into some outer space vacuum.

''Stand up,'' ordered Mr Ala'a.

Samir's face was covered with tears, snot and blood. He had bitten through his lip.

''Observe the wages of sin,'' said Sister Gihan.

''Turn around,'' ordered Mr Ala'a.

Samir's humiliation was complete.

''I'm sorry,'' Ali whispered miserably.

''Now dress yourself and kneel down,'' said Sister Gihan.

Samir pulled his underclothes over his bleeding skin and collapsed like a sack of flour.

Ali's heart pounded in his throat and cold sweat broke on his face. He needed the toilet.

Samir had been in terrible pain. His skin had been laced with cuts and red-edged ridges. How much would it hurt? Would he scream too? Would he cry like Samir? Would he wet himself too?

Standing up, trying consciously to stop himself trembling, Ali moved to the chair, his stomach flipping like a gymnast till he felt sick. Glancing at Samir, he saw blood flowering through the cotton of his vest. Controlling his breathing, he looked coolly at Mr Ala'a, then dropped his pants and bent over the chair.

The first stroke, on his left thigh, felt like fire, as though a branding iron had been applied to the skin. Ali sucked air through his tightly gritted teeth and breathed hard as the cane lashed against his left buttock, forcing the air out again in stuttered bursts as his cheeks twisted and his muscles clenched and his fingers gripped the wood so hard he could see the white of the joint about to burst through. The third made his bare feet shift on the planks of the platform. Something split and he felt blood trickling down his skin. The fourth, biting into his bare back, made him gasp, and the fifth, on his right leg, made him at last cry out.

Oh God, he was in agony and he had at least another three coming.

He focused on Sayed again, then Magdy, then Salah, each in turn, and suddenly relaxed, counting his breaths, concentrating so hard on them, staring at his knuckles, that he seemed to float away, to become strangely detached, as though the boy being beaten were someone else.

''Stand up.'' Mr Ala'a's voice sounded hollow, distant, a million miles away.

Ali wobbled upright. His knees would not stop shaking. His whole body burned.

''Turn around.''

He faced Sister Gihan, focused on the black wire erupting through that coin-sized mole, and the dark glasses of the smirking man in the grey suit. Dimly he heard some sniggering behind him.

''Thrash him again,'' said the man. ''Give him ten more.''

''Later,'' said Sister Gihan, ''When we have rubbed salt into his wounds. You two, go to the dormitory, clean yourselves up, get yourselves dressed and report to first lesson.''

Ali pulled up his pants and, limping heavily, followed Samir out of the refectory.

''See what happens when you rebel against the system?'' said Sister Gihan. ''Nothing but pain comes from such behaviour. Now eat your breakfasts.''

The man in the grey suit took a seat at the table and cut up his omelette with the side of a fork, his gold rings glinting as his strong, hairless hands moved with surgical precision.

''The second boy,'' he remarked conversationally, ''Is a trouble-maker?''

''Inveterate,'' answered Sister Gihan, helping herself to a mango slice, ''But never fear, Dr Al-Sekem, we shall break him in the end. We always do. And then you can have him.''

''Excellent,'' said Dr Al-Sekem. ''In the meantime, do you have another suitable boy for me? My work nears completion, thanks to you.''

Sister Gihan's mole-hair trembled. ''You may have Sayed. He betrayed them. I have no time for weasels like him.''

''What exactly do the boys help you with?'' asked Sister Zakeya.

''Scientific research,'' said Dr Al-Sekem. ''As you know, I am developing alternative energy sources such as wind and solar. We test the power of our turbines and photovoltaic panels on them. Do they work? Do the boys feel warmer or colder? Is the light produced stronger or weaker? Is the water heated adequately? Before we fit every home in Jordan with our panels and power every community through windmills, we need human subjects to help us make the appropriate adjustments so we get our products right. Believe me, sister, their contribution is invaluable.'' He shovelled the omelette pieces up with his fork.

''But they never come back,'' said Sister Zakeya.

''No,'' admitted Dr Al-Sekem, ''We take them to Jordan and place them with a family. It is one of the philanthropic avenues Hands across the Sands has opened for these poor unfortunates. Assist with our research and enter a new life.''

Sister Gihan grunted. ''And it saves us having to feed and clothe them, Zakeya. Gets them out of our hair. Mr Ala'a, please ask Sayed to report to the basement during second period.''

Up in the dormitory, Samir collapsed onto his bed weeping.

''That was awful,'' he blubbed, ''The worst day of my life. Everyone watched it. Everyone saw it. Everyone.''

''They saw your winkie,'' Ali muttered, sponging blood from his buttocks. ''Big deal.''

''They saw me cry,'' sniffled Samir. ''I hate you, Ali Hassan. My life was good until you came. Why can't you just be grateful for what you've got? Why have you got to start a fight with everyone? Why can't you just do as you're told?'' He blubbed again. Snot oozed from his nose.

''Clean yourself up,'' Ali said harshly. His bottom throbbed and his knees were still trembling. His head felt hot. He scooped several handfuls of water from the tap into his mouth. A new plan was taking shape. From his locker, he retrieved the key to his flat, lay face-down on his bed and waited for the pain to pass.

When Samir had tidied himself and finished dressing, Ali started mumbling.

''Bomb,'' he mumbled, ''Bomb. Blast. Blood. Fire. Bomb. Murder.'' He clawed the air with his hand then started shaking. His upper body twitched and his limbs jerked and the muttering continued.

''Ali?'' Samir sounded scared. ''You all right?''

''Mm,'' grunted Ali, ''Mm, mm, mm. Bomb. Bomb. Dead. Dead.'' His head jerked. He clawed the air again. ''No! No! No!'' Then he opened his mouth and screamed at the top of his lungs. ''Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!''

''Ali!'' Samir, terrified, shook him. ''Ali!''

Ali's eyes snapped open. He gripped Samir's shoulders, fingers digging into the flesh like talons. ''Fatima! Fatima! Don't go! Don't! They'll get you! They'll kill you, Fatima!'' He shook Samir violently. ''Listen to me! Listen! Fatima!''

''Help me!'' yelled Samir. ''Help!''

Ali released him and collapsed again, muttering and shuddering.

Samir threw open the door and yelled again: ''Help me! Help!!! Ali's dying!''

Ali quickly reached down, bit his lip and gouged at the cuts on his legs and bottom with his door key, opening them up so blood soaked into his pants.

Mr Mohamed rushed into the room, saw Ali twitching on the bed, saw the bloodstains, heard the muttering about bombs and his sister and death.

''He's having a fit! Samir, fetch Sister Gihan.'' He grabbed a towel, soaked it in water and wrapped it round Ali's forehead.

''What is all this noise?'' Sister Gihan had waddled in.

''I think he's having a fit,'' gasped Mr Mohamed. ''He's delirious, muttering about bombs and death. He's hallucinating.''

Ali seized the teacher's sleeve. ''The boy on the bike! It's the boy on the bike!''

''Ali!'' said Mr Mohamed urgently. ''Can you hear me?''

Ali stared over the man's shoulder. ''He'll kill you! He'll kill all of you! That man in the suit!'' He fell back again.

''He's bleeding all over the bedclothes,'' said Sister Gihan irritably.

''He's gonna die,'' moaned Samir. ''Is he gonna die?''

''Call a doctor!'' said Mr Mohamed.

''Don't be insane!'' snarled Sister Gihan. ''I'm not having a doctor in here. Doctors will examine him, poke about, ask questions.''

''But he might be really sick,'' said Mr Mohamed. ''Feel his face. He's burning. His foot's opened up. He needs fresh stitches.''

''Damnation!'' she swore. ''Trouble from the start! Take him and throw him into the street. Let him die in the gutter where he belongs.''

''Sister Gihan!'' Mr Mohamed straightened up. ''That's the most despicable thing I've ever heard. Where is Mr Ala'a?''

''Mr Ala'a is busy with our guest,'' snapped Sister Gihan.

Ali moaned an intense, deep moan, writhed and flopped unconscious.

''Oh very well,'' scowled Sister Gihan. ''Call an ambulance and take him to the hospital. Don't take your eyes off him for second, don't let him answer any questions and for God's sake don't let him escape. We need his uncle's money.''

''What if they keep him in?''

''Take his rucksack, but don't leave him, whatever you do.''

''They'll ask about the cuts and bruises!''

''He was blown up,'' growled Sister Gihan. ''Of course he'll have cuts and bruises. Anything else, say he got into a fight with Mental Magdy.'' She glared at Samir. ''What are you looking at, you little shit? One word out of you and I'll gut you like a fish.''

The ambulance, screaming into the front yard of the orphanage, drew a crowd of boys and teachers to their classroom windows. Mr Mohamed and a paramedic manoeuvred Ali's inert body onto a trolley, dumped his rucksack into his lap, threw a blanket over him and wheeled him quickly down the corridor. Sister Gihan followed the trolley barking ''Back to work. Nothing to see. Back to work.'' The trolley was lifted over a low footplate and bumped head-first into the back of the ambulance. Mr Mohamed followed it in and sat by Ali's head, hands folded, a look of concern etched on his thin face. The doors were shut and the ambulance screamed away again.

The paramedic carefully slid Ali's blood-stained briefs away from his bottom, swabbed the stripes with iodine and stuck some plasters over the cuts.

''Bit too handy with the cane, eh?'' he said jovially.

''None of your damn business,'' growled Mr Mohamed. ''Just get him conscious again.''

The paramedic peeled back one of Ali's eyelids. ''I'll give him an adrenaline shot.''

The ambulance jolted up a hill as the paramedic reached for a syringe and needle.

''Damn. Steady on,'' he called to the driver.

''Traffic lights,'' the driver replied, easing the ambulance to a juddering halt on the incline and pulling on the handbrake.

''Great.'' The paramedic swabbed Ali's arm. ''Just a little prick,'' he smirked, spraying a squirt of liquid into the air.

Then he 'oofed' loudly as Ali's rucksack thumped into his stomach and thundered into his ear. He staggered sideways into Mr Mohamed.

Ali tossed the blanket over them and clicked off the brake. The trolley trundled towards the double doors.

''So long, suckers,'' he cried, bracing against the bone-jarring impact, and then he burst from the ambulance into the sunlight. Behind him, Mr Mohamed and the paramedic were untangling themselves and yelling.

Ali wriggled into a kneeling position and grabbed hold of the handles on either side. He was hoping these would steer the makeshift vehicle but he was going downhill and picking up speed. He wove through stationary vehicles as drivers' eyes widened and jaws dropped. He waved at a couple and leant his body-weight to the left to take a corner on one wheel. Mr Mohamed and the paramedic were now out of the ambulance and shaking their fists. It was the last he saw of them.

Round the corner and down the hill, wind rushing through his hair, Ali felt exhilarated. Every ache, every pain, every twinge of discomfort in his body was gone. He felt alive again for the first time in days and whooped for joy. Using his weight to steer, he allowed the trolley to trundle through the traffic and responded to hooting with a clenched-fist salute and a loud ''Yeeeee-ha!'' Then he heard the siren. The ambulance was coming after him. Damnation.

Get on the pavement, he thought, but the yellow- and white-striped kerb was several inches higher than the road. Drivers were now stopping their cars and getting out.

Ali flung himself full length on the trolley and rode it like a toboggan, pressing himself flat to the mattress to balance the weight.

''Let me through!'' he yelled. ''Out of the way!''

Someone waved at him, reached out to stop him. He leaned away and smacked the man in the chest with his rucksack. He flew round another corner and rounded a parked bus.

''Ha!'' he exclaimed and sped up a ramp towards a shopping mall. The glass doors slid obligingly aside to let him in. The metal detector went berserk as he passed through it and then he was heading towards an escalator.

The ''ha'' became an ''AHHH!'' as the trolley clattered down the metal steps, each bone-shaking bounce threatening to jolt him off. He pressed his body flat against the trolley and reached out for the black rubber handrails on either side to slow his velocity and bring him into sync with the escalator. The sharp angle threatened to tip him headfirst. Then he noticed a crowd of shoppers at the foot of the metal stairs.

''Get out of the way!'' he yelled as the trolley shot towards them, ''Out of the way!''

People scattered as Ali careered towards the plate-glass window of a furniture shop.

''Holy shiiiiiiiiit!'' he cried, twisting the trolley sideways so it skidded across the polished marble floor. He felt it overturning, felt himself tumbling to the floor, and then he slid, the trolley on top of him, to smash through the window. At the last moment, he heaved the trolley over to shield himself from the hailstorm of glass which burst suddenly into the mall.

The trolley collided with something heavy and Ali somersaulted on to a soft brown sofa. Alarm bells shrilled. People gaped in awestruck amazement. A security guard shouted something. Gasping, laughing, Ali sat up on the sofa. All around him was carnage. Then, grabbing his rucksack, he ran back through the hole in the glass and disappeared into the crowd.

#9. SISTERS OF MERCY ORPHANAGE, ADHAMIYA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Tuesday May 19, 11:23

SAYED FOLLOWED Mr Ala'a down the corridor. He felt excited and happy for the first time in months. He had liked Ali but the boy was such a rebel. He had to learn. Whilst watching his friends being beaten, Sayed had felt sad but he had taken comfort in the knowledge that this lesson was for their benefit, to teach them the importance of obedience, of following the rules, of living within the system. After all, the teachers knew what they were doing. It was not for mere orphans like Ali to question their judgement.

The thrashing of Samir was more difficult to accept. He had to be shown, of course, that he should follow the right leaders but it had seemed more brutal, perhaps because Samir had howled so much, perhaps because he had bled so much, perhaps because he had lost control of his bladder. Samir hated Ali now so perhaps Sayed had done him a favour too, shown him the pain that came from trusting the dangerous and misguided, from putting your faith in the wrong people.

He trotted down some stairs at the end of the hallway. He had never been here before.

''Why are we going to the basement?'' he asked.

''You'll see,'' grunted Mr Ala'a.

The basement was warm and windowless. At one end was a large window with a glass door on the right which effectively partitioned the room into two sections. Near the door stood a man in a white coat, another man in strange-looking white overalls and white rubber boots and the man in the grey suit who had watched the beatings, the benefactor of the Sisters of Mercy.

''This is Doctor Al-Sekem,'' Mr Ala'a said. The man in the grey suit inclined his head. ''This is Sayed.'' Mr Ala'a looked somewhat uncomfortable, shuffling his feet and keeping his voice low.

''I'm very pleased to meet you, Sayed.'' Doctor Al-Sekem sounded indifferent. ''You did a brave thing, betraying your friends for a cookie. Thank you, Mr Ala'a. That will be all.''

''This is my home,'' Sayed explained. ''I don't like trouble.''

Mr Ala'a regarded Sayed sadly and shuffled away leaving the boy alone with the men. He did not say goodbye. Sayed suddenly felt nervous. He did not know these men, and he did not know what they wanted him to do, why they had chosen him.

''Well, well,'' said Doctor Al-Sekem. ''We need you now to show the same kind of bravery again.'' Sayed's heart leapt. ''We wish you to assist with a vital experiment.'' Doctor Al-Sekem ran a gold-ringed hand through Sayed's short hair. ''If we are successful, the work that you can help us with today will save the planet. You know how Mankind is destroying Nature, through digging up her resources and cutting down her forests…'' Sayed nodded. ''Well, I have devised an alternative to this waste and destruction, alternative power sources such as wind, water and the sun, renewable, sustainable and everlasting. Unlike oil, the wind will never run out.'' He allowed himself a small chuckle. ''But before we begin, we must carry out tests to ensure our power sources work, understand?''

''Yes, sir,'' said Sayed, a little reassured. It was only a test. He was good at tests.

''Excellent.'' Doctor Al-Sekem clapped Sayed on the shoulder. ''I want you to go into that room, behind the glass, remove all your clothes and stand under the white light.''

Something rang an alarm bell in Sayed's brain. ''Why?'' he asked.

''Temperature test,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Will our solar panel be strong enough to keep you warm?'' He produced a chocolate bar. ''At the end of the test, I will give you this.''

Sayed had not seen a chocolate bar for months. Salivating, he walked to the glass door and pulled it open. Although the floor was bare, rough concrete, the inside of the room was warm. He waved at the four men on the other side of the glass then took off his plimsolls and T-shirt, folding them carefully together. Self-conscious under the steady gaze of Doctor Al-Sekem and the two scientists, he slipped off his shorts and stood naked under a strong white light which was making him hot. He watched the men writing things down. He felt weedy and vulnerable, thin stick-arms, thin bony ribs, thin bony buttocks…he covered his genitals with his hands. On the far side of the room, a floor-fan clicked into life with a loud whirring noise and created a steady breeze which made him shiver slightly. The man in the white coat moved to the door and sealed it pneumatically. Sayed heard the hiss of escaping air. Then, from the centre of the light, a small colourless drop of liquid, just one small drop, fell slowly and splashed on Sayed's shoulder.

Nothing happened.

He shivered again. A second drop splashed on to his right foot.

And then his eyes started itching.

He rubbed them with his fists but that only made the itching worse. His eyes were on fire. Then his nose started running. He wiped up snot with the back of his hand but it wouldn't stop, it just kept coming, like a snot-tap had been turned on in his head. He sniffed fiercely. How much snot could one boy produce? He dragged his arm across his nose again.

Something seemed to squeeze his chest sharply, as if an iron band had been suddenly yanked tight. He gasped but could not seem to get any air. He gasped again as saliva welled in his mouth and dribbled over his chin and on to his chest in long colourless strings. He gasped again and fell to his knees, sniffing hard, wiping up drool and trying to breathe. He felt nauseous, felt vomit rise through his throat and erupt onto the floor. He stretched out his arm towards the glass screen but the observers were making notes with cold detachment. And now he understood they had put him in here to die.

He started crying and was sick again. Vomit splashed up his thighs as he lost control of his body. A stream of piss burst out then, worse, much worse, the rumbling in his guts exploded in liquid shit on the floor behind him and down the insides of his legs. The stink made him vomit again.

Still his eyes burned.

Still he could not breathe.

Still his nose was running and the saliva dribbling.

His limbs started twitching and jumping. It would not stop. His hands and feet drummed on the concrete. His chest, shoulders and head snapped and jerked. He fell sideways and jerked some more, his body convulsing in various pools of bodily fluids which coated his thrashing limbs with vomit, urine and diarrhoea. His breathing turned to shallow gasps as his lungs collapsed and his swelling windpipe burst inside his throat. Everything darkened as his brown eyeballs melted in their sockets. Then he had a massive stroke and his brain shut down. Paralysed and leaking like a pin-pricked water balloon, he lay still whilst his heart stopped. More fluids squeezed through the pores of his skin. He twitched once, and died.

''Two minutes thirteen seconds,'' said the man in the white coat.

''Excellent,'' purred Doctor Al-Sekem. ''Did the fan help the dispersal?''

''I believe it made the process quicker,'' said the other. ''But to test that more fully we should use a larger sample, say four boys in different corners of the room.''

''Very well,'' said Doctor Al-Sekem. ''I shall tell Ala'a to make it so.'' He turned to the man in the protective overalls. ''Decontaminate the room and dispose of that.''

He regarded the corpse dispassionately. In two minutes and thirteen seconds it had been reduced from a living, breathing boy to a heap of shit-stained bones.

Doctor Al-Sekem tore the wrapper from the chocolate bar and consumed it thoughtfully.

''I shall tell our friends in Baghdad to proceed with the order,'' he declared, ''And our friends in Damascus to organise the delivery, and then we shall make the Jordanians pay.''

#10. JUMILIA SQUARE, RUSAFA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Tuesday May 19, 21:47

IT WAS dark when Ali crossed Al-Quds Street into his own district. He had changed his clothes in a toilet in the mall, dumping the blood-stained vest and pants in a dustbin and dressing in his own jeans, green sweater, denim jacket, socks and black shoes, thanking God they had let him take his rucksack. Now he looked like any teenager as he wove through the crowds of shoppers still staring at the destruction caused by the runaway trolley. A guy was sweeping up glass whilst the manager had yelled at two policemen: ''Of course there was someone on it! He rode it down the escalator and into the window!''

''Really?'' The policeman sounded sceptical.

''Look on the CCTV!'' bawled the manager. ''You'll see him on the tape!''

The paramedic and Mr Mohamed were protesting loudly to the second policeman who just kept saying ''But it's your trolley, from your ambulance.''

''It was stolen!'' said the paramedic, ''Hijacked!''

''Hijacked,'' said the second policeman flatly. ''A hijacked hospital bed. Stolen from inside your ambulance.'' He wrote something in his notebook. Ali laughed and left.

It took three or four hours to get his bearings, work out where he was and plan a route home without encountering police, military checkpoints or any of the militia groups that roamed Baghdad at night but, finally, at last, he turned a corner into his street and burst into tears.

It was not the most elegant street in the world. In fact it was downright scruffy, a series of beige low-rise concrete blocks, slowly rusting metal-shuttered shop-fronts and rainwater-stain scars on the pot-holed road surface but it was where Ali had grown up, where he had played football with his brothers and hopscotch with his sister and walked to school in the next street.

''I'm back,'' he said quietly, ''I'm home.''

A tide of mixed emotions, of joy, sorrow, relief, apprehension, swept through him – what would he find? He dug in his pocket for the key and entered the three-storey building that housed the apartment. There was no lift so he walked up the two flights of stairs, revelling in each step until at last he was standing in front of the brown door labelled 211 weighing the small silver key in his hand. Entering the empty flat would be weird. Last time, when he'd gone in with Uncle Wagdy, he had felt detached and depressed. This time he felt elated. He had survived The Sisters of Mercy and could finally get the hot bath he dreamed of, fix a feast from whatever was left in the cupboards, watch some TV, sleep in his own bed. Finally. It was good to be home.

Relishing the moment, he slipped the key in the lock and opened the door.

''Who the hell are you?'' A cry from the sofa made him freeze in the doorway.

A fat, Pringle-chomping old woman dressed in a black polyester sack was sitting in his father's armchair. A skinny young woman in a beige sweater and slacks was perched on the end of the sofa hoovering up peanuts. A plump, snotty-nosed kid slumped on the carpet, back against the sofa, shovelling crisps into his face. The television was blaring out a Nancy Ajram song.

''I'm Ali Hassan,'' Ali countered, shocked. ''Who the hell are you?''

The young woman yelped and bolted for a bedroom, trying desperately to scrape her long mousy hair into a headscarf.

''Shakbat shakhabit,'' sang Nancy Ajram.

A young man in a vest and jeans emerged from the kitchen. He was wiping his hands on Ali's mother's apron and had a smoking cigarette between his lips.

''We live here, you little punk,'' he said. ''What are you doing here?''

''I live here,'' gasped Ali. ''This is MY flat. I'm Hassan Al-Amin's son.''

''Go get your uncle,'' the fat old woman ordered the snotty-nosed kid.

''That's my Mum's apron you're wiping your filthy hands on,'' Ali said.

The young man blew cigarette smoke towards him. ''Figured she wouldn't need it no more, seeing as she's dead an' all.''

Before Ali could react, the owner, Suleyman, appeared in the doorway accompanied by the snotty-nosed kid. He was ill-at-ease and even more obsequious than before.

''Ali, my dear boy,'' he oiled, rubbing his palms together, ''Welcome back. You obviously haven't spoken to your uncle. I had to let the flat go. I have bills to pay and a family to support.''

''But two weeks,'' said Ali. ''It took two weeks.''

''You were in the orphanage and your sister is in the Medical City,'' explained Suleyman. ''I figured you weren't coming back.''

''But I am back!''

''Can you pay the rent?'' asked Suleyman softly. Ali looked at the lino. ''I thought not. Look, let me call Wagdy.'' He took out a mobile. ''He'll explain.''

''What about our things?'' said Ali, ''Our clothes, the TV, the furniture?''

''Wagdy sold everything to me,'' said Suleyman. ''Wagdy? Hello. Mr Suleyman here. There's a problem.'' He handed the phone to Ali.

''Oh.'' Uncle Wagdy sounded surprised. ''Ali. It's you. We weren't expecting you.''

''So I gather,'' said Ali. ''He says you sold him everything.''

Uncle Wagdy sounded tired. ''I had to, Ali.''

''It wasn't yours to sell! It was mine!'' Ali yelled. ''And what about the flat? It's my home!''

''Listen,'' said his uncle, ''I had to pay to get you into the orphanage. I have to pay for Fatima's medical treatment and...''

''Is that Ali?'' Aunty Nour barked in the background. ''Give me the phone.'' He got a torrent of abuse. ''You ungrateful little wretch!'' she stormed. ''Do you know what the state orphanages are like? You get tied to your bed for the day covered in shit, living on bread and water which you get once a day but because you're family, we found you a good place. They say you caused nothing but trouble and your cripple of a sister's going to bankrupt us. She needs a prosthetic leg. She needs physiotherapy. She needs medication...''

''She'll need somewhere to live!'' Ali retorted.

''She'll go to an orphanage too,'' snapped Aunty Nour, ''And some American charity can support her. They caused it, after all.''

''They didn't,'' said Ali. ''It was a suicide-bomber.''

''And who's going to pay for that shop window you broke? That's what I want to know. You know we had the police here. All the neighbours are talking about us...''

Uncle Wagdy came back on the line.

''Ali, stay where you are. I'll come to fetch you. Sister Gihan will take you back. She's already phoned to say there's a special place for you in the basement.''

Ali closed the phone. ''Family,'' he said bitterly.

''Bummer,'' said the young man sympathetically.

''You'd better give me the key,'' said Suleyman. ''I'm sorry, Ali. Life sucks sometimes.''

''You'd have been better off dying like your brothers,'' chimed in the fat old woman, ''Then you wouldn't be a burden to anyone.''

''Thanks for that.'' Ali handed over the key. ''I'll wait in the street,'' he said.

Nancy sang ''Shakbat shakhabit'' and a chorus of children happily echoed her.

#11. UNDER AL-JUMHURRIYA BRIDGE, RUSAFA, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Tuesday May 19, 23:05

BAGHDAD, EVEN in Spring, is cold at night and a denim jacket might look good fashion-wise but it provides little defence against the worming fingers of a damp, chilly breeze or the light patter of drizzle.

The sky was overcast, clouds blotting out the stars and moon. High above, the Al-Jumhurriya Bridge marched across the black slab of the Tigris River which separates the low huddle of buildings and tower blocks of Rusafa from the darkness of the Green Zone. Behind and up the concrete steps, traffic rumbled along Rashid Street. A large brown rat twitched its tail and scampered down the path.

Ali slumped under the bridge, his shoulders resting against the stained concrete support. Everything around him was damp and smelled of urine but he was not depressed. In fact he felt relieved. The aftermath of the bombing was over. His uncle and aunt, the flat, the orphanage, the past, all of it was gone. He was on his own, reliant on no-one but himself. He had moved from being a vaguely spoilt child in a comfortable if not luxurious context to a resourceful, resilient young man who could withstand pain and privation, plot and execute escapes and make decisions about his life. He had also lost his shyness.

He reflected on the failures and betrayals he had experienced in the last two weeks, from Uncle Wagdy's craven cowardice when facing his wife to Sayed and Salah's crumbling courage when confronting Mr Ala'a, from Samir's fear of physical pain to the sisters' failure to curb Gihan's cruelty and finally Mr Suleyman's putting profit before people. Of course there was also the failure of the security forces to prevent the bombing and the betrayal of another Muslim blowing up his fellows. Ultimately, other people would always let him down.

Had he been spoiled? He had never gone to bed hungry. His mother had always cooked up masses of food, even with the rationing and shortages that followed the war. In Ramadan, she had always managed to provide a feast after fasting, mostly vegetable dishes but chicken or fish on a Friday. His father had always managed to put clothes on his back, even if some had been bought from second-hand shops. He had always been clean. His father had always managed to pay the bills that kept the water hot and the power on, cuts permitting. He had been able to watch football on television with his brothers who, despite their derisive comments, had always protected him from harm. He had adored, and been adored by, his little sister whom he remembered as a baby gurgling in her cot, as a toddler pottering round the flat in plastic pants, as a little girl going to school and playing peek-a-boo behind the sofa. Whatever betrayals he had suffered, he would not betray Fatima. He would find a job. He did not need Uncle Wagdy or Sister Gihan or Mr Suleyman. He would do this himself. Sitting by the Tigris, the legendary river of ancient Mesopotamia, he would do this himself, for his sister and for his country. There would surely be someone who needed help in exchange for a place to stay and a little food. He could work at a stall weighing out fruit and vegetables or sweep barbers' floors or carry tea to tables. He might even be taken on as a plumber's apprentice. So, although he was cold, damp and tired, he was not depressed. He was excited. He would survive, and the whole world was open to him.

His body still ached from the beating it had received only this morning. It seemed so long ago. The failed rebellion had been this time yesterday. The Cupboard, the caning, the feigning of sickness, the ambulance, the trolley, the shopping centre, the walk to the flat, the conversation with his uncle…so much in such a short time. Twenty-four hours ago he had been in the dormitory with Sayed and the others. Ten days ago he had been sleeping on his uncle's floor. Two weeks ago he had been safe at home, enduring the taunts of Mohamed and Hussein, enjoying his mother's yellow lentil soup, hiding Fatima's head-scarfed Fulla doll under the cushions, hugging his Dad when he came in from work, thinking of homework and school, of teachers and grades. Now he was thinking about keeping dry and getting a job. Four weeks ago he had been excited by the prospect of turning fifteen, of the opportunities afforded by getting older, of going to secondary school, maybe to college. Now he laughed at his own naivety.

He drifted off into an uneasy sleep from which he woke every twenty minutes or so as the rough concrete floor dug into his bones. Above him the cars of Baghdad cruised from the Green Zone to Rusafa, the police and US military manned their checkpoints and, far away, in the Baghdad Medical City created by Saddam Hussein, Fatima Hassan, tangled in tubes, shifted in her bed and dreamed of her brother.

*

DAWN broke before Ali's gaze in a steel-grey sheen on the River Tigris. He felt stiff. All the bruises and cuts he had suffered the day before as well as his still-tender ankle and shoulder had locked into place in the damp night air. Add to that the chill that had crept into his flesh during the night and Ali did not really feel fit for anything except a long hot bath. His grumbling stomach reminded him he had not eaten anything since the gluey rice and mushy lentils at the Sisters of Mercy some thirty-six hours earlier. He had to find a job, but first he had to find food.

He went to a supermarket on Rashid Street. Not inside, obviously. He had no money. He went to the bins behind the shop, dug out some stale bread, shrivelled cucumbers, wrinkled tomatoes and bruised, blackened bananas and, crouching among the damp, discarded cardboard boxes, ate like a jackal, ripping the food with his teeth and hands until his belly felt full.

Many shopkeepers were sympathetic. Some made him tea. Some let him sit and warm up. Some even gave him advice and addresses but none gave him a job. A friendly barber told him he already had his own kids to sweep the floor and did not need any more help.

''But you don't need to pay me,'' said Ali, ''Just let me sleep here.''

''What will you eat?'' said the barber.

''Whatever you leave,'' said Ali. ''I can live on leftovers.''

''Leftovers?'' said the barber, ''With six children? You gotta be joking.''

The owner of a phone shop was more direct. '''I can't let you sleep here,'' he said. ''You might rob me.''

''I won't,'' said Ali.

''I don't know that, do I?'' said the man. ''I don't know anything about you.''

Ali entered a small café full of men reading newspapers and smoking water-pipes. He thought he would go round all the tables and ask each man in turn but the manager appeared and chased him away.

''I'm not begging!'' Ali protested. ''I want a job!''

The men laughed and returned to their papers.

''Times are hard,'' explained a sweet-seller. ''Everyone's broke and working two jobs.''

''I don't need much,'' said Ali. ''A dollar a day and somewhere to sleep.''

''Sorry, son,'' the man explained. ''No-one's going to let you sleep in their shops. They can't trust you. They don't know you. I'm sure you're a nice kid but you're a street-kid.''

''My sister's sick,'' Ali said, ''My parents are dead. What shall I do?''

''Go to an orphanage,'' suggested the man helpfully.

At the midday Call to Prayer, Ali went to a blue-domed mosque. Several black-clad women squatted on the pavement. They were not begging but selling things, combs and hair-brushes in plastic wrappers, incense sticks in flimsy cardboard packets and bunches of mint. They were widows trying to scrape together some money to feed and clothe their children. He asked one where she got the stuff. She told him to get lost.

He watched men removing their shoes before they entered the mosque and had an idea.

''Fifty dinars to mind your shoes,'' he cried, ''Fifty dinars to mind your shoes.''

An elderly man in a dirty galabeya rounded on him.

''No-one steals shoes from a mosque,'' he said indignantly.

''I'll make sure they don't,'' said Ali. ''Fifty dinars to mind your shoes.''

''Get out of it,'' scowled the old man.

Maybe he could sell some stuff from his bag. Maybe he could sell a couple of T-shirts to some kids or even his Manchester United shirt. That might fetch a thousand dinars. He pulled them out and spread them on the pavement.

''Clothes for sale!'' he cried. ''Clothes for sale! Thousand dinars a piece.''

''Hey,'' screamed one of the widows, ''Clear off and find your own mosque.''

Ali ignored her. ''Clothes for sale! All good quality, going cheap!''

The widow threw a bunch of mint at him.

''Ha,'' cried Ali, waving it in the air. ''Mint for sale! Bunch of mint! One hundred dinars!''

The widows lurched to their feet. The old man emerged from the mosque. Two policemen were making their way across the grass towards him.

''Yikes,'' he yelped, cramming the clothes back inside his bag.

''And don't come back!'' yelled the old man, shaking his fist at Ali's fleeing back. ''You look out for him,'' he told the policemen. ''Bloody beggars. Ruining this country, they are.''

Ali scooted past the pillars of the Rashid Street shopping arcade, rucksack bouncing on his shoulder, until he was out of sight and out of breath. He leaned on a wall, hands on his knees, and gasped. Getting a job and earning money had not been as easy as he had hoped. Everyone had their patch and viewed him as a threat or were so strapped for cash themselves that they couldn't spare anything for anyone else. He had to find his own patch or continue clashing with widows, fighting with pensioners and dodging the cops.

He drifted back towards the bridge, his stomach telling him it was lunchtime. What would the bin contain this afternoon? Yoghurt? Fruit? More bread? Unfortunately it contained nothing but cardboard and plastic. In despair, Ali stared into the sea of discarded packaging and then another idea came to him. He could sell garbage.

Dragging damp cardboard boxes from the bin, he folded them into rectangles. Pulling out plastic bags, he smoothed them into squares. Carrying cans to the corner, he crushed them under his shoe. Then he realised he had nowhere to put these treasures. They would not fit in his rucksack unless he emptied everything else out so he looked around for something else. A discarded supermarket trolley lay rotting on its side near the cylindrical bin. It had a broken wheel and several broken spines but he could resurrect it from its rusty grave and put it to work. He laid all his treasures inside the cart and wheeled it up onto the street, pushing it back to the friendly barber.

''Take it to Rafik the Recycler in Palestine Street,'' said the friendly barber. ''He'll buy it. And well done, kid, on your enterprise. You'll go far.''

Rafik the Recycler was smoking hash when Ali arrived and tapping a rhythmical accompaniment to Nancy Ajram's 'Shakhbat shakabit' which hissed from a tiny transistor radio behind his head.

''Hey kid,'' he drawled. ''You're not the usual guy.''

''He's sick,'' said Ali.

''You want a puff?'' Rafik, a chunky guy in a Chelsea shirt, swayed in the plastic chair behind his cheap Formica desk, settled his gold chain round his neck and offered Ali the joint.

''No thanks,'' said Ali. ''I don't.''

''Should,'' said Rafik. ''Loosen you up. Where're the usual guys?''

''Sick,'' said Ali impatiently. ''Look, you want this stuff or not?''

Rafik heaved himself from the chair and ambled to the shopping cart where he poked indifferently among the sheets of card, neatly folded newspapers, piled up plastic and crushed cans. Ash flaked away from the burning Rizla and drifted lazily to the concrete floor.

''Hey, kid,'' he remarked, ''You bring this shit to me in better condition than the other schmucks. I can sell this on right enough. Bring me more tomorrow. If you can get glass bottles, wash 'em out first. It'll save me a job and be easier to shift.''

''Right,'' said Ali.

''Give you a dollar now and another for each delivery,'' said Rafik. Ali tucked two bank-notes into his back pocket. ''Sure you don't want some blow?''

Excited and satisfied, Ali wheeled the empty trolley back to the bridge. Although he was tempted to go blow it on a juicy burger, he decided to spend it on cheap but nutritional food that would last for several days like bread, apples, water, nuts, dates, carrots and biscuits. He also decided he would not sleep under the bridge again. It was too cold. He would look for a bomb-site or a building-site. Both were easy to find in downtown Baghdad.

He chose a bomb-site, a heap of rubble with a couple of unstable-looking brick walls still just about standing. He could shelter behind the rubble and maybe light a fire without drawing too much attention to himself. Using his hands, he dug a hole for a toilet in the dusty sand behind a smaller rubble-heap then a larger hole several metres away for a bed. He thought that sleeping in the ground might be warmer than sleeping on it.

Pulling out the bank-notes, he studied them carefully. The blue 250 dinar note bore the picture of an astrolabe on the front and the spiral minaret of the Great Mosque of Samarra on the back. The brown 1000 dinar note showed a gold dinar coin on the front and Al-Mustansiriya School, one of the oldest in the Islamic world, on the back. Maybe when he became King of Baghdad Garbage Recycling, his own school might be drawn on a bank-note.

He had liked his school. It had been small compared to others, just forty to a class, and he had not really known all the boys' name but the teachers had been nice. Then a mortar shell had fallen on the school. Five teachers and twelve children had died. The school had been closed. The Principal, a kind, elderly man named Thabit, had closed the gates and wept as he wished them good luck and the protection of God.

Ali missed his lessons, learning English and French, the beautiful challenge of Arabic calligraphy, the colours of Art, the strange, evocative sounds of the oud his music teacher had played. He enjoyed playing football and become quite good at tennis, playing matches and winning games, until someone from Al-Qaeda bombed the court and left a crater where the net had been. Staying at home, sheltering in the dark of yet another power-cut, listening to the muted crump of bombs and the high-pitched, rapid rattle of gunfire was dull compared with school.

Dusk was drawing in as the call for Maghreb prayers resounded through the increasingly indigo sky. Pushing the money into his pocket, Ali headed for the mosque. He had decided to spend around 500 dinars and keep the rest but first he would get a wash and thank Allah for His blessing. He splashed water over his face and up his nose then rinsed his arms and neck. Removing his shoes and socks, he washed his feet. He needed a change of socks. His denim jacket and blue jeans were grubby. His green sweater smelled of damp and garbage. He needed clean underwear. Now he had money he would find a launderette and freshen everything up. Fate was finally turning his way.

Feeling almost happy, he entered the Prayer Hall and prostrated himself with the others.

#12. BOMB-SITE BY THE RIVER TIGRIS, BAGHDAD, IRAQ

Friday May 22, 19:48

THE TWO guys had followed Ali for a couple of days. They had watched him root through the bin for his breakfast then observed his encounters with the shopkeepers, laughing when he was chased out of the café with a newspaper like a troublesome fly. They had seen him arguing with people outside the mosque. They had watched him handing over his treasures to Rafik the Recycler. They had spotted him in the crowd after prayers and witnessed him buying food in the shop. Now they watched him lighting a fire behind the bricks, crouching, unaware, a small, defenceless young boy ripe for the robbing. They separated and advanced on him.

Ali felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. This did not look good. The guy on the right was about sixteen, heavy-set, short black stubble covering his scalp. He was wearing a navy blue tracksuit and trainers. The guy on the left was about eighteen, taller, with powerful shoulders bulging inside his fake leather jacket. He had a blue dragon tattooed on his neck. His hideously bent nose had obviously been broken more than once. Ali glanced at his rucksack a few metres to his right. The two thugs followed his glance. Bent-Nose moved towards it whilst Stubble-Head continued towards Ali who now stood up, spreading his hands palm-down in a gesture of peace.

''Hi,'' said Ali, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice.

''You got money,'' said Stubble-Head bluntly. ''We want it.''

''If I had money,'' Ali said evenly, ''I wouldn't be living in this shit-hole, would I?''

Stubble-Head sighed heavily. He was now about three metres away. ''I hate it when people lie to me.'' He glanced at Bent-Nose, now crouching by the rucksack. ''What do we do with little liars, Haz?''

Bent-Nose sniggered and opened the rucksack. ''Cut 'em, Cookie. We cut 'em.''

A knife glinted in Stubble-Head's hand. Ali felt his eyes widen and his anus tighten.

''We saw you take a load of stuff to Rafik,'' Stubble-Head stated.

''You wanna work with me? There's plenty to share. We could be partners.'' Ali's voice squeaked as he backed away.

''We could be partners,'' Stubble-Head mimicked. Bent-Nose sniggered again. ''I got a partner already, squirt. What would I want with you?''

Ali backed away a little further. Stubble-Head was now moving a little more quickly, the knife extended, pointing at Ali's chin. The six-inch blade had a serrated edge and a slightly curved point. It seemed very bright in the dim twilight.

Bent-Nose was pulling clothes from the rucksack. Ali retreated a few more steps.

''Look, I don't want any trouble,'' he stammered, not bothering now to disguise his fear.

''And you won't get any,'' said Stubble-Head. ''Just hand over the cash.''

''But my stuff,'' said Ali, backing into the unstable wall and feeling brick-dust shower over his shoulders.

''Our stuff,'' corrected Stubble-Head. ''You have nowhere to run, squirt.''

He seized Ali's shoulder with his left hand and touched the blade to Ali's left cheek with his right. Ali could smell garlic on his breath and a terrible stale odour that made him want to retch. ''Listen, you little bastard. Give us the money.'' He pressed his body against Ali's. ''Or we'll screw your little chicken-ass till you bleed.''

Ali was trembling now, fear crawling through his stomach like ants.

Stubble-Head pushed the knife-tip under Ali's cheekbone. Ali felt the skin split. His stomach lurched sickly, but he also felt the wall buckle slightly behind him.

''All right, all right.'' he said, suddenly calm. He knew what to do. ''I'll give you the money. It's in my jeans.'' He moved his hand towards his front pocket.

Stubble-Head took a pace back, still holding Ali's sweater. Bent-Nose was sorting through Ali's belongings. Ali smiled and, seizing Stubble-Head's jacket, jerked the older boy towards him. He snapped his right knee up with as much force as he could muster and mushed Stubble-Head's testicles. Stubble-Head squealed and dropped like a stone. The knife clattered on the concrete. Ali kicked him again in the groin, this time a full-force Cristiano Ronaldo penalty-style kick. Stubble-Head was copiously sick and passed out.

Ali turned to face Bent-Nose, spreading his hands against the wall behind him. Bent-Nose roared, raised his fists and sprang at him. Ali twisted aside, grabbed the leather lapels and hurled him headlong into the wall. Bent-Nose smashed into it skull-first and crashed to the ground. The wall groaned, buckled and collapsed, burying Bent-Nose under a mound of bricks and dust. Two denimed legs stuck out of the pile.

''Bleurgh!''

Stubble-Head was vomiting again. He was also weeping with pain.

Ali picked up the knife and sawed at a brick until the edge was blunted and ruined. Then he stabbed the point into a concrete block.

Stubble-Head was crawling on his hands and knees, still retching. Ali stood over him.

''Now you, Cookie, can go screw yourself.'' He kicked him hard under the ribs. Stubble-Head whimpered and collapsed. ''If your balls ever work again.''

Ali went to repack his rucksack. He was sweating, his hands were shaking and he was breathing hard through his nose. He had never been in a fight before.

Suddenly, a bright light flared nearby and the concentrated beam of an extremely powerful lamp blinded him. Squinting, he shielded his eyes. A voice yelled, metallic and amplified, ''You there! Stay still! Don't move!''

Ali could see nothing except the yellow glare.

''Put your hands up and step away from the bag! Step away from the bag! Put your hands up!'' The voice sounded edgy, nervous, apprehensive. ''Step away from the bag!''

Ali raised his arms above his head, still squinting into the light.

''It's my bag!'' he called.

''Shut up! Move away from the bag!''

''It's my bag,'' he repeated, stepping two paces to his left.

''Shut up! Keep your hands up! Stand still!''

Three policemen in dark blue uniforms emerged from the light, machine-guns levelled at Ali's chest. Behind them, in full body-armour and helmets, came two American soldiers.

''Move away from the bag!'' called the Voice. ''Walk towards the light. Leave the bag on the ground and walk towards the light!''

''Keep your hands where we can see them!'' yelled a second, edgier voice.

Ali glanced over his shoulder at the rucksack. ''But….''

''Don't argue!'' the second voice snapped. ''Just walk towards the light.''

Ali felt himself swallowed up in yellow then several pairs of hands took hold of him and dragged him out of the light onto the pavement. Now he saw the huge spotlight on a military jeep and two other soldiers pointing their rifles at his head.

''Get him in the jeep,'' said a soldier, pointing his gun at Ali's rucksack.

''That's my stuff!'' yelled Ali.

''Shut up!'' snapped the soldier.

''Could be a bomb!'' said the other.

''It's sweaters, pants and socks!'' Ali protested.

''Bullshit!'' snapped the first soldier.

''Plastic explosives!'' bawled the second.

''Get a bomb-disposal unit down here!'' screamed the first.

''I'll show you,'' said Ali, getting out of the jeep. A policeman slammed him back into the seat and put a gun to his head. ''OK, OK,'' said Ali, ''I won't show you.''

''Shoot it!'' shouted one of the policemen.

''Blow it up!'' yelled another.

''It's my stuff,'' said Ali brokenly. ''Clothes, comics, photos. If you blow it up, I'll have nothing left.''

''Shut up!'' The policeman cuffed him round the head.

''Look,'' said Ali, ''If it's a bomb, why would I blow up a bomb-site, eh? I mean, it's already been bombed, right? It's already rubble.''

''You were gonna carry it,'' said one of the soldiers, ''To a mosque or a market.''

''You've got to be joking,'' muttered Ali. ''I've seen that. Lived through that. It's my clothes and stuff, I promise.''

Another soldier arrived. ''You got a bomb here?''

''Possibly, Sarge. Blue Pokémon rucksack over there.''

''Got the kid, Sarge,'' said the other, ''Kid who planted it. Got him right here.''

''Take it out! Put a bullet through it!'' cried one of the cops.

''Look, it's not a fucking bomb!'' screamed Ali at last. ''It's my clothes!''

The soldier looked at him.

''Hey Mickey? Mickey Mouse?'' Ali blinked. ''Hey, kid. You all right?'' The soldier turned to the others. ''This is Mickey. Kid who saved my life in Sadr City.'' The soldier grinned and turned back. ''So how are you doing, Mickey?''

Ali breathed a massive sigh of relief and shook the outstretched hand.

#13. Police Station TWo, Green Zone, Baghdad, IRAQ

Friday may 22, 21:42

THE JEEP, driven by one of the soldiers, bounced over the bridge into the Green Zone. A second jeep containing the two muggers, the other soldiers and driven by the third policeman sped along behind them. Silently, resentfully, Ali, hugging his rucksack, sat between two policemen wondering why he had been arrested.

Two policemen and the friendly soldier had accompanied him into the rubble to collect his bag and inspect the fallen muggers.

''You did this?'' the policeman had asked.

Ali had narrowed his eyes. ''Yes.'' There was no point denying it.

''You beat up these two guys and stole their stuff?'' the policeman had asked.

Ali had laughed. ''Yeah. I'm a regular street-fighter. Terror of the teen-gangs, me.''

''It's his stuff.'' The soldier had shown the policeman the family photos and tossed the rucksack across the rubble whilst the muggers were dragged away to the jeep, bricks falling away from Bent-Nose's battered body with a satisfying clatter.

''You'd better come with us,'' the policeman had said.

The jeep paused at a barrier. Soldiers shone flashlights over faces, checked clipboards, raised the barrier and waved the jeeps into a compound surrounded by brick walls, sandbags and razor-wire. Sentries armed with M-16s observed the nightscape from their corner watchtowers.

Ali scrambled from the jeep and stumbled towards a dark blue shed. Inside, he and the muggers were sat on a bench and told not to move.

''You're a dead man,'' Bent-Nose said.

Ali glanced at the swelling inside Stubble-Head's trousers and laughed.

''You won't laugh when we're shoving a broomstick up your arse,'' Stubble-Head snarled.

A captain with a balding scalp and a drooping moustache emerged from a back office and took the clipboard from the sergeant.

''Hazem and Khaled. The scum of the streets. We've been searching for you. Welcome to your worst nightmares.'' He turned to Ali. ''Who the hell are you?''

''My name is Amin,'' Ali replied, ''Ali Al-Amin.''

The captain stroked his moustache. ''Oho,'' he said. ''We've also been searching for you. Something about a shop window and a hospital trolley?''

Ali said nothing.

''You're an elusive fellow.''

Ali said nothing.

''Tamam,'' shrugged the captain. ''Take these two pigs to the cells and soften them up. This one,'' Indicating Ali, ''Just take him to a cell.''

It was about six metres square with a grille of four iron bars set at head-height in a dark blue metal door. A bare light-bulb dangled from a ceiling flex. There was a low wooden bench about the width of a human adult. A plastic bucket stood in a corner. The door slammed shut.

Ali lay on the bench with his rucksack under his head and stared at the wall. Occasionally he heard a cry from a cell further down the corridor. He lost track of time. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He failed. He opened his eyes and stared at the wall again. His initial fear had been replaced by boredom. The muggers were clearly well-known to the police. He had disabled them, helped the cops catch them. As for the shop window, it was hardly a capital offence. How he would pay the fine, he wasn't sure. However, he was pretty sure the cops would send him back to the orphanage. Whatever. He closed his eyes again.

The metal door clanged open. The balding captain and the American soldier entered the cell. The captain was carrying two plastic chairs which he set on the concrete floor. The fair-haired soldier had removed his body-armour to reveal sand-coloured fatigues. Ali swung his feet off the bench and sat up.

''Ali Al-Amin.'' The captain clicked his ballpoint.

''Mickey,'' said the soldier. ''I call him Mickey. He likes Mickey Mouse, don't you, kid?''

The soldier's Arabic was basic, his pronunciation not so good, but at least he was trying.

''My name's Jim. I'm from Oklahoma in the USA. Wheat country, remember? I'm a sergeant in the infantry. You saved my life in Muraidi Market. Thank you.'' He shook Ali's hand then explained what had happened to the captain, who translated for Ali.

''When the bomb exploded, he was hit in the face by a block of wood. Blood filled his mouth and he swallowed his tongue. You cleared it out with your fingers and got him breathing again. He's grateful to you.''

''No worries,'' said Ali in fairly bad English.

''You lost your whole family,'' said the captain. ''Dad, Mum, brothers, all killed. Your sister survived but lost a leg, her spleen, a lot of blood and also sustained spinal injuries.''

Ali shut his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

''You saved a girl by throwing clothes round her,'' said the captain. ''Doctors said it saved her from hypothermia. You also bandaged her eyes. One was saved but she lost the other. You put out the fire on the bread-seller's back. He died but you tried to save him. You carried a small child out of the market. He survived. You showed tremendous presence of mind in the midst of a truly terrible experience. That's impressive.'' The captain consulted his notes. ''You had problems at the orphanage, didn't you? Problems adjusting?''

''You could say that,'' Ali grunted.

''You led an escape attempt which involved assaulting a member of staff twice your size but this failed. So you feigned illness to get out of the building, attacked a paramedic, stole a trolley, rode it down a hill, smashed it into a shop window and ran away. Then you beat up two of Rusafa's most notorious drug-dealers. How did you do that?''

''Kicked one in the 'nads, smashed the other through a wall,'' Ali answered indifferently.

''How?'' the policeman insisted.

Ali shrugged again. ''Don't know. Balance, timing, using their weight and momentum against them. Something like that.''

''You're a menace, Ali Amin,'' said the captain, ''A menace.''

Jim returned with a mug of very sweet, very hot black tea.

''That's good,'' he grinned. ''Mickey the Menace. I like that.''

Ali smiled weakly.

''What have you been living on?'' asked the captain.

''I've been trying to find work,'' said Ali. ''I asked all the shopkeepers then I tried selling stuff at the mosque then I collected rubbish to sell. I made some money, found the bombed-out building and decided to stay there. I spent one night under the bridge but it was too open and there were rats.'' He stared at the wall. ''Suleyman took our flat and my uncle doesn't want me. The street is better than the orphanage.'' He fixed his eyes on the captain's. ''I want to go back to the streets.''

'' 'Fraid not,'' said the captain. ''The furniture shop and the hospital are after you for the trolley incident.''

''Jail, then.'' Ali sipped the tea.

''He's a good kid,'' said Jim. ''He's honest, brave, resourceful, intelligent. Let him go.''

The captain shook his head. ''I can't,'' he said. ''Someone else wants to see him.''

''Look,'' said Jim, ''I'll pay for the window, and the trolley. It's not a problem.''

The metal door scraped open and a young policeman peered into the cell.

''Captain, that phone call…they're ready for you.''

The captain looked at Ali, shook his head in a mix of wonder and curiosity, and left.

Ali sipped the tea again.

''Good?'' asked Jim.

''Yes,'' said Ali in English. ''Sank you.''

''You like adventure,'' said Jim. ''Mickey the Menace.'' He laughed admiringly. ''You're the bravest boy I've ever met.''

''Sanks,'' said Ali again.

They lapsed into silence then Jim pulled a photo out of his wallet and passed it across.

''My son,'' he said. ''Jeff, he's called. Jeffrey.''

The boy was an archetypal farm boy, about twelve, with shaggy golden-wheat hair and a toothy grin. He was wearing blue denim dungarees and a red and white checked shirt.

''Nice,'' said Ali. ''He looks happy.''

''I think he is,'' said Jim. ''I hope he is.'' He pocketed the photo.

They lapsed into silence again. After an eternity, the captain returned with a newcomer, a giant man in an olive-green military uniform. Multi-coloured medal ribbons adorned a broad chest, golden stars decorated his shoulders and a bushy moustache bristled under his nose.

''This him?'' he snapped. ''He's a bit weedy.''

''Hey,'' said Ali, ''I can kick you in the soft and danglies too if you like.''

The man's upside-down-pear head seemed about to explode.

''Get out,'' he growled at Jim and the captain, ''And shut the door. Sparky, eh?''

Ali raised his chin, surprised by how little he cared. Three weeks ago he would have quaked in his socks before a man like this, not openly defied him. What had happened to him?

''I read the report,'' the man stated bluntly. ''Maybe you could work for me.''

''Doing what?'' said Ali. ''Combing your moustache?''

''Listen, kid,'' the man said softly, ''I could kill you now just by pressing my thumb against your pretty little throat, so less of the attitude, tamam?''

Ali drained his tea-cup, unimpressed.

''I am Colonel Ibrahim Radwan,'' said the man. ''I am the Director of Special Operations for the Joint Arab Intelligence Service. I am a spy, or more accurately, a spymaster.'' He paused. ''You seem a lot stupider than I was led to believe.''

''You want me to work for you?'' said Ali, setting the cup on the bench beside him. ''How? Why? Doing what? I'm a homeless orphan who smashed a shop window.''

''Quite,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''Would you like to see your sister?''

Ali glared at him.

''I'll take you to her,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''We can talk on the way.''

He ushered Ali from the cell into Reception, signed a paper on the captain's clipboard and then barked a laugh. The policemen and soldiers were watching grainy black-and-white CCTV footage of Ali in his underwear riding the hospital trolley down the escalator. They were cheering and laughing. Ali heard himself yell ''Yee-ha'' then winced as he watched himself roll over and smash through the window. The viewers whooped again. Ali saw himself sit up on the sofa, shake broken glass out of his hair, yell ''Ha!'' and dash off through the hole. Policemen and soldiers cheered, grinned and clapped. Jim clapped especially loudly, an admiring smile warming his sun-weathered face. Ibrahim Radwan laid his hand on Ali's shoulder.

''You see why I want you?'' he said harshly. ''Because you can do that. Come. We will visit Fatima and then we're going on a journey.''

#14. ROOM 1212, INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, AMMAN, JORDAN

Saturday May 23, 11:09

ALI WOKE suddenly, startled by the unfamiliarity of his surroundings. He was lying between cool, clean white sheets in a king-sized bed, his head propped up on a pile of soft, fluffy pillows. Light was filtering faintly through a chink in the thick gold-coloured curtains. He yawned, blinked and rubbed his eyes.

To say the room was luxurious would be to say the Sun was a little warm. The wallpaper was a rich crimson and gold colour, the paintwork gleaming white, the carpet a rich ruby-red, the curtains thick and velvety soft, like rabbits' ears. The room contained two large brown leather armchairs, a glass-topped circular table, a writing desk, an enormous plasma-screen Sony television on a stand, a double wardrobe, a mini-fridge containing snacks, chocolate and drinks, a telephone and a massive bedside lamp. The duvet was white with red and gold stripes. Gold cushions were piled on a red sofa at the far side of the room. Ali had only seen such palaces in pictures and movies. He had never expected to actually be in one, especially ten hours earlier when he had been in a cell in Baghdad police station with Bent-Nose and Stubble-Head threatening to shove broomsticks up his ass.

Although he had only slept three nights on the streets, it had been tough. He had become constantly hungry. The garbage he dug out of the bins had stopped satisfying him and left him with the bony fingers of starvation beginning to dig deeply into his stomach. He had felt dirty all the time, caked in sweat and dust, unable to rinse it off, except at the mosque. He had hated not being able to change his clothes. Everything had stuck to him as the heat of approaching summer had slowly intensified. He had slept badly. Hard concrete, cold sand, the occasional rattle of gunfire, the frequent scream of sirens, the constant aroma of urine and burning and damp and dogs, all acting in conspiratorial concert to get inside his head.

He hated feeling dirty. He hated dirty clothes. That had been worse than the constant gnawing hunger and the forced swallowing of mouldy bread, bruised, fly-blown fruit and stinky, green-sheened, maggoty meat. He had even resorted to drinking water from the River Tigris, even though he suspected it to be seriously and dangerously polluted.

Mosquitoes were also a nuisance, especially down near the river. He had often been woken by irritating, high-pitched whining and managed to swat and splat several insects but inevitably some had broken through to leave itchy red bumps on his skin, even, bafflingly, inside his clothes. He had begun to despair of living like this for long. The muggers, then, had done him a favour, especially since he was now in a five-star hotel. Bent-Nose and Stubble-Head. Huh.

Pointing the remote control at the television, he clicked into Tom and Jerry on Dubai One and browsed idly through the leather-bound Hotel Directory whilst Jerry slammed a frying pan into Tom's face. The directory listed six bars, five cafés, seven restaurants, two gymnasiums, two saunas, two swimming pools, shoeshine services, limousine services, laundry services, massage services, souvenir shops, flower shops, bookshops and clothes shops. This hotel was a miniature city crying out to be explored. He settled back to watch the cartoon, enjoying the cool feel of crisp cotton on his bare legs.

Colonel Ibrahim had whisked him in an unmarked black limousine to the vast 1980s complex known as Medical City. Made up of several hospitals, an Accident and Emergency Department, specialist clinics for toxicology, kidney transplants, gastroenterology, hepatology and tuberculosis, the Children's Hospital, a bone marrow transplant section and the National Blood Transfusion Centre, it had cost millions to build and cost more millions to run.

Ali and the Colonel did not speak during the fifteen minute journey. The Colonel simply pressed a key on his mobile phone and said ''I've got him.''

The night-staff at the Children's Hospital were not best pleased to receive visitors so close to midnight. All the patients were, according to Matron, fast asleep.

Colonel Ibrahim flashed his teeth and said ''Make an exception for me.''

Grumbling and muttering, she led Ali to the room where Fatima, right arm resting across a pink teddy bear, lay covered by a sheet. Her right leg finished halfway down, a plastic tube was stuck in her nose, a thick bandage was wound round her head and a drip protruded from her left wrist, but at least she had more colour in her cheeks than last time.

''She'll be all right,'' the matron said quietly. ''We're doing everything we can. There isn't much we can do for her spine except physiotherapy but her leg… well, they can work miracles these days.''

''What? Grow it back?'' Ali muttered.

''Prosthetic limbs and stuff,'' the matron said. ''She's young and strong.''

Tears prickled Ali's eyelids. ''Tell her I came,'' he murmured, kissing her forehead.

''She could have the best medical care in the Middle East,'' Colonel Ibrahim said quietly. ''Top-class physios, world-class doctors…I'm sure they're doing their best here but, '' He waved his hand. ''They don't have so much money, the country is fragile economically and there is always the possibility of more violence. I know your uncle can't keep her here indefinitely.''

Ali rubbed the tears away. ''What do you suggest?'' he said.

''Move her to Jordan,'' the Colonel replied, ''To a military hospital. World-class care and free, as a gift to you,'' He almost smiled, ''For services to be rendered.''

They walked together in the dark garden of the hospital compound whilst Colonel Ibrahim outlined the purpose of his department: collaborative, cross-border counter-terrorism, and told Ali of the schools that took poor children from the streets, filled their heads with hatred and sent them out into the world as living bombs.

''These schools are very secretive and appear to be respectable places of education,'' said the Colonel. ''We need to find out the truth.''

''So you need a kid to get in and poke around,'' Ali concluded.

''Clever boy.'' Colonel Ibrahim lit a cigarette. ''The guy who killed your family in Muraidi Market came from a school in Damascus which we have been monitoring for some time. It is supported by a charity called Hands across the Sands and businesses in Egypt and Jordan. These backers are powerful and the Syrian government wants proof before they take action. Unfortunately we have none, just suspicions, and suspicions are not enough.''

''How do you know this school is training terrorists then?''

''Several former pupils became suicide bombers,'' the Colonel replied.

''Coincidence?'' suggested Ali.

The Colonel blew smoke into the air. ''I don't believe in coincidence,'' he said. ''We sent in an agent masquerading as a teacher. He disappeared two weeks ago.''

Ali frowned. ''Why me?''

''You mean apart from your escapades and taste for adventure?'' Colonel Ibrahim ground the finished cigarette under his heel. ''The imam is an Iraqi refugee who prefers to recruit other Iraqi refugees. You are just his type. Besides, who would suspect a child of being a spy? It's a ridiculous idea, right?''

''But I'm not a spy,'' Ali said.

''Exactly,'' the Colonel replied. ''No-one in their right senses would ever suspect someone like you, would they?''

Ali was unsure how to respond to that comment.

''Look,'' said the Colonel. ''What are your options? You could return to the streets of Rusafa and collect rubbish for a dollar a day. Or you could return to the Sisters of Mercy until you're fifteen and learn a trade. You could become a very good plumber but you would have two whole years with Sister Gihan and Mr Ala'a whipping your backside every other day. Or you could help your sister and work for us.'' His dark brown eyes seemed to penetrate Ali's soul.

One hour later, the Sikorsky S-76C touched down on a dark hill-top in central Amman. Ducking under the whirring rotors that whipped dust into their faces, Ali and the Colonel dashed across the tarmac to a waiting black car.

They raced at high speed through the city, bright white headlights slicing through the inky night-sky, shot round a hairpin bend, up another hill and pulled up at the side-door of a hotel. Ali and his rucksack were bundled through the door, into a service elevator, down a carpeted corridor and into Room 1212.

''Get a shower and a good night's sleep,'' the Colonel told him. ''We will meet tomorrow.''

He had left Ali alone and slightly dazed in the middle of the room.

Now, as he drew back the curtains and gazed down at the sparkling blue swimming-pool twelve stories below and the huddle of brown-brick buildings swarming up the hillside beyond, Ali understood what he had done. He had agreed to endanger his life fighting terrorists in exchange for a fancy hotel room and medical help for his sister. What an idiot.

He used the toilet in the glinting green and gold bathroom and then looked at himself in the mirror. He looked a mess. His face was lined with strain, his hair was a thick, greasy mat, his skin was grimed with dirt. Twisting the tap, he stepped into the overwhelming indulgence of a long, hot and soapy shower.

Breakfast was laid out on the balcony by a liveried waiter. Mint tea, mango juice, scrambled eggs, sliced sausages, soft cheese, tomato quarters, cucumber slices, freshly baked flat-bread hot from the oven, fruit salad, peach yoghurt, Danish pastries… he soon cleared the china plates. The sun was warm on his face and, as he finished the tea, he felt full for the first time in weeks. Pulling the orange bath-robe more tightly around himself, he snoozed a little in the sun. Maybe the life of an international super-spy would not be so bad after all!

The Colonel would soon be back, and then what? Maybe he should rob the room and run away. But then he would probably never see his sister again.

Bollocks, said a small voice. You don't like her anyway, with her ponies and princesses and pink. Get as much stuff as you can and leg it. Damn the moustachioed, pear-headed fool.

But then what? The money he would make from the hotel's bedding and fittings would only last so long. Besides, he had made a commitment.

He sighed and went to dress. Everything in his rucksack smelled musty and damp. The jeans, socks, Manchester United shirt and jumper he had worn constantly since leaving the orphanage were sweat-stained, filthy and smelled of the street. Suddenly he felt ashamed. He had arrived at this wonderful palace like a dirty beggar. The liveried waiter must have looked down his nose at him. It would not happen again. He put on white shorts, a blue and yellow Pikachu T-shirt and orange flip flops, bundled everything else up in the white plastic bag marked Laundry and phoned Room Service.

*

COLONEL Ibrahim did not look happy. Neither did the dark-spectacled, black-bearded man in the expensive grey suit. Ali sat in a red armchair in the mezzanine coffee lounge sucking mango juice through a brightly striped straw. He too wore sunglasses, gold-tinted Oakley Monster Dogs from the hotel shop. He also wore a grey Adidas cap, two brightly coloured woven friendship bands round his wrist and a silver chain round his neck.

''I see you've been shopping,'' Colonel Ibrahim said acidly.

''I needed new stuff.'' Ali glanced through the floor-to-ceiling tinted window. ''All mine is ruined after weeks in a bag. I got some swimming stuff too. Thought I'd hit the pool later. Do I have to order dinner in my room or can I use one of these restaurants?''

''You can go back to the streets of Baghdad if you like,'' said Colonel Ibrahim sharply. ''You're supposed to be inconspicuous, you know? Unnoticed. A fifteen year old living in a suite is one thing. A fifteen year old swanning round the hotel spending money like it's going out of fashion is something different.''

Grey-Suit cleared his throat. ''You sure he's the right boy for us, Colonel Radwan?''

''Yes, I'm sure,'' snapped the Colonel, ''But you,'' He shot at Ali, ''Keep your head down.'' He gestured at the bearded man beside him. ''Dr Seif is the Head of the Security Service. He thinks this operation is madness. He thinks I have made a mistake. He wants to return you to Baghdad and find someone else.'' He looked steadily into the boy's eyes. ''Have I made a mistake, Ali? Tell me now if I have.''

''I've never been in a hotel before,'' said Ali, acutely and unexpectedly embarrassed by his own unprofessional behaviour. ''I got carried away. I'm sorry.''

''You have to be more careful,'' said Dr Seif, ''Or we will have to re-house you.''

''No,'' said Ali. ''No.'' He hung his head. ''I'm sorry. I didn't think.''

''If you don't think,'' said Dr Seif more gently, ''You will die. It is that simple and that serious. These people do not mess about, Ali, and they won't give a damn that you're only a kid.''

''This is not a game,'' added the Colonel. ''You're not playing James Bond, you're doing it for real.''

Ali removed the Monster Dogs. ''I'm doing it for my sister,'' he said. ''Nothing else.''

''Fine,'' said Dr Seif, gesturing to a waiter for another mango juice. ''We will move her as soon as she's stable. In the meantime, you start basic training tomorrow. Enjoy your freedom while you can because once training starts, you'll wish you were back on the streets of Rusafa.''

He wasn't wrong.

#15. WADI INSURANCE, FIRST CIRCLE, AMMAN, JORDAN

Wednesday June 24, 14.57

A MONTH had passed, one whole month of exhausting, demanding, pain-inducing physical, mental and emotional elation. Fitter, stronger, healthier and more confident than he had ever been before, Ali returned to Amman in the same black Toyota Hilux that had delivered him, on Sunday May 24, to a secret camp in the Wadi Rum desert. From that moment at five a.m., when the driver had burst into his room with a shout of ''Get up and get dressed! You're going for a ride!'' and the first nose-bloodying, thigh-deadening combat failure in the gym, he had experienced a relentless routine of swimming, diving, running, boxing, taekwondo and obstacle courses starting at six every morning. He had stripped down, reassembled and fired a variety of guns. He had ridden horses and camels and driven cars, motorbikes, trucks and quads. He had climbed up mountains and abseiled down cliffs. He had broken through firewalls and hacked into websites, uploaded Trojans and wiped out viruses. He had studied English and French. He had covered First Aid and Morse Code. He had trekked across the desert and navigated by star-light, map and compass.

For the first time in his life, Ali had had his own room. It was simple, a roughly finished concrete floor, a wooden locker, a wash-stand, a rather basic shower and toilet and an iron bed with a hard mattress, a scratchy white sheet and a thin pillow thin, but it had been his. The fat cook, Ghazar, had provided him with a daily diet of chicken, salad, fuul, brown rice and mint tea. The soldiers in the camp had treated him with wary respect. The instructors had treated him harshly but fairly. He had survived, and it had almost been fun, but now he was reporting, as instructed, for the start of Operation Flashlight. He was nervous and his throat felt scratchy.

Wadi Insurance was advertised by a discreet brass plaque on a narrow, dirty, dark green door next to the Diplomat Café and opposite the Standard Chartered Bank by the First Circle roundabout at the top of Shaaban Street. Ali, dressed in Manchester United shirt, blue jeans and blue denim jacket, stood on the pavement and wondered whether to knock, ring the bell or just go in. The scratched Perspex face of his Spiderman watch said he was two minutes early. Ants of apprehension crawled through his stomach. Come on, he told himself. You've just finished five weeks training in the desert with the Jordanian commandoes. If you can't overcome a door, you won't be much good against the bad guys. He gulped, put his hand on the handle and opened the door. A little bell tinkled.

The reception area beyond was dingy and dull. The floor was covered in cracked, fading yellow lino. There were four rather sickly, dust-caked potted plants and a chipped, cheap coffee table over which a selection of creased, faded women's magazines were strewn haphazardly. Two tatty armchairs lurked by a radiator. Facing the entrance was a stout wooden desk with an old computer, an empty wire basket, a large desk diary, an ancient black telephone and a tinny-looking intercom. Behind the desk sat a bored-looking young woman. She was in her twenties, quite pretty, pale-skinned, olive-eyed, her finely shaped lips pursed slightly with concentration as she applied pink polish to her long, elegantly manicured fingernails. Her fashionably discreet rust and cream headscarf complemented a dark brown polo-neck sweater which hugged her firm, pert shape in a most pleasing manner. A fake-pearl necklace hung round the collar. Indifferently noting Ali was a mere boy, she returned to her nail-painting.

Ali cleared his throat. ''Eh'lan,'' he said, wondering if 'hi' was too informal. ''My name is Amin, Ali Amin. I have an appointment for three o' clock.''

''Really?'' The woman sounded sceptical. ''What about?''

''I have come to talk about insuring my collection of Pokémon cards.'' Ali repeated what his driver had told him to say. ''The Pikachu is particularly valuable.''

The woman stopped painting her nails and stared at him for a moment, then, with an almost imperceptible shake of the head, stretched out a long, languid hand, pressed a button on an intercom and said ''Your three o' clock is here, sir. Something about Pikachu cards.''

The squawked reply was indecipherable.

''I'm Hala,'' the woman introduced herself, ''Hala Ghaboury. Nice to meet you.'' Her smile brightened up the whole room. ''I won't shake hands…'' She waved the still-wet fingernails.

Ali was relieved. He felt uncomfortable shaking hands with women.

''We thought you were a myth,'' she said, ''Like the salawa you're named after. Something people talk about but rarely see.'' She indicated a solid blue door to her right. ''Through there,'' she said.

Ali entered a gloomy hallway which was lit by a bare, fly-spotted light-bulb dangling from a balding flex. The floor was tiled in dull, unvarnished red, the walls were painted a dull dark blue, the doorway to the left was marked TOILET, the doorway facing him was marked JANITOR. To the right was a staircase. The treads were covered with a thin, threadbare carpet which had once been blue. The chunky wooden banister was dusty. Shrugging, Ali moved slowly up the stairs towards another solid blue door.

The salawa was a type of wild dog, or wolf, that lived in the deserts of Egypt. It had a legendary reputation, being mythical, hard to spot and difficult to catch... that was why he had adopted it as his code-name: Ali Salawa, 'the scary wolf'. He put his hand on the round brass knob, took another deep breath and entered a new world.

The passage beyond was brilliantly lit with long fluorescent strip-lights. The floor was covered in white lino. The walls were floor-to-ceiling glass. Everything seemed to be crystal and silver, grey and white, and the place seemed spotlessly, almost antiseptically clean. He realised that the panes of glass were office partitions, for behind each one were shirt-sleeved men and head-scarfed women poring over papers, tapping keyboards, scrutinizing screens, listening to headphones, scribbling notes. The passage was a hive of silent activity. Ali could only hear the soft buzz of the lighting and the gentle purr of the air conditioning. There were no names or notices on any of the doors.

But now Colonel Ibrahim, powerful frame bursting through his dark brown suit, was striding purposefully down the passage, hand outstretched in a greeting.

''Welcome, Ali, to the Special Operations Section of the Joint Arab Intelligence Service.''

''Why is it so quiet?'' asked Ali.

''Soundproof glass,'' said the Colonel. ''You completed training with flying colours, I believe. Congratulations. From a taekwondo beginner to brown belt in a month is impressive.''

''Thanks,'' said Ali, adding in a burst of childish pride, ''I can also swim five kilometres, abseil and drive a car now.''

Colonel Ibrahim ushered him into a stark, functional, pathologically neat, white-walled briefing room. There was nothing on the desk except a beige-coloured folder, a blotter with a matching pen and pencil lined up on the right and a spiral-bound notebook. A filing cabinet occupied one corner of the room. The desk-chair was high-backed, comfortable and finished in shiny black leather. Hanging behind it was a round wall-clock. There were two other chairs, steel-framed, also in black leather.

''So,'' said the Colonel, taking the desk-chair and gesturing for Ali to take one of the others, ''You leave tonight on the midnight bus, arriving at the Western Bus Station in Damascus at four forty-five in the morning. You will be met by an agent named Hamza Madani. You will be wearing a green sweater and blue Adidas trackies. You will tell him it is cloudy tonight. He will tell you that you would have seen the moon over Damascus had you been earlier. You will reply that you have heard it is a beautiful sight unless there's a sandstorm to which he will reply it is better in winter. That is your recognition code. Hamza Madani will take you to a safe-house and together you will plan the day-to-day detail of the operation. The code-name is Flashlight.'' He pushed the folder across the desk. ''This contains everything you need to know.''

Ali leafed through a collection of intelligence reports, newspaper clippings and Internet print-outs concerning the Syrian religious schools known as hawzahs which had expanded massively in the past two years from thirty with seven thousand students to one hundred and twenty-seven with twenty-one thousand students. These were state-run, state-financed and, to a limited extent, state-controlled but there were also thirty-two private schools, twelve Shi'ite and twenty Sunni, which were seemingly unregulated. Little was known about their sources of funding, the ten thousand students who attended them, the thousand or so teachers who taught in them or the five hundred foreigners, from Africa, Europe and Asia, of whom Syrian Immigration had lost track. The situation seemed amazingly loose. No system existed to monitor the curriculum or the ideologies and the syllabuses had never been scrutinised let alone approved by either the Ministry of Education or the Ministry of Religious Affairs. Investigation had revealed that some of these places were teaching hard-line sectarian politics disguised as religion. The Sunni schools were preaching of the dangers of Iran and the heretical nature of Shi'ites and calling for the armed overthrow of the Alawite sub-sect of the ruling Assad regime whilst the Shi'ite schools were teaching that the Caliphs who had followed Ali, the grandson of the Prophet, peace be upon him, were self-serving traitors rather than 'rightly guided'.

A large colour photograph showed the exterior of a brown-stone mosque in the Old City. This was the hawzah identified by Syrian Intelligence as a possible bomb-school, Dar El-Tawhid, the House of Unity. It had thirty or so students, mostly homeless Iraqi and Palestinian boys aged between twelve and twenty-one. They attended Friday classes in sharia law and Qur'anic interpretation.

The snapshot of the imam, Talal Hafez, was not so good. It showed an enormous man with a long, bushy, coal-black beard and piercing black eyes. He was wearing traditional Arabic clothes, a long white galabeya and a round, white cap. He was frowning angrily and brandishing a steel hook in the air.

''Talal Hafez is forty-two,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''He is from Fallujah in Iraqi. He lost his left hand when an improvised explosive device he was planting blew up prematurely. He is not married and seems to hate women. He is wanted by the Americans for killing a soldier in a café.''

The third photograph showed a small, wiry man with a bald, egg-shaped head and a hooked, fleshy beak of a nose. He was wearing a pale blue open-necked shirt and slacks and was smiling the smile of a vulture. Ali felt queasy just looking at him.

''Moussa Bashir,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, ''Forty-seven, science teacher. He seems to be the one who recruits the students. He befriends the street-boys buying them drinks and ice-creams or giving them cigarettes and money. Some he takes swimming or to cafés. He is a predatory homosexual who may well be molesting the boys he recruits.''

Ali felt even queasier.

''These are the targets,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''Once you are in, find out what you can. Are they are planning terror attacks? If so, where and when? Have they trained any bombers? What are they teaching? Where does the money come from and how is it spent? Pass anything you learn on to Hamza Madani and he will send it on to the analysts for processing.''

He handed Ali an envelope containing an Iraqi passport, a Jordanian ID card, a Red Crescent document stating refugee status, an entry-visa for Syria, a bus ticket and a thousand Syrian pounds. ''Don't spend it all at once,'' he said dryly. ''You're supposed to be a refugee.''

''Who is Hamza Madani supposed to be?'' Ali pocketed the envelope.

''Your cousin, a heretic and unbeliever who may, or not, be abusing you,'' said the Colonel. ''Someone you can hate as much as you hate the Americans who killed your parents. You can't just walk up to the door and say I want to be a talib, they come to you. They recruit kids from the streets, particularly those who are either very religious, down on their luck or zealously anti-American. They hunt in parks and mosques offering hot meals and religious instruction. They may have a network of spotters who tip them off about likely recruits. These could be cops, park-keepers, shop-keepers, street cleaners, we aren't sure but it would be useful to know. You need to get yourself noticed then recruited. You will have one month and then we shall pull you out.''

''Right,'' said Ali. ''What about my sister?''

''We'll take care of it,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''Now we'll go see Dr Rashid.''

Who was a thin, wiry man in his early thirties. He had a wispy beard and an earnest expression behind owl-rimmed spectacles. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up to his elbows and the knot of his brown tie tugged down to the second button. He seemed harassed and impatient. Ali was not surprised. The lab was cluttered with circuit boards, tools, strands of wire, soldering irons and silicon chips.

''So you're Ali Salawa,'' said Dr Rashid. ''You don't look like a secret agent, I must say.''

''That's the point,'' said Ali, ''Blend in, be inconspicuous, indiscreet, you know?''

''Well,'' grunted the techie, ''Trying to develop field equipment for a child has not been easy, especially a child I don't know, but,'' he reached into a large cardboard box on the bench, ''I think I have come up with some useful items. Since yours is an information-gathering mission,'' he produced a scuffed Sony Walkman, ''We are providing you with a range of specially designed data-collection equipment.''

''I get gadgets?'' Ali grinned, ''Like James Bond? Cool.''

''Field equipment, Salawa, which, at all times, remains the property of the Jordanian Government,'' Dr Rashid said sternly. ''They are not boys' toys, whatever the movies may have shown you.'' He re-settled his glasses. ''This a multi-purpose recording device. As you can see, it looks like an ordinary Sony Walkman and it will, in fact, also play actual music cassettes.'' He allowed himself a little smile. ''You are a teenager, after all. I expect you will want your music.''

''But if you play Nancy or Britney Spears,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, ''It will self-destruct.''

''Really?'' Ali looked at the men dubiously.

''Puff of smoke,'' said the Colonel seriously.

''There are three settings,'' continued Dr Rashid, glaring at his boss. ''Tuner, Player and Recorder. The tuner has a Short Wave receiver. You can pick up virtually any SW broadcast including Citizens' Band, police, ambulance and air traffic control. Now recording can be done onto ordinary C90 cassettes available from any high street. The battery, however, is solar-charged and renews itself automatically every six hours. No hunting round kiosks for Duracells with this baby.''

He held up a sheet of football-stickers. ''Concealed within the badge of each footballer is a microscopic listening device, a bug, if you prefer.'' He indicated Cristiano Ronaldo. ''Peel away the Real Madrid logo and stick it on any surface. Activation is immediate and it will pick up any sound within a ten metre radius. I suggest you stick it somewhere inconspicuous, under a desk or a window sill, perhaps, or inside a lamp-shade, somewhere it won't be noticed or muffled. There are six altogether. To listen to the bugs, or record them, tune the receiver to 93.7 FM.''

Ali looked doubtfully at David Beckham. ''Do they stick to clothes?'' he asked.

''Of course,'' said Dr Rashid, ''But if your target removes his clothes, you'll lose it.''

''Although you might get a thrill if he's engaged in a bit of hanky-panky,'' added Colonel Ibrahim, ''All that heavy breathing, sweet nothings and kissy-kissy stuff. Enough to put a boy off his corn-flakes, eh?''

Ali laughed.

Dr Rashid, tutting disapproval, tapped the Walkman again. ''Listen carefully, Salawa. This machine doubles as an abseiling device. The headphones are attached to fifty meters of high-tensile wire which will bear a load of fifty kilograms and is custom-made for you.''

''So,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, ''Don't go gorging yourself on Syria's finest foods or you'll find yourself splatted on the road like a ladybug on a windshield.''

''The plug itself,'' Dr Rashid continued irritably, ''Is a diamond-tipped explosive spike that will embed itself like an anchor in concrete or a rock-face. The harness is concealed inside the skull-bar of the headphones. If you pull both ends away from each other simultaneously, you will see you get a metre of foam-covered wire, easily enough to go round your skinny waist. Now cassettes. This red one is a scrambler and jammer. Play it to disrupt all mobile signals and radio broadcasts for a hundred metres. The black one is a self-destruct device. Put it in, press PLAY and run like hell. You'll have six seconds to get out of the blast-zone.''

''And these?'' Ali tapped Pink Floyd's Greatest Hits and The Best of the Beatles.

''We thought you might like something decent to listen to,'' said Colonel Ibrahim dryly, ''In the evenings when you're doing your homework.''

Dr Rashid picked up a green toothbrush. ''This contains a Sandisk Ultra Backup 64 gigabyte flash-drive in the handle. Just twist, slide out and plug it into a USB port. The download speed is lightning-fast, around half a second per gig.'' He clicked the toothbrush together again. ''The handle's waterproof so you can also use it to clean your teeth.''

He waggled a spray-can. ''We've also supplied you with some smelly stuff. Axe Dark Temptation may surround you in a cloud of chocolate-scented delight and, if you're lucky, a horde of admiring girls but this canister does more. Twist the top to the right and you'll get that scent but twist ninety degrees to the left until it clicks and you'll get a very different kind of scent, tear-gas, in fact. A squirt of that in someone's face will disorientate and dismay in equal measure. Twist one hundred and eighty degrees to the left to activate the smoke-bomb. Once it clicks, you have five seconds to escape, then PFFFF!'' He mimed an explosion with his fingers.

''Right,'' said Ali.

''Be careful with these Chiclets,'' Dr Rashid indicated a green packet. ''Each tablet contains an explosive charge. You activate it by chewing. There are five tablets altogether. When you take it out of your mouth, the air will react with a chemical in the gum. Press it into the lock you want to blow and stand back. Again, five seconds.''

''Will it double-up as gum?'' asked Ali.

''Only if you want to blow your head off,'' said Colonel Ibrahim wryly.

''It will.'' Dr Rashid glared at the Colonel. ''But I don't think it will taste so good. It will blow locks, safes, that kind of fairly small-scale thing. Now...'' He slapped Ali's hand. ''Leave the gum alone and listen. These spectacles. They are ordinary round-rimmed glasses like those worn by millions of short-sighted kids across the world. These, however, contain a miniature camera in the bridge. It will take up to ten pictures by squeezing the right-side hinge.''

''Impressive,'' said Ali.

''You'll notice that the ear-pieces are straight rather than curved. That is because each arm is equipped with a curare-tipped dart. Curare is a paralysing chemical. It will knock someone out for an hour or so. There are only two and you cannot re-arm it so don't waste them showing off to the girls. I know what you spies are like.''

''Disarming?'' Ali suggested. ''What does this do?'' He tapped a Nokia 1100 mobile phone. ''Signal-jammer? Smoke-bomb? X-ray machine? Pepper-spray?''

''It's a 'phone,'' remarked Colonel Ibrahim. ''You use it to call people.''

''It also has a signal-jamming function,'' snapped Dr Rashid. ''Some bombs are set off by phones. Just dial double hash. Here, finally, is a bomb-detector.'' He strapped a cheap Timex watch on a silver-plated bracelet onto Ali's thin left wrist. ''Push the button in, if it ticks, there's a bomb. The louder it ticks, the closer the bomb. Pull the button out, you get two metres of steel wire. Don't ask me what it's for. I'm sure you'll find a use. Turn the button clockwise and you get a bug-detector. Again, the ticking sound will guide you to the source. Honestly, I sometimes think my genius is wasted on this department.''

''And if I turn it anti-clockwise?'' said Ali tentatively.

''It changes the date,'' Dr Rashid said flatly. ''See? I can joke too.''

That, thought Ali, was a matter of opinion.

''Remember,'' Colonel Ibrahim said, ''Get in, find the information and get out. Financial records, email and phone communications, anything to connect the school with Hands across the Sands and suicide-bombing. No risks, just photograph and bug. Report everything to your handler and we will do the rest.'' Colonel Ibrahim stood up. ''If you need us to pull you out, text 'Salawa is going to earth' to 1-1-1-1 or go to our office in Central Damascus – Wadi Insurance. It's somewhere near Martyr's Square, I believe. Ahmed Ahmed is the branch manager. Hamza will give you the address. Ask to insure your Pokémon cards and we will come and get you.''

''Good luck, Salawa,'' said Dr Rashid. ''Come back alive.''

''I'll do my best.'' Ali pocketed the gadgets. Now, at last, he felt like a spy.

#16. ZENOBIA PARK, Damascus, SYRIA

Monday June 29, 21:24

IT WAS already dark when Ali perched himself back on the brown-painted, black-framed bench next to the toilets in Zenobia Park for a third successive evening. He was wearing blue trackies and green sweater over a plain white T-shirt. It was beginning to get cold but not yet cold enough for a jacket. He focused his gaze on the gates and the street beyond the toilet-block and waited. Occasionally an old man would sit on the bench next to him, smoke a cigarette, chat briefly and go away again. Other men visited the toilets. Ali timed them. Each one left again after less than five minutes. He did not blame them. The toilet was a stink-hole.

Every day had been the same so far. He woke at ten, read Tales of the Prophet and Pokémon comics in bed for half an hour then jogged round this park for a half an hour. Home again, he did fifty push-ups and fifty squat-thrusts then took a hot shower before a breakfast of bread, yoghurt, eggs, fruit and tea with Friends, Oprah or Dr Phil on MBC4. Sometimes he smoked one of Hamza Madani's Gitanes Blonds. He didn't like smoking much. It made his lungs feel heavy and the smell clung to his clothes but nearly all the street-boys he had observed smoked and he had decided it was something he might need to do to get accepted.

The safe-house was on the top floor of a discreet five-storey building in a quiet, narrow side-street between Maysaloun Street and Hafez Ibrahim Street in the Sha'alan district of northern Damascus. An excellent location, it was close to both the glamorous shopping area of Salhiyeh and Al-Hamra and the slightly seedy parks and squares, hotels and banks that attracted beggars, sniffers and whores and the subsequent interest of recruiters for criminal gangs.

The flat itself, floored throughout with pale yellow lino, was more functional than luxurious. The metal front door opened into a small lobby which contained just a telephone table and a wooden chair. To the right was an open arch into a long, narrow, coffin-shaped living room. To the left were two doors, one to a square bedroom, the other to a small gloomy passageway which had, at the end, a blue-tiled kitchen with an elderly cooker, a dodgy-looking microwave and chipped, Formica-topped work-units, and, before that, a small, warm toilet and shower room. The shower-head was attached to the wall-tiles and there was no curtain. This meant anything that would get soaked by the spray such as towels, toilet paper and clothes had to be moved into the passage first.

The bedroom contained a cheap wooden double-bed buried under a faded-yellow, cotton bedspread and a couple of thin pillows. Ali slept on the right, near the sliding, glass balcony door. Hamza Madani slept on the left, next to the cheap chest of drawers that contained their clothes. Ali had the top two, Hamza the bottom. From the small, narrow balcony, Ali could see into the playground of the nearby Dar Es-Salaam Girls' Secondary School. He had observed a number of tartan-skirted girls milling round a flagpole at lunchtime while a woman's voice had boomed announcements and morally improving messages over a crackly tannoy. Hamza Madani had crankily accused him of ogling the girls, which he had not been doing, honestly, although the little tartan skirts were quite sexy, especially with the tight white blouses…Ali had flushed hotly.

The living room's large window looked directly across narrow Rafeek Sallum Street into the stark, white-washed walls and single bulb of a flat across the street. Ali had seen a couple of smallish kids talking to a fat, hairy-shouldered man in a tight white vest who, twice a day, shifted his vast bulk from the sofa to visit a pigeon-loft on the roof, scatter corn and 'chuck-chuck' his feathery pets. The loft was open-sided so the birds could flit in and out as they pleased.

The kitchen cupboard and fridge were well-stocked. Fruit, vegetables and packs of chicken seemed to fill every space, there were blue cartons of Syria Saudi Cow milk, jars of Sunbulah honey, Nutella and Tova apricot jam, packs of Bugles crisps, chilli and cheese, and ketchup flavours, boxes of Enjoy orange juice – Ali did not like orange juice, which seemed to annoy Hamza Madani greatly - and plastic bottles of Oasis and Baraka water.

The neighbours, an elderly couple, doted on their doctor son and looked after his child during the day, the doctor's wife being dead. Ali had seen a little girl in a nappy sitting astride a plastic yellow tricycle and attempting to propel it across the parquet with her feet. It had reminded him of Fatima, and made him feel sad.

The building itself, Number 5, seemed secure. The street-door could only be opened with a key or by an internal switch. There were just two flats on each floor and the stairwell was open and airy so each landing, all the stairs and the black and white diamond-shaped tiles of the entrance-hall floor could be clearly observed from their doorway. Continuing through a padlocked iron gate, the staircase led from the landing up to the roof which was covered with junk, old buckets, discarded taps, long wooden ladders, tins of paint, rubber hosepipes, debris discarded by decades of builders, joiners, plumbers and decorators. It resembled a junk-yard.

Hamza Madani, Ali's handler, was twenty-six and fairly new to the Service. Short, around five seven, but stocky, with a thin, gloomy face, a swarthy complexion, a permanent five o' clock shadow and a tumbling cliff of black hair, he had made it plain that 'baby-sitting' and watching cartoons was not why he had joined up. From the Aramaic-speaking village of Ma'aloula, north of Damascus, his father was a bus driver and his mother was a teacher in the elementary school. His sister Alana, a sweet, shy girl with the temperament of an easily startled roe-deer, worked in a shop. When Mokhtar had asked for her hand in marriage, it had been the happiest day of Hamza's life. The entire community had celebrated for days. He had joined the Intelligence Service with Mokhtar, straight from college, and they had become firm friends. Now, with Mokhtar missing and his family heart-broken, Hamza Madani, with his M.Sc. in Computer Science from the University of Damascus, felt he could be doing something much more useful, more pro-active than minding a child, and he had told Ahmed Ahmed so. Nonetheless, Ahmed Ahmed prevailed and Hamza got landed with the boy. The other agents had sniggered, making snide comments about playing Lego and watching Teletubbies as part of the briefing. He had told them to go to hell, so, when Ali arrived in the early hours of June 25, Hamza had been somewhat uncommunicative.

Ali had not slept for twenty hours. The JETT inter-city coach, uncomfortable and jolty, had hard, badly sprung seats and filthy windows. His fellow travellers, an ancient, seriously wrinkled woman in a black niqab whose two bulging white and pink-striped plastic carrier-bags had dug deep, painful trenches in her arthritic white fingers, two tense, tanned uniformed soldiers on a week's leave from confronting Israelis across the Golan Heights and a middle-aged couple in cardigans and slacks who had deposited their cheap cardboard suitcases in the underbelly of the bus at midnight in Amman, had snoozed and snored and smacked their gums all the way to the border, grumbled when asked to disembark for Passport Control, then snoozed and snored and smacked their gums again for the next three hours all the way to Damascus. Ali had closed his eyes once or twice but stayed stubbornly awake. He was tense, excited and a little scared and besides, the songs of Pink Floyd were not meant as lullabies.

Peering through the dirty, scratched bus window, he watched the silent, sleeping streets, the still, shuttered shops and the ghostly grey humps of houses flow by in the dim illumination of a half-dozen dingy street-lights. An elderly man, a young couple and three hopeful tax drivers lurked on the pavement as the slowing bus eased between the concrete posts of the Western Bus Station, pulled into a demarcated parking-bay near a kiosk and, clattering and rattling as though in a death-throe, wheezed into silence.

Hamza had greeted him tersely. Granted, it was four forty-five in the morning and noticeably chilly but, after the password exchange and some half-hearted questions about the journey, they had fallen into uncompanionable silence as the VW Golf chugged through the streets to the Sha'alan safe-house. Things had improved slightly since then, but not much. Hamza Madani had made his feelings about his part in Operation Flashlight crystal-clear. He slumped round the flat watching TV and complaining about the shopping, the cooking, the washing, the housework, saying he thought the mission 'idiotic', till he left at twelve for the office.

Ali sat at the table in his pants and a T-shirt playing Solitaire on the work-issue Acer Aspire and listening to Natasha Bedingfield and Pussycat Dolls then, at two, got dressed and went out. Singing 'Pocketful of Sunshine' under his breath, he drifted round the shops, Kickers, Benetton and Spacetoons then sat in Zenobia Park for an hour watching the boys in their dark blue trousers and pale blue shirts and the girls in those hot tartan skirts coming home from school. Most of them walked in groups. Few deviated from their routes. Even fewer glanced at him. Later, around four, he walked, pounding the pavements between Sha'alan and the Old City, getting to know how streets and alleys connected together, how parks were laid out, how the streets ebbed and flowed, the fluctuations of people interacting, transacting, or just acting in Sharia Al Jala'a and beyond. Sometimes he walked up the steep slope of Jamal Abdel Nasser Street towards the massive brown bulk of Mount Qassioun which, topped with red and white striped radio masts, loomed protectively, or threateningly, over the city.

At seven he went home, ate whatever Hamza had put together for dinner, usually a green salad, Baba Ghanoush, bread and pickles, and then, at eight, when most people were settling down for an evening of Friends and the nine o' clock movie on Dubai One, he went out again, to bench-hop in Zenobia Park or stroll along Al Mahdi Ibn Barakeh Street to another, smaller park before winding back through the maze of alleys and narrow side-streets of Salhiyeh where he had seen the boys of greatest interest.

The numbers varied between two and six during the course of an evening and the ages ranged from seven to seventeen. They were poorly dressed, mostly in cheaply made sports clothes and even cheaper sandals, and spent their time sitting on the yellow and black kerbstones huffing glue from plastic bags and yelling abuse at passing motorists. He had watched them closely but not yet approached them. Tonight he probably would.

He gazed across the circular, closely clipped hedges and regularly spaced beds of red and yellow flowers to a playground which contained the slides, swings and climbing frames that occupied the local children whilst their parents enjoyed grilled, blistered sweet-corn from a stall just outside the Al Mahdi Ibn Barakeh gate. He liked Zenobia Park. The gardeners worked hard to keep the grass neat and lush. Several frequently employed hosepipes coiled away from taps at the rear of the toilet-block. A long, ivy-covered pergola strung alongside Al-Emir-Omar-Al-Jaza'Eri Alley 410102 housed backgammon-playing men and hand-holding couples. A long, narrow pond, illuminated at night by discreet under-water green and blue spotlights, ran through the middle. A couple of ducks paddled up and down the grassy slope. The wide, white balustrade surrounding the pond was a favoured location for waiting, working boys.

Ali entered the toilet-block. The scruffy concrete floor was soaked and reeking with old piddle-puddles. Half a dozen cubicles lined one wall. The ridged floor-plates were stained, the holes in the ground brown with use and age. The green wooden cubicle doors were scuffed and peeling. There was a long tiled ledge, four inches or so in height, for standing on. The urinal itself was a long, white-tiled wall with four vertical dividers fixed at intervals. The tiles were stained orange, brown and yellow. A length of green hose-pipe lay on the floor curled up under two filthy wash-basins and scratched mirrors like a sleeping snake.

Ali had been propositioned more than once by men who masturbated whilst watching him pee. One had even fondled his bum and offered him cash for 'sucky sucky' in a cubicle. Just thinking about it made Ali feel sick, especially when Hamza Madani had told him grimly to 'man up and take one for the team'.

Zipping up, he hurried through the gate to the kiosk in Alley 410102. Plastic footballs dangled from open shutters. Cardboard boxes crammed with crisp bags nestled between tall tins of body-spray and air-freshener. Ali bought a packet of Benson & Hedges 'Blue', a cheap white Bic lighter and a yellow tube of Uhu glue then passed a pile of plastic crates and crushed cardboard boxes which had once held bananas to cross Hafez Ibrahim Street. He was heading towards the Franciscan church at the junction of Amin Loutfy Hafez Street and Al Majlis An Nyaby Street.

Four shabbily dressed, skinny young boys were sitting on the pavement by the traffic lights watching the cycle of cars slowing down, stopping, starting up, speeding away, slowing down, stopping, starting up, speeding away. The one in the middle, the tallest, had a rag pressed to his face. The two littlest were sharing a blue plastic bag, pushing their faces inside and inhaling deeply. The fourth smoked a cigarette morosely and spat into the gutter every so often. Ali watched from a discreet distance then slit open his pack of B & H, slid out a cigarette and crossed the road.

''Got a light?'' he asked nervously.

The smoker shielded his eyes from the street-lamp's glare. ''Got a cig?'' he countered.

''Yeah.'' Ali held out the pack. ''Got any glue?''

Laughing, the boy took the bag off the little kids. They barely noticed as they stared vacantly into the dark. A smear of snot disfigured one. A rash of spots scarred the other. The kids were about eight years old.

Ali inhaled deeply. The overpowering smell of the glue made his whole head swell hotly. He felt his heart race, his eyeballs bulge and his knees buckle slightly. Feeling suddenly sick and dizzy, he leaned against a parked car. Distantly he heard the boy laugh again.

''You like marijuana?'' he heard himself saying. ''I can get you some if you want.''

''Maybe.'' The boy got to his feet. ''Let's get off the road.''

He was a couple of inches taller than Ali but much thinner. His brown face was pinched with hunger. His black hair fell in a ragged, untidy fringe. He was wearing an olive-green tracksuit and a filthy black T-shirt. His bare feet were black with grime.

He lit Ali's cigarette and then his own. ''Hisham,'' he said.

''Ali,'' said Ali, feeling his head spin as he dragged the cigarette smoke into his lungs.

''You're not from round here,'' stated Hisham, ''Not with an accent like yours.''

''Baghdad,'' said Ali, ''Till the Americans fucked it up. Now I live here with my cousin.''

Hisham huffed from a glue-soaked handkerchief which he offered amiably to Ali.

''He's a bastard,'' said Ali, pushing the rag against his face. ''Forgotten who his God is.''

Turning down a narrow, car-lined alley called Abdul Kader Al Kharsa, they were squeezing between a faceless beige wall and a red Toyota Corolla when Hisham suddenly seized Ali's shoulders and forced him up against the car.

''Who are you?'' he hissed.

''I told you.'' Ali squirmed uncomfortably under the other boy's pressing weight. ''Ali.''

''Whatchoo doin' 'ere?'' Hisham waved his lit cigarette in front of Ali's face. ''Stealin' our business…eh? You come 'ere after our business?'' He shoved his free hand between Ali's legs. ''Nice bits,'' he slurred, ''Very nice. Very soft.''

Rubbing his own bits against Ali's thigh, he flicked his cigarette away and dragged the glue-soaked handkerchief from his pocket for another huff.

''Keep 'em to yourself,'' he said, trying to sound menacing, ''If you wanna keep 'em nice.''

Ali took in the unfocussed, glassy, slack-jawed expression, the white-headed spots round his mouth, the wispy strands of hair on his upper lip, the stink of self-loathing.

''I'm new in town,'' said Ali. ''I just want some friends.''

''Paying friends?''

''Any friends.''

Hisham barked a laugh and slid away. ''Give us a ciggie,'' he said.

''I can do better than that.'' Ali produced his tube of glue. Hisham snatched it like a drowning man snatching a rope and, rapidly unscrewing the cap, fell back against the Corolla.

He told Ali he was fifteen and from Damascus. His father was dead, his brother was away in the army and he lived with his sick mother in a mean mountain-side shack owned by a Kurdish shopkeeper who demanded 'favours' when the rent was late.

''From you, or from your mother?'' asked Ali.

Hisham flared up. ''Fuck you. You think my mother's some kind of whore? Fuck you.'' He squeezed clear, colourless Uhu onto his rag. ''She couldn't do it anyway. Not like me.''

He passed the rag across. Again Ali felt his spinning head swell as they staggered drunkenly away from the car to meet Tamer and Anas in Odai Bin Al Roqa, Alley 030001.

Tamer was also fifteen and also barefoot. He had wild curly hair and wore grey slacks and a vest with blue and white hoops.

Anas, fourteen, was taller, shaven-headed, bonier, beakier. He wore a pale blue shirt, bottle-green joggers and sandals. They seemed quieter, more shadowy, somewhat cowed, somewhat defeated, especially compared to Hisham's domineering aggression. They smoked and sniffed and tossed tiny stones into the bushes whilst Hisham raged against the police (corrupt), the government (more corrupt) and the rich (most corrupt).

''Well,'' said Hisham, ''One day we'll organise ourselves and fight these bastards. Things will change, and when they do…'' He smacked his fist into his palm. ''We'll burn the lot, Bashar, his cronies, the fucking immigrants, the whole fucking lot! We will make them suffer!''

It was quarter-past eleven when they arrived at the big brown and gold wedge of the Chams Palace Hotel. The street-boys appeared to vanish around half-past, presumably tucking up in doorways until morning. Ali had walked these streets between midnight and one a couple of times and seen nobody. If he let them melt away into the night, there was no guarantee he would ever see them again and he sensed that these boys were perfect recruits for the Dar El-Tawhid.

''Where we going now?'' he asked.

''What do you mean 'we'?'' challenged Hisham.

''The night's just beginning,'' joked Ali. ''We could go clubbing.''

''You girls do what you want,'' Hisham said tartly. ''I have a home to go to.''

''Will I see you tomorrow?'' Ali blurted, too eagerly.

''Why?'' sneered Hisham. ''You fancy me or something?''

''I can bring you some glue,'' said Ali, ''And cigarettes. What kind do you like?''

Hisham spat on the road. ''You're awfully keen to please,'' he snarled, ''Faggot.''

''Just trying to be friendly,'' said Ali peaceably.

''Faggot,'' Hisham snarled again. ''Cock-sucking, shit-stabbing faggoty fuck.''

''Bring us some money,'' Anas said softly, ''So we can eat.''

''I'll be in Zenobia Park,'' said Ali.

''I bet you will,'' said Hisham sarcastically, ''Zibby Park, the Perverts' Paradise.''

The others laughed. 'Zib' is Arabic slang for 'penis'.

The three boys passed the Chams Palace Hotel. They did not look round. Ali watched them go. When Hisham peeled off from the others, Ali was torn. Should he follow Hisham? Or Tamer and Anas? Or should he go home and hope the promise of money would lure them to the park tomorrow afternoon?

Hisham pissed against a lamp-post. Tamer and Anas stopped outside a juice bar.

Hugging the shadows alongside the buildings, Ali set off after Hisham. The other boy, drunk on glue, was staggering and stumbling, seemingly quite unaware of his surroundings.

Ali hung back. Hisham seemed unstable, confrontational. The last thing he wanted was to risk this contact with a fight.

Hisham lurched passed a silver statue of Hafez Al-Assad, swore at some kids roller-skating nearby, flicked a finger at a couple of cops who were smoking next to an ice-cream van then stumbled up the steps to the traffic lights strung above the road. Ali lurked by some bushes and watched Hisham cross the road into Jamal Abdel Nasser Street. Then he turned a corner.

Ali broke into a jog. Thankfully, Hisham was only half-way along the alley.

Suddenly Hisham half-turned. Ali shrank against the wall, squeezing himself into the darkness, flattening himself against the rough concrete. Wishing he had worn darker clothes, he cursed his white trainers.

Hisham was standing in a dust-filled white pool of seeping light. He was facing a patch of waste-ground where a building had been demolished. The drab olive-green tracksuit seemed even drabber. He frowned, glanced back up the street, scratched his crotch.

Ali pressed himself against the wall. He found he was holding his breath. Perhaps he should not have hidden. Perhaps he should have strolled right up to Hisham with a cheery ''I didn't know you were going my way'' or a ''Fancy bumping into you'', making this into a chance encounter. Lurking in the darkness like a stalker was bound to seem suspicious even to someone as stoned as Hisham.

He wished now he had stuck with the other two who, he suspected, had just found a warm doorway to sleep in. He could have stayed with them, waited for them to fall asleep, then snuck away home. Damnation. Why had he not thought this through properly?

Hisham whistled softly through his teeth.

Ali froze. God Almighty. What if the other could see his breath in the cool night air? What an idiot he had been, to follow him here.

Now, without warning, Hisham crossed the road.

Ali peeled away from the plaster, moved in a noiseless semi-crouch to the corner and peered into the waste-land. It was badly lit, covered in half-bricks, plastic bags, crushed cans, shattered glass, broken bottles, puddles of liquid and plaster chunks. At the far end, against a high beige wall, was a heap of rubble. A spindly tree grew in a corner. Hisham, back to the street, was pissing against it.

Ali withdrew. Where the hell could he hide? Hisham would surely see him when he emerged, would see that he had followed him. The game would be up.

He looked along the street. None of the doorways were sufficiently deep or dark to conceal him. He could argue, try to talk his way out of it, or he could give up and leg it. The other boy was too stoned to fight or chase him. He peered round the corner again. If Hisham was heading his way, he decided, he would scarper, but Hisham had disappeared behind the rubble.

Carefully Ali picked through the half-bricks, bottles, bags and rags. Soaring up on three sides of the rectangular patch were the red-brick sides of apartment blocks. He hesitated. Crawling up the pile might dislodge the rubble and cause a hard-core cascade but he had to see what was going on. Slowly, infinitely slowly, he inched his way up the heap to the top.

What he saw made him draw in a sharp breath. Behind the bricks, Hisham was standing on a carpet of broken glass in front of a bald, hook-nosed man whose face was pressed against Hisham's groin. Hisham's trackies were halfway down his thighs. The bald head was moving rhythmically backwards and forwards.

Ali felt suddenly sick and cursed silently. He wished he had gone home. He didn't want to see this. He started to slide back down the rubble-heap.

''Hey.'' Hisham turned his head slightly. ''Ali. Come down. Come join us. It's OK.'' He put his hand on the man's face. ''It's ….. ah…. just…. ah…come on down. Join us.''

Ali steeled himself and clambered over the top of the rubble-heap just as Hisham uttered a long, low, guttural groan and stepped away from the man's mouth.

''I knew you would come.'' He pulled up his trousers. ''I knew it. You faggot.''

The bald man, still on his knees, squinted up at Ali.

''Brought a friend, Hisham?'' He licked his lips. ''That's kind.''

Ali gulped and stood very still while the bald man's fingers fumbled at his waistband.

''Ali,'' said Hisham conversationally, sitting on a brick. ''This is Moussa Bashir. Moussa, this is Ali Hassan.''

Everything was suddenly warm and wet.

#17. Red-Line Swimming Pool, SHARIA Mohamed Osama Qasem, Damascus, Syria

Wednesday July 1, 15:31

STANDING BETWEEN the corner of constantly busy Ibn Assaker Street and a large, open-air sports ground with a full-sized grass football pitch, some smaller, all-weather five-a-side and basketball courts and several rows of concrete seating, the large Red-Line swimming complex in Sharia Mohamed Osama Qasem is impressive despite its shabby, run-down appearance. The open-air twenty-five metre pool is served by a blue and white spiral chute and two diving boards, one a two-metre springboard, the other a fixed, five-metre platform. The pool is surrounded by a wide, stone-tiled seating area on which bathers may bake in the hot midday sun. A smaller, shallower kiddies' pool is situated up some steps behind a water-chute next to a line of tall lush green bushes. There is a large, fairly sparse café, a soaking-wet toilet and shower-block and, inside a metal cage, an open-air changing area with blue painted lockers and cubicles. The Red Line Swimming Pool is strictly 'Men Only'.

Through the wire-link fence separating pool from pitch, Ali, fingers twined in the green wire, thought the yellow-bibbed men running through rubber tyres and dribbling balls round traffic cones seemed to be having more fun than he was. Tamer and Anas were splashing round in the kiddies' pool whilst Moussa Bashir and Hisham were smoking in white plastic chairs and drooling over some boys who were playing on the diving board.

As arranged, Ali had met them on his usual bench next to the toilets in Zenobia Park. Tamer and Anas were wearing the same ragbag of unmatched, uncoordinated clothing as yesterday, except Anas had added a pair of cheap, black, laceless shoes. Tamer's eyes were bloodshot from a glue hangover. Anas seemed a bit brighter. They told Ali they had slept in the doorway of a lingerie shop. They nudged each other and giggled a lot.

''Lacy bras,'' Anas laughed.

''Skimpy knickers,'' Tamer sniggered.

''Have a cigarette,'' Ali sighed, handing them out.

Tamer was from Bethlehem in Palestine. When his father was shot by Israeli soldiers for throwing stones at a road-sign, his mother arrested for 'harbouring a terrorist' (his father) and their house bull-dozed flat, Tamer hitched to Damascus, hiding in trucks and riding in tankers all the way to the 'Friday' Market where he worked unloading lorries. It was neither official nor paid and he relied on tips from the drivers and traders. Sometimes he earned, sometimes he did not. He lived on a building-site near Azer Square, often alone, sometimes with other homeless boys like Nour and Ahmad, the ten year old Palestinians Hisham had been huffing with yesterday.

Anas, like Ali, was from Baghdad. After his mother was killed by an American air-strike, his father had picked up an AK-47 and run off to join Moqtada Al-Sadr's Mahdi Army where was currently shooting at anyone he could find, especially Americans and people working with the Americans. Anas, his little brother Firas and their grandmother had fled to Damascus in a taxi which had cost Granny her life-savings. Now they shared a one-bedroomed hovel with eight other Iraqis somewhere up the Qassioun mountainside. Firas, who was ten, sold toilet paper in the Journalists' Club. It was a good job, warm in winter, free tea and tips. Sometimes he had to clean the toilets too but it was worth a dollar a day. Firas neither huffed nor ran with the gangs. He thought himself a cut above the others. Anas, though, dismissed as demeaning dispensing bog paper for a living. Instead he begged in the Old City, picked the pockets of foreign tourists and considered himself authentically 'street'.

''We got to live,'' he said defensively. ''It's not my fault my Dad's a terrorist.''

''We've come here with our families or by ourselves,'' Tamer explained, ''But we're pretty much on our own. The Syrians don't want us. Nobody wants us. They tolerate us but why should they give us money or jobs or education? We're not Syrians. We're outsiders.''

''And we can't stay at home,'' Anas added, ''Or we'll probably die.''

Ali told them about the market and the bomb and how his uncle had sent him to live with his cousin in Damascus.

''My Uncle Wagdy has loads of children, too many really,'' he said. ''He couldn't look after me as well. Hamza, Wagdy's oldest, came here just after the war. He's a teacher. He's got his own flat and car. It's only a battered old Golf but it's a car. It's more than he had in Baghdad.''

''You have a home,'' Tamer sighed, ''And an adult to look after you, food on the table, a bed, a shower, a TV…'' His expressed desire nearly melted Ali's heart. He knew he should invite them back, them, Ahmad, Nour and all the homeless children for at least one decent meal but he doubted Hamza Madani would be impressed. Hamza did not seem impressed by anything he did and besides, even though such charitable undertakings might get him closer to Dar El-Tawhid than following Hisham to midnight sexchanges in the wastelands, they would surely compromise the safe-house. Instead he asked about Hisham.

''He's not the boss,'' Anas declared strongly. ''He just thinks he is 'cos he has a house and can go and come as he likes.''

''He also knows loads of people,'' said Tamer, ''Like soldiers and secret police.''

''And he always has money,'' said Anas, ''So he can get us food and drink.''

''And glue,'' Ali added sardonically. ''Where does he get his money from?''

The others exchanged shifty glances before Anas giggled and mumbled something about selling sausages which made Tamer giggle too.

Ali drew a deep breath and asked about Moussa Bashir. They dodged the question by demanding their money.

''Maybe I brought it,'' Ali said, ''Maybe I didn't.''

''You promised,'' whined Anas.

''You'd better have brought it,'' said Tamer, trying to sound threatening.

''You said you'd get some,'' said Anas.

''Moussa Bashir,'' Ali said sharply. ''What do you know about him?''

Anas looked at him suspiciously. ''Why do you want to know?''

''Curiosity.'' Ali dug around in his tracksuit pocket for a bank-note. ''I'm wondering whether I can trust him.''

''Why?'' Tamer sniggered. ''You in the sausage business yourself?''

They were becoming annoying but Ali did not want to abandon the bench yet. Hisham might come.

''Hot sausage,'' Anas snorted.

''Hot thick sausage,'' Tamer giggled.

''Hot thick brown sausage,'' Anas guffawed.

''With sauce,'' Tamer chortled.

''Hot sauce,'' Anas gurgled.

''Hot white sauce,'' Tamer chuckled.

Ali got up wearily. ''I'm going to the kiosk,'' he said.

Glancing now across the deep-blue water he could see Moussa Bashir and Hisham sharing a cherry-flavoured shisha. Hisham, long, lean and lithe, was sunbathing in tight, white, bulge-defining Speedos. His tanned, hairless limbs glistened with sun-oil.

Moussa's scalp was shielded from the burning sun by a pale beige cap. Round-lensed light blue glasses balanced on his beaky nose. He had removed his shirt to reveal a narrow chest covered in wiry grey hair. His pale blue slacks were rolled up over his pale, thin ankles. His scaly skin seemed grey and flaky.

Stubbing out his cigarette, Ali stepped away from the wire and stepped down to the pool. The swimming trip had been Hisham's idea.

''Come on,'' he had said, ''It'll be good for you. Get some exercise. You can't sit here on your bench all day like some sad old git.''

''I haven't any trunks,'' said Ali.

''Don't worry,'' said Hisham. ''Moussa will bring you some.''

He did. Red ones so tight and so tiny they showed off every curve.

''Yum.'' Moussa Bashir had licked his lips.

Feeling immensely self-conscious, Ali simply dived into the pool and swum lengths till he was tired. He did not know how to handle this aspect of the mission. He had not reckoned on Moussa Bashir being so openly, unsettlingly and predatorily sexual towards him.

''Eh'lan, Ali.'' The man scrutinised him through his pale blue lenses. ''You're just in time for an afternoon drink.''

They entered the café through a beaded curtain. A dingy, fishless aquarium was set in one wall. Eight long tables were smothered in red-and-white chequered plastic cloths. The waiter was a flustered-looking, middle-aged, moustachioed man in a red-and-gold waistcoat and baggy black trousers.

Moussa led the boys to a table at the back and ordered five glasses of Jordanian Haddad Arak, the spirit made from grapes and aniseed, and a flask of tap water.

''I don't drink alcohol,'' said Ali tartly, ''And neither should you. It's haram, forbidden.''

The others tipped the fire-water down their throats.

''More,'' ordered Moussa.

Ali shifted uncomfortably as another glass was set before him.

''What's up?'' scoffed Hisham. ''You some kind of fundamentalist?''

''Al-Qaeda Ali,'' mocked Tamer.

Moussa's eyes were hard. This was a dilemma. Ali could smell the aniseed. He was conscious of four pairs of eyes fixed on his fingers. He did not want to drink it. One hundred percent proof alcohol might slow his reactions but he had to get Moussa to invite him to the madrassa. Would drinking impress him? Or not?

Not.

Ali pushed the glass away.

''You go to Hell if you want.'' He summoned the waiter. ''Mango juice, please.''

Moussa, Hisham and Tamer started discussing the situation in Palestine. This was a catalogue of ancient grievances, barbed wire, sandbags, checkpoints, arrests, graffiti, and occasional car-bombs.

''It's not all bread and roses in Baghdad, you know,'' said Ali after a while, grumpily poking the thick orange syrup with his plastic straw.

''No.'' Moussa narrowed his eyes. ''So what would you do about it?''

Ali considered the issue of the Jaish-Al-Mahdi's attacks on the Sunnis, Al-Qaeda's attacks on the Shia, the impotence of the Americans, the slaughter of the Christians and the fact that the entire police force had been abolished along with the military and political system and concluded that his country was a complete disaster-area.

''I pray for Youm al-Qiyāmah,'' he said, ''The Day of Judgement. It's the only solution.''

Hisham snorted. ''I hate you people,'' he said contemptuously. ''You sit there, all complacent, doing nothing while your country burns, while your people bleed, waiting fatalistically for Armageddon and God to step in. What if he doesn't?''

''Hisham!'' Anas seemed shocked.

''Yeah, Anas,'' said Hisham, ''What if he isn't there? What if Al-Lah isn't there? What if it's all a lie, a great big lie to keep stupid donkeys like you scared and in your place? What if it's all made-up to make you behave yourself? What if it's all a load of old shit?''

Angrily he ordered another arak, added a large splash of water, swirled the cloudy liquor round the glass.

''You, Ali, you saw your mother blown to bits, your sister's foot blown off, your father and brothers die… you saw it…''

He gulped down the drink and ordered a fourth.

''And you're not angry? You don't want revenge? You don't want to kill those bastard sons-of-bitches that did it?''

'He's in a thousand little pieces,'' Ali said wryly. ''It isn't so easy to kill him.'' Tamer and Anas laughed. ''But yeah… I'm angry. I've had to leave my home and my school to live in a shit-hole with a cousin who doesn't give a crap about me. I'd rather be learning Maths, French and Science and looking forward to a future as an engineer than sitting in a café with a bunch of losers like you figuring out where to get the next glue-fix or sex-fix…I had plans, you know.''

''We all had plans,'' murmured Moussa Bashir, ''Till the Jews and Americans came.''

Ali bit back ''and Yasser, your bomber.'' Instead he finished his juice.

''We should be fighting back,'' stormed Hisham, ''Not waiting for God to come down from Heaven in a flash of lightning. It's ridiculous.'' He swayed in his seat and lit another crumpled cigarette. ''We let these bastards run all over us.''

Moussa Bashir seemed suddenly bored. He scanned the laminated menu.

''Something to eat?'' he asked.

''I'll have a burger,'' said Anas excitedly.

''Me too,'' said Tamer. ''God, a burger. I love burgers.''

''Hisham?''

''Whatever.'' The boy in the white trunks was sulking as he smoked.

''Burger. Ali?''

''What else is there?''

''Nothing,'' said Moussa. ''Five burgers please.''

Tamer and Anas were talking about lacy bras again. Hisham was sitting with his long legs stuck out straight and crossed at the ankles, sucking on his cigarette, a petulant frown scarring his forehead.

Ali watched the strands of mango pulp sliding down the inside of his glass, then glanced at Moussa Bashir who said ''So you come from Baghdad?''

Ali nodded. ''Born and bred.''

''Lived through the war?''

Ali nodded again.

''How do you like the Americans?''

''I hate them,'' said Ali simply.

''And Saddam?'' asked Moussa quietly.

''Not a good Muslim,'' said Ali.

Moussa sat back thoughtfully. ''Would you like to learn more about The Qur'an? I have a friend who can teach you.''

''I guess,'' said Ali.

''Well,'' said Moussa cheerfully, ''You're among friends here.'' Reaching across, he playfully squeezed Ali's left nipple between his finger and thumb.

The burgers were thick fatty slabs of brown meat squeezed into soggy bread-rolls. Garish splotches of mayonnaise and ketchup oozed from the sides and dripped onto the paper napkins beneath. Grease seeped through the bread.

The others stuffed them ravenously into their mouths, chewing and chomping as though worried that someone would confiscate them if they paused for a breath.

Ali ate more slowly. The burger was pretty bad. He could feel indigestion beginning even as he swallowed another chunk.

The others wiped their fingers on their swimming-shorts and smacked their lips.

''Lovely,'' sighed Tamer.

''Beautiful,'' said Anas.

''Glad you enjoyed them,'' said Moussa Bashir, signalling for the check.

Ali went for a final swim. The sun was beginning to set and the pool would soon close. The burger lay like lead in his stomach.

When he saw Tamer and Anas head off to get changed, he clambered from the pool and went to the toilet, a large concrete-floored area with stinking urinals, where Hisham was squatting naked over a hole, the white trunks discarded at his feet like a sloughed-off snakeskin.

''Bloody burger,'' he grunted. ''It's going right through me.''

Ali peed. ''I don't think I'll crap again for days,'' he said. ''It's blocked me right up.''

Moussa Bashir sidled slyly up to the next urinal. Ali's heart sank, especially when Moussa lovingly, lingeringly cupped his right buttock.

''Don't scowl, Hisham.'' The boy was wiping himself with some paper. ''Ali's hot, aren't you, Ali?'' Moussa patted his bottom again.

''I guess,'' mumbled Ali, blushing fiercely.

''Tonight?'' Moussa squeezed Ali's buttock. ''On the building site?''

''Maybe.'' Ali writhed away from the man. ''I'll see. Cousin. You know?''

''You weren't so bashful last night,'' said Moussa Bashir. ''In fact you were quite …ah.. forthcoming.''

''And vocal,'' added Hisham, stepping jealously into Moussa's embrace.

Ali blushed again and left them to their fondling. However soiled he suddenly felt, he dare not risk a shower till he got home. He dragged his clothes and towel from the locker, shut himself behind the blue door of a cubicle, stripped off the ridiculous red trunks and started drying his legs, when Moussa tapped on the door. Ali pressed the towel against his groin.

''Ali?'' oiled the voice. ''Are you in there?''

''Yes,'' he said. ''I'm changing.''

''Oh,'' chuckled Moussa, ''You don't need to change. You're perfectly sweet as you are.''

Behind the door, Ali mimed vomiting. The voice reminded him of thick treacle.

''I just want to say I hope to see you tonight,'' Moussa continued, ''Or at least see parts of you. We're all going to the building-site for some fun. Please come. You'll make me very happy.''

''It depends on my cousin,'' said Ali. ''I'd love to come but he's really strict.''

''Wants you all to himself, eh?'' said Moussa. ''Well, I can hardly blame him for that.''

''If I can't make it,'' he called, ''Where shall I meet you on Friday?''

''Come tonight and show yourself,'' twittered Moussa, ''And I will tell you, with a kiss.''

Ali lost patience. Dropping his towel on the tiles, he opened the cubicle door.

''Tell me now,'' he said.

#18. MOHAMED BIN-RAHMAN MOSQUE, OLD CITY, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Friday July 3, 12:09

THE speaker's black beard bristled furiously. Knotted veins bulged in his temples like thick blue worms burrowing into his skull. Hot drops of sweat pocked his face. His right fist, throttling the neck of the microphone stand, was so tightly clenched that the knuckle-bones seemed poised to burst through the skin. The thick steel hook he wore in place of his left hand stabbed the air viciously over and over. His harsh, unyielding voice grated mechanically, metallically, distorted and occasionally drowned by ear-searing feedback wail.

''Those who kiss the feet of the infidel shall perish in fire and blood! Thus saith our God. Who shall stand before Him and say I let your enemies piss in your well? Who shall stand before Him and say I let your enemies shit in your house? What will God say to those who permitted such desecrations? Do you think God will forgive you, will say 'Kulu'u tamam, everything's fine. I know you were scared, that your life was too soft, that your faith was so poor that you no longer believed me when I told you I would take you to Paradise to be with me'? Do you think He will forgive your craven cowardice and say 'Yes, you may sit by my fountains and enjoy my gardens'? Do you think God Almighty, who can read your hearts, minds and souls, will forgive you for turning your backs on him? Of course He won't. God will condemn you to burn in Hell for all time, for all eternity. You who conspire to let the infidel burn God's Word and trample their great dirty boots over God's face… you shall die, and deserve to die!''

Ali sat cross-legged among the hundred or so young men and boys on the red prayer-rugs laid out on the marble floor of the Mohamed Bin-Rahman mosque. It was Friday jummah, midday prayers, and Talal Hafez was preaching hell-fire and brimstone.

''What can you give God? What can you do to show your obedience to Him? Your life is His anyway. He can do as He wishes with your feeble frame.'' The imam's dark brown eyes pierced the souls of the dozens. Bouncing off stone walls, crenulations, arches and minarets, his voice, issuing from speakers placed round the square, rang imperiously through the mosque overwhelming his listeners in a savage tsunami of sound.

Fidgeting on the cold, hard floor, Ali Hassan adjusted his thin-rimmed glasses and squeezed the right hinge of the frame to capture the preacher in the tiny chip concealed in the bridge. The tiny Barcelona badge he had peeled from Lionel Messi's shirt and stuck to the blue plastic clasp of the rucksack nestling between his crossed legs was transmitting Talal's sermon 'live' to the Walkman recording inside as well as to Hamza Madani's Acer Aspire on the coffee table back at the flat. It had a 120 GB memory and a two hour battery which he felt was more than enough. He had also located the school behind a green curtain at the rear of the prayer-hall. A narrow alley twisted round to three stone steps, a shallow porch and a green-painted wooden door with Dar-El Tawhid Madrassa daubed in gold on a plaque. Another picture.

He had got up early this Friday morning, washed carefully, trimmed his eyebrows and flossed his teeth, then he had dressed in a white, cotton, ankle-length galabeya and white taqiyah, the round, embroidered cap worn by the devout. He had perched the spectacles on the end of his nose, slipped on a pair of black rubber flip-flops and packed his bag. This day, in his new role as devout Muslim talib, or student, he would make contact with Talal Hafez and insinuate himself into the terrorists' circle.

''How do I look?'' he had asked Hamza.

''Every inch the fundamentalist,'' Hamza had replied, chomping an apple and laughing at Tom and Jerry chasing each other through a kitchen sink. ''When do you think you'll be back?''

''Not sure,'' said Ali. ''I hope to spend most of the afternoon down there, maybe even stay for the mahgreb prayers, so it'll be well after dark. I'll text you when I know what's happening.''

Hamza had grumbled about Ali leaving his dirty clothes on top of the washing machine. ''I wish you'd pull your weight,'' he had said irritably. He wanted to visit his parents on Friday.

Ali had grinned. ''Don't worry, Hamza. Before you do today's chores, you can listen to Talal Hafez 'live' from the Mohamed Bin-Rahman mosque. Enlightening and uplifting.''

Now he scanned the all-male crowd for familiar faces but saw none. He was sandwiched between a fattish man who was dressed in cheap, grey slacks and a cheap, beige and pink striped shirt and a boy of about eighteen who had rather feeble facial hair sprouting from his chin and was dressed, like him, in a pristine white galabeya and taqiyah. Ali had picked him because he looked like a talib and might be another route to the imam. Sitting on the red rugs in front of him were betel-chewing men with thick, black moustaches who punctuated Imam Talal's utterances with insha'Allahs and hamdullilahs. The talib frowned and tightened his lips to a thin white line.

''Do they not know,'' Ali whispered piously, ''That those who interrupt sermons go unforgiven?''

''Our duty is clear!'' Talal Hafez brandished his hook furiously. ''It is to resist, to struggle, to fight, even though our blood be shed, for earthly jihad leads to spiritual peace and is delightful in the sight of Al-Lah. Exterminate the enemy, and live forever!''

''What do you think?'' Ali whispered to the boy.

''Allahu Akhbar!'' chanted the boy robotically. ''God is great.''

Everyone stood, palms upturned, and chanted another unison prayer before kneeling on their mats and touching their foreheads to the ground one last time.

Still no sign of Moussa Bashir, and Ali had to approach Talal today. Hamza had insisted.

''No more hanging round in Penis Park smoking, sniffing glue and getting your rocks off,'' he had scowled, ''Not while I'm washing your smelly socks. You're here for a job, and I don't mean a blow-job.''

The crowd began to disperse, men and boys tucking rolled-up prayer-mats under armpits and wishing each other the blessings of God as they jostled in hot summer sunshine towards the door-side shoe-mountain. Talal Hafez sat on a ledge against the far wall next to the qiblah mopping his brow with a vast white handkerchief. The hook, resting on his knee, winked gaily in the sunlight as he exchanged a greeting, acknowledged a 'thank you', called out a 'Bless you'. He seemed enormous. The earnest boy started moving through the crowd toward him.

Ali caught him by the sleeve. ''What a brilliant sermon,'' he said, sounding lame.

The boy regarded him with disdain. ''Imam Talal is always brilliant. He knows everything there is about jurisprudence, the law and the history of the law...''

''I bet he's a wonderful teacher too,'' said Ali quickly.

''Of course.'' The boy's narrow nostrils flared with contempt. ''Who doesn't know that?''

He moved on, Ali dogging his heels.

''Do you go to his school?''

''Which school?''

''Dar El-Tawhid.'' Ali gestured towards the green curtain.

But now they had reached the cool shade of the interior. Ali felt the stones cold under his feet. Imam Talal heaved his bulk off the ledge and lumbered towards the earnest boy.

''Sala'am aleikum Osama,'' his deep voice rumbled.

''Wa-aleikum sala'am, my teacher and mentor.'' They kissed. ''Blessings be upon you, my master, for your wisdom and inspiration.''

Talal Hafez clasped the back of Osama's neck in his huge palm and kissed his forehead.

''My words come from God,'' he said. ''I am a mere messenger.'' His eyes strayed past Osama's face and locked onto Ali. ''You have brought a friend, Osama?''

''I have never seen him before,'' sniffed Osama. ''He clung to me like a stray dog.''

Ali swallowed nervously. ''Sala'am aleikum,'' he said, bowing slightly.

Talal Hafez slid his arm round Osama's shoulders. He dwarfed the young man.

''I wanted to thank you for your sermon,'' Ali said.

Talal and Osama started talking, took a pace away, turned pointedly from him.

''Your words set fire to my heart.''

Two paces forward.

''Moussa Bashir told me to come.''

They stopped walking.

''Moussa invited me, Hisham too.''

Talal Hafez turned his head.

''Moussa thought you could help me.''

Ali ran out of breath.

Now Talal Hafez turned, releasing Osama, who looked peevish and pained.

''Why?'' he said sharply. ''What is your problem?''

''My family is dead.''

Osama uttered a sound that combined scorn, contempt, impatience and boredom.

''So?'' said Talal Hafez. ''What is that to me?''

''I'm from Iraq,'' said Ali, ''From Baghdad.''

''Who isn't?'' Osama mocked, clicking his tongue in amusement.

Talal Hafez' face was a mask of total disinterest.

''I've kind of lost my way,'' said Ali, ''Since my family was killed. I used to be a good boy but now I run with druggies, sniffers and pickpockets.''

''Like Hisham,'' said Talal Hafez.

''Yes,'' admitted Ali.

''Try not to die,'' said Talal Hafez, laughing heartily. Osama bleated like a goat. Talal snaked an arm round his thin shoulders and shook him affectionately. ''My pupil Osama.''

''Sala'am aleikum.'' Ali steepled his fingers and bowed his head.

''Osama does not care for Hisham,'' Talal explained, ''Nor really for any of Moussa's boys. He has yet to understand their value.''

Osama's eyes, shining scornfully, suggested he knew their value only too well.

''What is your name?'' asked Talal.

''Amin,'' said Ali, ''Ali Al-Amin, Ali Hassan.''

''Well, Ali Al-Amin, Ali Hassan from Baghdad in Iraq,'' said Talal, ''Where do you live?''

''With my cousin in Mayasaloun,'' said Ali, adding, in a flash of inspiration, ''I don't like it there. He doesn't pray. All he does is abuse me and laugh at my faith.''

''Then we shall behead him for you.'' Talal laughed again. The smile which flickered across Osama's reptilian lips barely moved a muscle. ''Have you eaten, Ali Hassan Al-Amin?''

''Not yet,'' said Ali. ''I always fast before prayers on a Friday.''

''Join us then,'' said Talal, walking away with Osama.

Ali hoisted the rucksack onto his shoulder, adjusted the spectacles on his nose and followed across a thick red and gold carpet to the furthest corner of the mosque, far away from the door and close to the green curtain. He felt excited. He was almost in.

One of Talal's acolytes brought back a plastic bag of fuul sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper, some plastic tubs of pickles, some cans of Coca-Cola. Half a dozen men sat cross-legged on the carpet. Talal sat with them, Osama slightly behind his right shoulder, Ali slightly behind Osama. Brown mashed-bean paste oozed sludgily from the thin bread and the Coke was warm and rather flat but Ali had fasted so tore hungrily into the sandwich.

The conversation, about religion, politics and war, was dominated by Talal's booming, passionate voice and hearty, full-bellied laugh. Osama said nothing, simply listened. Ali decided to do the same. He hoped the microdot on his rucksack clasp was still transmitting the sound to the safe-house. Fiddling absent-mindedly with his glasses, he photographed the whole group.

''Your cousin,'' said Osama. ''He is Syrian?''

''No,'' said Ali, ''Iraqi. Are you Syrian?''

''Yes,'' answered Osama, ''But Imam Talal is Iraqi, like you.''

''And where do you live?'' asked Ali.

''Our brothers in Iraq need our help,'' said Osama, ignoring the question.

Talal and his friends debated finer points of Islamic law for over an hour. Several times Osama hissed that Ali should go and each time, although his brain was almost as numb as his bottom, Ali said no, he was learning something really interesting. He had not known how fascinating medieval jurisprudence could be until today. Sourly he pictured Hamza Madani slapping his knees, heard his high, pealing laughter, imagined him rubbing his hands with gleeful rejoicing that Ali was stuck in this arid comparison of land inheritance rights across the four schools of Sunni thought, Hanafi, Maliki, Shafi'i and Hanbali.

Osama made one contribution, to say that the Maliki School had some particularly interesting observations on the number of camels that could be left to a minor and the number of yards of silk that might constitute an appropriate dowry for an orphan.

Talal smiled, patted his protégé's knee and drew one of the older men back into the discussion by asking his opinion as a faqih, a legal expert.

Ali tried hard not to fidget but his knees were starting to ache and he could hardly feel his bottom at all. He fiddled with the clasp of his rucksack and felt Osama's glare scorch his fingertips. His hands fell limply into his lap. He tried not to drift into sleep.

At about three o' clock, a bunch of noisy, younger boys entered the mosque, whooping and swarming across the sunlit yard towards the arcade where the men were sitting. Ali recognised Nour and Ahmad, the homeless huffers that hung out with Hisham, and Tamer, who raised his hand in a greeting.

''This, gentlemen,'' said Talal wearily as the boys fetched up on the step, ''Is my Qur'anic class for today.'' He stood up slowly. Again Ali was struck by his size and power, by the huge bushy beard, by the cold steely glint of the hook. ''Thank you for your company. It was a most stimulating discussion.'' He glanced at Osama then at Ali. ''I and my companions also thank you for the food. It was most generous.''

As Ali got awkwardly to his feet, bones groaning a protest, he registered, among the mutually murmured ''You're welcomes'' both Osama's softly whispered ''Join us'' and Talal Hafez's public description of him as 'his companion'. He really was in.

Talal's flock was herded behind the curtain, down the stone passageway and into a small room equipped with a blackboard, some crude wooden chairs and lots of dusty hard-backed books piled on the red-carpeted floor. There were a couple of small windows, two fly-spotted electric strip-lights and a rusty fan turning lazily on the ceiling. Some students, including Hisham, Anas and a weedy boy in a black and red striped Al-Jaish SC soccer shirt and filthy white shorts that was probably Firas, were already present. Moussa Bashir, wearing a cheap grey suit, an open-collared white suit and three days' stubble, was also present. His face looked more like a vulture's than ever. He nodded happily and muttered ''Hisham's friend, the one I told you about'' then the class began with prayers led by Osama, an invocation to Allah the Beneficent and the Merciful, the Bismillāhi r-raḥmāni r-raḥīm and a reading of the 88th Sura of the Qu'ran, the Surat Al-Ghashiya traditionally read on a Friday afternoon and telling of the Last Day.

Has there come to you the description of the Overwhelming Event?

Many faces on that day will be humbled, working hard, exhausted. They will enter into the scorching fire. They will be made to drink water from a boiling spring. There will be no food for them except from a thorny plant that will neither nourish, nor satisfy hunger.

Many faces on that day will be joyful, pleased with their endeavour, in a high Garden in which they will not hear any idle chatter. In it there is a running spring. In it there are raised couches and well placed goblets and scattered cushions and rich carpets spread around.

Will they not look at the camels, how they are created, and at the sky, how it is raised high, and at the mountains, how they are fixed firm, and at the earth, how it is spread out? So, keep on preaching; you are only a preacher. You are not the manager of men’s affairs, but whoever turns away and disbelieves, Allah will punish him with the greatest torment.

Ali took a photo as Osama unfurled a poster of the Ard-al-Hashar, the Plain of Assembly on Judgement Day. Moussa and Talal were conferring quietly in a corner.

''This,'' he explained, ''Is from a manuscript called Futuhat al-Makkiyya and drawn by the mystic philosopher Ibn Arabi in 1238. Here you see the Throne of God, pulpits for the Righteous, seven rows of Angels, A'raf , the Barrier, and the Hauzu'l-Kausar, or Fountain of Abundance from which the Righteous will drink for all Eternity.'' His long slender fingers moved over the ancient diagram.

Talal and Moussa were now deep in conversation. Ali inched forward on his bottom but there was no way he could get close enough to eavesdrop. He would just have to wait for Osama to finish describing As-Sirāt (the Bridge), Jahannam (Hell) and Marj al-Jannat (the Meadow of Paradise) and then try to get nearer the board. He figured he could blame his glasses, say they were new or something, and he couldn't really see.

''All Mankind will stand on this plain,'' said Osama, ''And some will have faces of joy and some will have faces of sorrow. Some will drink from the clear, cool spring and some will drink from the boiling brook. Some will recline on soft cushions and some will sweat in the scorching fires. Some will be pampered by seventy-seven virgins, naked and luscious, ready and willing,'' Osama permitted himself a snake-tongue flicker, ''And some will be tortured by demons with red-hot pincers. Which group will you be in?''

''You have to decide, boys,'' Talal declared suddenly. ''Are you on the side of Satan or the side of Al-Lah? Ali Hassan!'' Ali's heart hit the base of his throat. ''Stand up. Which side are you on, I wonder?''

''The side of Al-Lah,'' said Ali nervously.

''You don't sound very sure,'' said Talal.

''The side of Al-Lah,'' said Ali more strongly. ''There is only one God, that God is Allah and Muhammad is his Messenger, Peace and Blessings Be upon Him.''

Some of the younger boys clapped.

''Why did you come here today?''

''To learn, Master.''

''And what did you want to learn?'

''How to give my life to Al-Lah,'' said Ali.

Something like a sigh spread through the class. Talal and Moussa exchanged satisfied smiles. The Call to Prayer burst from the minaret above them. Ali sat down again.

At the end, as the other students were leaving and Osama was folding up his diagram, Ali saw Moussa stroke Hisham's cheek and slide some bank-notes into the crotch pocket of his olive-green joggers. Ali approached the board.

''What happens now?'' he asked Talal.

''You go home to your cousin, eat your supper, go to bed,'' the preacher shrugged.

''I don't want to,'' said Ali. ''I want to stay here.''

Talal laughed. ''Well, I want to go home, eat my supper and go to bed even if you don't.'' He patted Ali's face. ''Come tomorrow if you wish. After prayers.''

Outside in the courtyard the sunlight had died. Shadows had lengthened across the white marble pillars and dusty brown flagstones. Lanterns glowed from the perimeter walls. Ali retrieved his flip-flops from the step then texted Hamza that he was on his way home. Some of the boys were larking about in the street. Tamer and Hisham were smoking.

''Since when did you wear glasses?'' asked Hisham.

''Since I needed to be able to see,'' Ali said sourly. ''Squinting at a blackboard for hours on end isn't much fun when you're short-sighted, you know.''

''You coming to the park?'' asked Tamer.

''No,'' said Ali. ''My cousin wants me home.''

''Screw him,'' said Hisham. ''Come and have a smoke, have some fun. After all that bloody religion, you need a release.''

Ali laughed. ''Tempting but I want to prepare for tomorrow.''

''Moussa may be out later,'' said Hisham. ''You could earn some money, have some fun.''

''Maybe,'' said Ali, crossing the road into Sha'alan. ''We'll see.''

Hamza was cooking macaroni cheese. The little windows in the little kitchen were steamed up. He said the bug had worked well, that he had successfully recorded everything, that he had emailed it as an audio-file to his supervisor.

''I expect they'll enjoy that chat about land inheritance,'' he grinned, ''Like you did.''

Ali wiped the condensation from the round lenses of his spectacles, threw a tea-towel at Hamza's head, stripped off the galabeya and crammed it into the washing machine.

Their relationship was beginning to change. Hamza was less hostile than before. They had discovered a mutual interest in motorbikes and spent a couple of hours comparing the merits of the Harley Davidson Sportster Forty-Eight's lean angles of 27.8 and 26.1 degrees and the Triumph Speed Triple's Brembo monobloc four-piston radial calliper brakes. They had also watched some basketball on the TV and gone jogging together around the Olympic Park. They both had sisters, and Ali had learned how protective Hamza was of Alana, how excited he had been when she had agreed to marry Mokhtar, his best friend, how upset they had all been when Mokhtar had vanished. Hamza told him he would do anything to bring him back.

''You got a girlfriend?'' Ali asked, forking macaroni cheese into his mouth. Hamza shook his head. ''Nor me,'' said Ali, ''Though there was a girl I liked. She was called Sour and she lived in Baghdad. Her brother died. Good mac 'n' cheese, Hamza. Thanks.''

Dr Phil was discussing what happens when one discovers one's husband is homosexual. They watched for a while, until Hamza snorted that the 'wifie was a sap' and went to wash up. Ali had a hot, soapy shower then settled on the sofa with a cigarette and a glass of milk to watch Friends, 'The One with the Prom Video', with Monica in a fat suit and Ross with an Afro perm. He laughed till he thought he was going to puke whilst Hamza copied the photographs from the spectacles to the lap-top and emailed them to the SOS office.

''How did you like the Old City?'' asked Hamza.

Old Damascus was a labyrinth of narrow, winding streets, many of which were blind alleys, cul-de-sacs culminating in courtyards lined with tubbed trees and potted plants, or doubling back on themselves like epileptic snakes. The walls were painted white and brown and the crowded, huddled buildings seemed to lean together like drunks. It was also dark and the lighting poor. It had taken Ali half an hour and several wrong-turns to find his way back to the Umayyad Mosque and Saladin's Tomb, the remains of the Roman temple, the souk of silk-sellers, nut-vendors and pot-peddlers, Bab Al-Jabiya, Hamadeyia Souk and the modern city he was now beginning to feel familiar with.

''I'm getting the hang of it,'' he said. ''I think I upset the doctor over the hallway. I saw him putting out the rubbish and wished him peace. He recoiled in horror. Obviously thinks I'm some nutcase fundamentalist.''

''Good,'' grunted Hamza, '' 'Cos that's your cover.''

He joined Ali on the sofa. ''Here's something that might interest you.'' He handed over a newspaper, folded back to reveal a photograph of a young man with dark curly hair and glasses. The headline ran 'JORDAN'S KING APPOINTS SON SUCCESSOR'. Yesterday, Ali learned, Prince Hussein, who had reached fifteen on June 28th, had been named as Crown Prince and Heir Apparent, and would assume his responsibilities immediately. One of these was to attend the opening of the Jerash Cultural Festival on July 16 with the Minister of Culture. The thousands of spectators and the new heir apparent would make an excellent target for Talal Hafez and the Dar El-Tawhid. But who would they choose, and how would they send him? The next stage of the mission would be to answer those questions.

''Get a good night's sleep,'' Hamza advised. ''You're gonna need it.''

#19. DAR EL-TAWHID MADRASSA, Damascus, Syria

Friday July 10, 12:07

"SUBHAANA RABBEE al-A' laa" cried Osama from the front of the prayer-hall. "Glory to my Lord, the Most High, the Most Praiseworthy".

A hundred men and boys repeated the cry and bent at the waist.

''Rabbanaa wa lakal-hamd" - "O our Lord! All praise is for You''.

A hundred men and boys knelt and touched their foreheads to the ground.

Ali Hassan had his own prayers today. He had been attending class, sniffing glue and sleeping late for a week now and it was time to move things on. Talal Hafez seemed to like him and Moussa Bashir positively slavered over him and although the bald, vulture-faced man made his skin crawl and he had spent much of the week trying to avoid him, he understood he had to give him at least a hope of sex if he were to remain in the school. He also understood that he needed to hide his Shia background in this ferociously Sunni environment. Taqiyya, or dissimulation, was the order of the day. Sura XVI, verse 108, said that taqiyya was acceptable if one were in mortal danger. "If anyone professes unbelief with his tongue, while his heart contradicts him, in order to escape his enemies, no blame falls on him, because God takes his servants as their hearts believe." Ali clung on to this as a drowning man clings to a lifebelt.

After prayers, Talal delivered a ranting homily on the evils of Western music. Hisham and the others weren't there. Nor was Osama. They had all gone swimming with Moussa. That was why Ali had decided on today, while the others were out of the way and it was just him and Talal. He had complained of a stomach-ache when they had asked him, saying he wanted to stay somewhere quieter, out of the sun. Besides, he wanted to learn more from Imam Talal.

''Oh, you all go,'' Talal had preened himself airily. ''Ali and I will stay here and study together. I am glad you are so enthusiastic about our faith.''

He had patted Ali's head, making him feel like a good little dog awaiting a treat.

Several minutes in, Talal Hafez was fully engaged with his sermon:

''Women,'' he thundered, brandishing the hook, ''Are base, bestial, begging for sex at all times of night, and all times of day. They must be tamed. They must be controlled. They stand on stage, shaking their hips, jiggling their breasts, adorning themselves with make-up and jewels to tempt honest men to lie with them and sin, corrupted women doing Satan's work…''

Ali had never considered his late mother as a seductive temptress before. He knew she had been considered handsome when young but he had only known her as stout with a broad backside. As for her breasts, of course he had never seen them. He shuddered at the idea. But he knew the kind of women Talal meant, women like Shakira and Britney, women like those his brothers talked about, women like those who had occasionally flitted into his dreams…

He slipped silently away, heart thumping in the base of his throat. He had work to do.

The tiny office was extremely untidy. There were two cheap desks piled high with papers, newspapers, bills, statements, print-outs. The plastic chairs were cheap discarded garden furniture and the HP computer was an ancient-looking box with big, chunky keys. The whitewashed, windowless walls were grimy, web-smeared and grey with age.

Leaving the door open so he could hear Talal's harsh, angry voice raging about Madonna and Lady Gaga, those wicked temptresses who pranced about in flimsy clothes tempting men to self-abuse, Ali switched on the computer. It ran on Windows ME and seemed to take hours to flash up the request for a password.

Pulling the toothbrush apart, Ali stuck the flash-drive into a USB port, hit ENTER and waited for the device to scan for the password. Five seconds later the words 'ht1' and 'jihad' appeared in the appropriate boxes. Ali hit ENTER again. The computer unlocked.

He did not have time to look through all the folders. Instead he opened the icon on 'My Computer' and clicked COPY ALL. A window appeared on the screen showing the download rate with a slowly creeping green bar.

Ali could hear Talal's voice rising to a climax.

The green bar moved in millimetres. It was like watching ice melt.

Ali settled his glasses and photographed the office. He wanted to sort through the papers but there were too many and he did not know where to begin.

He tried the drawers. They were locked.

He searched for the key, trying not to disturb the heaps of paper. It was not there.

Should he blow it? He had the chewing gum in his pocket.

Could he pick it? He unbent a paperclip, dug around in the lock. Nothing happened.

Damnation.

The green bar was at 85%. Talal had finished his sermon and moved into the closing prayers. Even among a hundred worshippers, Ali did not want to be missed.

''Come on,'' he muttered, ''Come on.'' His palms were damp.

''Allahu Akhbar!''

Blow the lock.

What if there was nothing in it? Could he pretend there had been a break-in?

That would simply tighten security and make Talal paranoid.

''Sala'am aleikum.''

''Come on!''

90%.

''Wa aleikum sala'am.''

Leave it for another day. It was too risky. And now he was sweating uncomfortably.

''Rabbanaa wa lakal-hamd."

92%.

A chorused reply.

95%.

''Come on.''

97%

Talal was finishing the service.

''May God go with us.''

99%

Crowds of people were moving.

100%.

Done.

Shutting down the computer, Ali slipped the Scandisk back into the toothbrush handle and scurried across the courtyard back to the mosque. The crowd had thinned out. A knot of men clustered round Talal Hafez. He was frowning.

Ali crossed the river of prayer-mats nervously and asked if Talal wanted a glass of tea.

''I did not see you while I was speaking,'' Talal remarked, gazing through him.

''Oh no,'' said Ali, ''I was here. I listened really carefully. I liked what you said about slutty singers with skimpy clothes. They shame Woman-kind.''

''What would you do with them?'' asked one of the men.

''Behead them,'' said Ali fanatically. ''Chop off their heads.''

The man grunted, dissatisfied. ''After you'd raped them, of course,'' he said.

''Of course,'' Ali grinned. ''Goes without saying that I'd rape 'em first. Lesbian bitches, all of 'em, 'n' all on heat. Rape and execution's too good for 'em. Only wish I could kill 'em twice.''

The men still seemed dissatisfied. Talal did not. ''Two sugars,'' he smiled.

''And tea for your friends?'' Four men. ''Is there a tray?''

''In the office,'' Talal gestured vaguely. ''Tea-leaves and glasses are on a shelf.''

Ali returned to the office. He found a kettle and went to fill it from a tap in the courtyard. The toothbrush was burning a hole in his galabeya. He needed to get it back to Hamza.

While he waited for the water to boil, he put a teaspoon of leaves in each of five glasses arranged on a round tin-tray, moved to the far side of the desk so he could see into the corridor and leafed through the first twenty papers in the first pile.

They were mostly scribbled, hand-written notes, ideas for sermons and jotted quotations from The Hadith and The Qur'an but a receipt from a local hardware shop for a kilo of nails and a kilo of ball-bearings caught his attention. He photographed it then, just as the water was starting to knock in the kettle, he found a bill of sale for delivery of a package to Moustapha Al-Sekem in Ajloun, Jordan. The package had been paid for by Hands across the Sands. Ali stifled a cry of excitement as he pressed the corner of his glasses and heard a soft click as the image was recorded. The transport company, Al-Houri, was based in northern Damascus.

Suddenly he saw a shadow moving down the corridor wall. Swearing softly, he dumped the papers back on the heap but not carefully enough. They cascaded onto the floor. Leaping round the corner of the desk, he seized the kettle as Talal himself appeared in the doorway. Hot water spilled onto the tray. Talal said nothing, merely pointed his hook at the scattered papers.

''I was looking for sugar,'' Ali stuttered. ''I bumped against the desk and everything fell off. I'm sorry.''

The man gazed at him silently.

''I tried the drawers,'' he added, ''But they're locked.''

Talal fished the key from his pocket. ''Here you are,'' he said. ''Open the drawer.''

Ali hesitated.

''You want to look in the drawer,'' said Talal evenly, ''Look in the drawer.''

He suddenly seized the front of Ali's galabeya and shook him violently.

''Look in the damned drawer, boy!'' He raised the tip of his hook to Ali's nose. ''Or I'll gut you like a fish.'' He shoved Ali backwards so hard the boy staggered.

Trembling slightly, he fitted the key to the lock. The click was barely audible as he twisted it to the right. He glanced at Talal. The man's face was impassive. Slowly he pulled the drawer towards him.

''Put your hand in,'' Talal said softly, menacingly.

''I d….d…don't want to.'' Ali heard the wobble in his suddenly squeaky voice.

''Put. Your. Hand. In.'' Talal commanded.

Swallowing hard, holding his breath, clenching his jaw, Ali thrust his hand into the drawer.

His fingers touched the sugar bag. Pent-up breath and tension exploded from his body.

''It's sugar,'' he said foolishly.

''What else?'' Talal burst into an enormous yet humourless laugh and patted Ali's shoulder with his good hand.

''Sugar,'' Ali repeated, feeling weak at the knees.

''Sugar,'' laughed Talal. Then the laugh shut off, as though an electric switch had been closed. ''I don't want sugar now.'' He slammed the drawer shut on Ali's hand.

''Next time I catch you snooping in my office,'' he hissed into Ali's pain-distorted, purpling face, ''I'll snap your scrawny neck like a chicken's.''

*

HAMZA checked the bones to make sure none were broken then applied ice and a spray for the swelling before bandaging Ali's hand carefully and giving him a shot in his left arm and a fistful of Panadols. The bandage was tight and pain throbbed in waves.

''Lie down,'' Hamza instructed. ''Try to sleep.''

''The data,'' said Ali, ''I need to see the data.'' He felt feverish and sweaty.

''No you don't,'' said Hamza, wishing the shot would take effect immediately, but it took the whole of Friends and fifteen minutes of So You Think You Can Dance before Ali passed out on the sofa so that Hamza could carry him to the big double-bed.

The data was so good Hamza called Ahmed Ahmed excitedly on a scrambled phone to tell him Ali had succeeded where others had failed. He had, on the hard-drive and in the papers, compiled all the evidence required to shut down the madrassa and arrest Talal Hafez. There were bills of passage for deliveries from Dar El-Tawhid to places in Amman, Baghdad and Alexandria, though it was unclear what exactly these were. There were receipts for bags of nails. There were instructions on making bomb-vests. There were downloaded maps of areas where bombings had occurred. There were bills from Al-Houri for transporting bombers across various borders. There were emails to and from Hands across the Sands and Moustapha Al-Sekem, one promising another delivery in time for July's Jerash Festival. It seemed Hamza was right. They were planning to assassinate the Crown Prince.

There was also a video of Mokhtar's murder. Hamza watched, revoltedly fascinated as a thin, shabbily dressed boy pissed on the man's battered, bloodied face, saw the biscuit-tin placed over the head, heard cruel laughter ringing round the desert-dunes, but he didn't see either Talal or Moussa and he was unable to identify the location.

They had tortured and murdered Mokhtar. He had always suspected, but now he knew. How would he tell Alana?

Slapping the lid of the lap-top shut, he went to the balcony and lit a Gitane. Mokhtar had only joined the Service to impress him, his future brother-in-law. What a way to die. Pissed on by a kid. He called Ahmed Ahmed again and pleaded to be returned to the front line.

''I know how close you and Mokhtar were.'' Hamza could imagine Ahmed Ahmed perspiring freely as he tried to weasel out of his promise. ''I know he was engaged to your sister but revenge is not a sound motive for action.''

''I'm sitting here waiting for what? The kid? He's finished.''

''We might need him to go in again,'' said Ahmed Ahmed. ''Keep him at home. Make him a lentil broth.'' Hamza could hear his fellow agents sniggering in the background. ''A fever is a plausible cover. Hopefully he got enough evidence and can return to Jordan next week. We shall pass on your concerns about the Festival to Colonel Ibrahim. Meantime, relax. Stay home. Watch TV. The operation's almost over.'' Ahmed Ahmed seemed uncharacteristically jolly.

Hamza stood by the bed he had shared with this strange Iraqi boy for the last eight days, watching him sleep, face tense, upper body bare and frail, bandaged hand resting on the sheet. Damnation.

He lit another Gitane. The video had changed the game. His sister's fiancé had been brutally killed. He would go to Ma'aloula and break the news. Let Ali Salawa stay home alone. It would only be for a day or so. Let him cook for himself and wash his own clothes for a change. It would do him good. Let Ali take care of himself, and Hamza his family. He had decided.

He would go tomorrow.

#20. 5 RAFEEK SALLUM STREET, SHA'ALAN, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Saturday July 11, 10:22

NANCY Ajram's 'Ana Yalli Bahebhhak' blared into the narrow living room from the Mazzika channel. Ali, in dark green knee-length shorts and a dark blue T shirt, curled up in a corner of the sofa with a carton of mango juice and some cheese and chilli crisps, was singing along as he watched the dancers cavorting across the screen. Hamza, in black jeans and a white shirt with a Harley Davidson motif, was sitting at the desk working at the laptop.

''These deliveries,'' said Hamza. ''Any idea what they are?''

Ali shook his head. ''It's why I need to get into that desk,'' he said.

''No way,'' said Hamza. ''Your orders are to stay here till your boss comes.''

''What if they get away?'' said Ali. ''At least let me go back to keep an eye on them.''

Hamza grinned. ''Drink your juice and don't sulk!'' The Pussycat Dolls replaced Nancy on the Mazzika channel. ''Watch your hot ladies instead and try not to get a hard-on.''

''Hamza!'' Ali was scandalized.

''I've seen you sleeping, don't forget. I know what you dream about.'' Hamza returned to scrolling through documents on the Acer Aspire. ''It sure ain't rainbows and bunnies.''

Ali watched Nicole Scherzinger's gyrating hips and long bare legs and, conscious that he was wearing shorts, tried to keep his thoughts clean.

''Baby, can't you see? How these clothes are fitting on me

And the heat coming from this beat

I'm about to blow, I don't think you know

I'm telling you loosen up my buttons baby, uh huh…''

The harsh squawk of the front-door buzzer distracted him.

''Yes?'' said Ali, keeping one eye on some jiggling breasts.

''I need to see you,'' gabbled Hisham. ''There's a terrible problem at the madrassa. Talal Hafez is going crazy and throwing stuff about. He says the police are coming. He says they're coming for you.'' All this was said in a breathless rush. ''I gotta see you, Ali. NOW!''

''He sounds frantic,'' Ali said, releasing the buzzer.

''They might have had a tip-off,'' said Hamza uncertainly. ''Don't see how.''

''Ahmed Ahmed?'' Ali suggested dubiously. ''He's in charge. It would explain how these bombers get across the borders so easily.''

The buzzer sounded again.

''Just a minute,'' Ali said into the grille. ''I'm getting dressed.''

''Is your cousin there?'' asked Hisham.

''No,'' said Ali.

''So let me up.''

''Wait,'' barked Ali, releasing the button again. ''What do you want to do?''

''Hisham.'' Hamza frowned. ''I know that name. I've heard it somewhere before.''

The buzzer shrilled desperately.

''Yeah,'' said Ali impatiently, ''From me. I talked about him. He's Moussa's friend.''

''No,'' said Hamza, ''Somewhere else…''

The buzzer drilled into the flat.

''Go,'' said Hamza. ''Find out what's happening. Stay on the street where I can see you.''

Ali slipped on the red and purple flip-flops and half-ran, half-jumped down the stairs.

Hisham was waiting, dressed in his usual olive joggers and grubby beige T-shirt. He was clearly agitated and dancing from foot to foot.

''Talal says someone's stolen a load of money from his office. He's called the police. Ten thousand pounds in notes.'' He looked at Ali mournfully. ''He says it was you when you were making tea. He said he caught you sneaking about, acting shiftily, trying to open his drawers.''

So they weren't on to him, there hadn't been a tip-off and they were stressing for nothing.

''It wasn't me,'' shrugged Ali. ''Maybe he put it in the wrong pocket.

''He's getting the police after you,'' repeated Hisham. ''You can hide at my house till the heat is off.'' He seized Ali by the elbow. ''Come on! Quickly! Before the cops come.''

Hamza, concealed behind the net curtain, suddenly realised, appalled, where he had seen him before. He was the boy in the film who had urinated on a dying man, on Hamza's tortured best friend. Hamza felt his rage rising, his jaw tightening, his fist clenching the butt of his gun…

Somewhere a siren sounded.

''Come on!'' Hisham urged. ''Let's go!''

Hamza threw open the balcony window. ''ALI!'' he shouted.

But the boys were running away up Rafeek Sallum. The police siren wailed closer.

Hamza dashed from the flat as a gang of men burst into the building. Someone shouted. Ducking behind the banister, Hamza raised his army-issue JAWS Viper and took careful aim.

Hisham and Ali dived into Mamoun's fruit shop.

''Hide us,'' urged Hisham.

Mamoun, a big, fat, galabeya-ed man with a scruffy grey beard, asked no questions, simply ushered them into the back where they crouched behind cardboard boxes full of oranges.

''What now?'' Ali hissed.

''Wait till the coast is clear, then come back to mine,'' whispered Hisham. ''I'll hide you.''

Suddenly two sharp gunshots rang out – BANG BANG.

''Hamza!'' cried Ali.

''Wait!'' Hisham caught his arm.

Pivoting on his heel Ali smacked a roundhouse kick into Hisham's ribs which sent the other boy flying backwards into the boxes. Oranges spilled over the cracked concrete floor and collected round Hisham's body, now lying limp on the crushed cardboard.

Ali exploded into the street. A crowd was gathering in Rafeek Sallum, people from the Harley Davidson shop, neighbours and passers-by pooling together in the road. Police sirens wailed again. Several policemen were pounding up from Amin Loutfy Hafez. Damnation. An encounter with the local lawmen was not going to help.

He pushed through into Number Five, dragged the heavy metal door behind him till it locked, jammed a broomstick through the handles and sprang up the stairs two at a time.

A man, one from the mosque, one of yesterday's tea-takers, lay dead on the second floor landing. He had been shot in the chest. A pool of blood was settling round his out-flung left arm. Ignoring it, Ali patted the leather jacket and found a Sig-Sauer M11 in the pocket. Grimly, he flicked off the safety-catch, crept to the third floor then to the fourth. Everything was eerily still.

The door to the flat stood wide-open displaying vivid scarlet blood-splashes on the floor and wall. Ali held the gun in both hands against his right cheek. Which way should he go first? Living room? Kitchen passageway? Bedroom? There was no sound inside, no clue, nothing to help him decide where to go.

On the far side of the landing, the doctor's parents peered anxiously through the sliver of their fractionally opened door. They saw Ali holding a gun and, squeaking slightly, withdrew. Ali heard bolts grating across the metal.

Kicking off his sandals, he slid barefoot round the door-frame bringing the gun down to his eye-line as he checked the living room to his right. It was clear but bloody prints marked the floor. Where the hell was Hamza?

He crept to the bedroom door. It was open. He stood with his back against the wall, counted to five, then repeated his round-the-frame roll-and-point but the bedroom too was empty. So was the kitchen. He did not know whether to feel relieved or disappointed.

He scanned the empty flat. The living-room table had been overturned. The remains of his breakfast were squashed into the rug. The laptop had gone. The desk had been broken into. The drawers had been ransacked. The bedroom had been searched. His clothes were strewn around, the mattress had been ripped open, the bed itself tipped onto its side. Of Hamza there was no sign but there was plenty of blood streaking the bathroom tiles, floor and passageway.

Clicking the safety-catch on, he pushed the gun into the waistband of his shorts. The safe-house was compromised, Hamza was missing, Hisham claimed the police were after him and he had no idea where Syria's Secret Service was based. Worse, he could see from the drawer that his ID, visa and passport had gone. He now had no legal status in this country. Downstairs he could hear banging on the street-door. People were shouting. He had to disappear quickly but without using the street. He peered at the roof-ledge twenty feet above his head and made a decision.

He pulled some blue tracksuit trousers over his shorts, put on a pair of white socks and his trainers and slipped his light grey jacket over his T-shirt. The gun was too heavy to go in a pocket and would also be difficult to draw in a hurry so he tucked it into the back of his trackies, just above his buttocks. Taking the Walkman, he inserted the red cassette, pressed a headphone to one ear and pressed Search. While the machine scanned for shortwave radio activity, he put the Chiclets in one pocket and the specs in another. He went through the flat and found the Nokia phone tossed under the sofa. He pocketed that too along with the can of Axe.

The Walkman fixed onto the police channel. Through the static he could hear orders for oxy-acetylene to cut through the door. He had a matter of minutes. Slipping a tablet of gum into his mouth, he photographed the flat he had shared for nearly two weeks with the specs and grimaced at the tooth-powder taste.

When the gum was soft, he poked it into the lock of the iron gate that closed off the stairs to the roof and counted to five. The gum exploded with a sharp crack. The gate swung open. At the top of the stairs was a flimsy wooden door which gave way in a shower of splinters under his kicking. On the Walkman he could hear the police cutting through the street-door and squawking nervous calls for armed back-up. Apparently a boy had gone insane and murdered his cousin.

Stepping on to the roof, he scanned the jungle of cables and satellite dishes. Abseiling into the back-yard was the only way down but he did not know if there was an exit into the street from there, or where it might be. He looked at the pigeon-loft across the road and the hundreds of grey, blue and green birds cooing and pecking beyond the open window. Maybe one of the ladders would reach across the street. If so, he could crawl over the heads of the policemen beneath, if he moved slowly and did not look down.

He carefully picked a route through the hosepipes, buckets, paint-pots and battered, rusting wheelbarrows. Then he froze. From behind a satellite dish stepped Tamer, who seemed stoned, and Moussa Bashir.

''Good morning, Master Amin,'' he smiled slyly. ''We've been expecting you. I guess you thought you had got away.''

''With what?'' Ali slipped the headphones down and round his neck. His mind was working overtime. He must keep his distance, create a diversion, use the gun.

'''Breaking into the office,'' said Moussa, ''Stealing the money, rifling through papers…''

''Right,'' said Ali. So his cover seemed intact, for now. He decided to play along with it. ''I needed the cash.''

''But you won't live to spend it.'' Moussa drew a knife. The sun glinted off the blade. ''We are taking you back to the mosque where Talal will slit your throat like an Eid lamb but only after I have castrated you and feasted on your pretty little testicles.''

''I hope they choke you,'' Ali grunted. ''How did you find me?

''I followed you,'' said Tamer.

Ali cursed his own carelessness. ''How did you get up here?'' he asked.

Moussa held up a key. ''A gift from your cousin.''

''He betrayed you,'' gloated Tamer, ''Led us to you.''

''Didn't want any trouble with the police,'' said Moussa.

Ali kept his face impassive and asked where he was.

''Safe,'' smirked Moussa, ''In the arms of Allah.''

''You killed him?'' said Ali.

''Of course not.'' Moussa's vulture-features twisted into a smile. ''At least not yet. It will take some time for him to die, despite the amount of blood he shed. Have you ever seen a calf being bled for veal? It's somewhat similar.''

The urge to shoot them both on the spot was almost overwhelming. Ali dug his fingernails into his palms.

''Don't worry,'' Tamer added, ''You'll be joining him soon, you thieving rat.'' He had clearly been huffing. His face was flushed and his eyes were struggling to focus. Ali realised that Moussa had brought a liability up to the roof.

''Why do you care?'' he said. ''You're a glued-out, doped-out, washed-out excuse for a prostitute who's just waiting to get strapped into a bomb-vest and blown to Hell with the rest of the street-garbage.'' Tamer coloured angrily. ''What were you doing behind that satellite dish? Sucking him off like the dirty little street-whore that you are?''

Tamer swore, spat and lurched forward, shaking off Moussa's restraining hand.

''Steady,'' murmured the man.

''Is that what he says when you're sucking too fast?'' Ali jeered, ''Steady? Whore?''

His right hand moved to the gun-butt digging into his back. He eased off the safety catch.

''Sorry, Moussa,'' he piped mockingly, ''I just want to please you. Take me up the arse, Moussa. Use me like a woman, Moussa. Fuck me like a dog, Moussa. Let me be your dog, Moussa. Please let me be your puppy dog… I bet you love it, you tart.''

''You lousy fuck!'' Tamer screamed and hurled himself forward.

Whipping out the pistol, Ali fired one shot, not at Tamer, who he side-stepped comfortably, but into the pigeon-loft across the road. The birds erupted into ear-splitting squawks and, in a grey-blue mass of beaks and feathers, exploded into the sky, screaming, flapping and fluttering as they swarmed the roof in frenzied panic and engulfed Moussa Bashir. His arms flailed as he tried to fend them off but there were hundreds, coming in waves.

Ali clubbed Tamer round the head with the pistol and kicked him under the wheelbarrow.

Screaming shrilly like a wounded dog, Moussa staggered blindly towards the edge, his bald head bleeding from a hundred pecks and stabs. He twisted, lurching, on the ledge then, still covered in a mass of pecking pigeons, he fell, disappearing from view with a horrible, heart-rending wail. From the street they heard yelling and a thunderous crash as Moussa, limbs sprawling brokenly at unnatural angles, crashed at thirty miles an hour through the roof of a car.

''Don't get in such a flap,'' said Ali, striding across to Tamer who was getting shakily onto his hands and knees. Ali kicked him hard in the ribs. One cracked loudly. Seizing Tamer by the hair, Ali wrenched back his head. Anger surged through him

''Where's Hamza?'' he demanded, smashing Tamer's head onto the concrete. Blood blossomed on the forehead. ''Where's Hamza?''Fury surged through his system like a tidal wave.

Tamer gasped something unintelligible.

Ali smashed his head on the concrete again. This time the nose broke. Tamer howled like a frightened baby.

''Last chance, Tamer. Tell me, or I'll put a bullet through your skull.''

He pressed the Sig-Sauer's muzzle against Tamer's temple.

''At the mosque,'' Tamer sobbed. ''They took him to the Bin-Rahman mosque.''

Ali tied him to the wheelbarrow with a length of hosepipe.

The police were entering the building five storeys below. They would be charging up the stairs any second. It was time to go.

He walked to the ledge. People were gathering round the broken doll that had been Moussa Bashir. The owner of the pigeons was waving his arms and yelling. Not that way then.

He ran and jumped the ten foot drop from Number 5 to Number 3, springing off his ankles into a shoulder-roll and back onto his feet then leapt the two metre-gap onto the roof of Number 1.

Now at the corner, he fired the diamond-tipped Walkman plug into the concrete just as the police reached the roof of Number Five. One shouted something. Another squeezed off a shot, the bullet ricocheting off a satellite dish with a shrill metallic whine.

Ali ripped the headphones apart and wound the wire harness round his waist. Another bullet smashed into the concrete ledge. He fired back, twice, three times, and the police ducked away behind a low wall. Gulping, he stepped on to the edge of the building. It was a long way down to the street. One deep breath, then he muttered ''Dr Rashid, don't fail me now,'' and threw himself backwards into space.

The wire jerked taut.

He hung for a second then pressed the button to release the brake, rappelling down the four storeys and bouncing off the walls with his feet. Hitting the pavement, he unlatched the harness and sprinted for the park.

By the time the police arrived, all that remained was the wire and a pair of headphones dangling outside a window.

#21. BAB SHARKI, OLD CITY, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Saturday July 11, 16:07

ALI TOOK a cheese sandwich and a mango juice from a hole-in-the-wall to a park outside the Four Seasons Hotel. Surely Talal's men had captured Hamza and taken him back to Dar El-Tawhid. They had stolen the lap-top and all the documents. Surely too they must have worked out that Ali had been spying on them. The question was what Talal would do next. Ali felt he had to get into the madrassa, find Hamza and get him out before he ended up next to Mokhtar feeding the jackals in the desert.

When he finished his snack, he went to a small store on Al-Amir Izzedin Street and bought a new set of headphones so he could listen to the police channel on the Walkman. In addition, the bugs he had planted round Talal's office might pick up something useful.

Singing quietly to himself, ''Do what you want, but you're never gonna break me, Sticks and stones are never gonna shake me, oh, oh, oh'', he hurried past the Japanese Embassy in Shukri Al-Assassi, past the majestic statue of Salah Al-Din outside the walls of the Old City, through Bab Al-Jabiya and into Medhat Pasha Souk and the Al-Hameediya Market. Here he could lose himself among dozens of silk shops and shoe shops, rug shops and shisha shops, stalls of pistachios, dates and raisins, even Bakdash's ice-cream parlour, famous for its pistachio-encrusted booza, but he wanted somewhere different, somewhere busy but out of sight, somewhere he could spend the rest of the day without attracting attention. Emerging between two Roman pillars into the sun-soaked paved square of the Forum, he headed for the Umayyad Mosque across the cobbles with his 'Pocketful of Sunshine' and went in. The marble floor of the rectangular courtyard was cool under his soles.

As he washed in the central ablutions fountain, he gazed up at the spectacular brown, green and gold depiction of Paradise rendered above the three-arched entrance. Lush trees, luxuriant fountains and beautifully ornamented buildings covered the entire end-wall, including the three gracefully pointed windows and the pediment, with its small, round, eye-like portals high above hustle and bustle, and swarmed almost up to base of the huge Dome of the Eagle itself. Ali understood why the historian El-Idrisy had called it a wonder of the Islamic world.

This fourth holiest site in World Islam, had been built in 634 on the site of a Christian church dedicated to John the Baptist, whose head was preserved in a large silver-plated, green-curtained shrine in the prayer hall. Completed in 715, it was where the prophet Jesus would apparently return to Earth at the End of Days, arriving via the Isa Minaret to confront the Antichrist here in this city. The great-grandson of the Prophet, peace be upon him, Ali Ibn Hussein, had preached here from the great white pulpit during the sixty day imprisonment here of the wives and children of the Shi'ites killed at the Battle of Karbala in 680. They had been made to walk from Iraq to Damascus then stand at the Bab-as-Sa'at Gate for seventy-two hours whilst the third Umayyad Caliph Yazid I had determined their fate. It seemed somehow fitting that a Shi'ite boy from Iraq was now in Damascus to confront the Devil of Talal Hafez.

He stopped to press his forehead in prayer against the tomb containing the head of John the Baptist then sat on a comfortable rug in a corner facing the door. The interior of the prayer hall was vast and cavernous but an interesting mix of pilgrims, tourists and locals milled around, their doctrinal differences subsumed in the greater unity of mutual worship.

He now felt safe enough to rip the new headphones from their plastic wrap, plug them into the Walkman and slip them over his ears. The police channel was now occupied with idle chatter about shift patterns, tea breaks and traffic reports. It was around half-past four in the afternoon and rush-hour was peaking.

93.7 FM brought the hiss, crackle and pop of static. There were no voices in the mosque. Surely they would be preparing for prayers by now.

He needed to see for himself, to get into Talal's office, into those drawers, find Hamza, find out what was happening… he itched to get on with it, but knew he had to wait for the cover of darkness. It was most frustrating. Moodily picking at the bandage on his hand, he listened to the police channel again.

At sunset, the Call to Prayer sounded loudly from the three ancient Umayyad minarets. Ali did not join the prayer. The silence from the Mohammed Bin-Rahman Mosque suggested Talal Hafez and friends had left and locked up. Getting into the office would therefore be easier but possibly whatever was in the desk would have gone too. The lack of noise also suggested that Hamza was not there after all and this troubled him even more. Was his friend already dead as Moussa Bashir had implied? He shuddered to think of Hamza in pain, of Talal's cruelty, of his own helplessness, sitting here in the mosque waiting for nightfall. Hugging his knees, he rocked a little, the gun in his waistband jabbing against the base of his spine, until it was properly dark when he collected his trainers and left the mosque.

First he ducked into the smelly public toilets just outside the gate where he locked himself in a cubicle, sat on the seat and prepared his equipment. Next he checked the magazine of the Sig-Sauer M11. It normally held fifteen nine-millimetre rounds. There were only three left. Never mind. He would just have to improvise. Then he switched the red and black cassettes in the Walkman then settled the glasses on his nose. Two knock-out darts, one in each stem. He twisted the cap of the Axe can to activate the tear-gas canister then slipped two tablets of gum into his mouth, grimacing again at the tooth-powder taste. Finally the phone. It was only small but he wanted to conceal it somewhere in case he was caught. He took the plastic headphone wrapper out of his pocket, laughed softly and, shaking his head, muttered ''I don't believe I'm doing this.''

When he had finished, he stuffed his light-coloured jacket behind the cistern, smoothed his thick hair and left the cubicle. In the garden outside Salah Al-Din's tomb, he rubbed handfuls of black dirt into his bare arms and face to darken them. Catching himself in a window, he looked ready. He was ready.

*

According to a notice on the door, the Mohammed Bin-Rahman Mosque was closed until further notice for pest control. Ali laughed at the irony but knew now he was right. The birds had flown, and taken Hamza with them. Nevertheless, stepping up to the door, he spat a soft, warm lump of gum into his palm and pushed it into the lock. Five seconds, a fizz, a crack, and Ali passed through the ancient stone gateway into the deserted, moonlit courtyard where he prised off his trainers and socks. It was still a holy place, despite the nature of the men who prayed there. Besides, bare feet made less noise.

Holding the Sig-Sauer in both hands at waist height, he crept stealthily across the courtyard, slinking through the shadows and flickering moonlight to the heavy, dusty green curtain. He eased it carefully aside and peered into the gloomy, stone-flagged passage. Like the courtyard, like Talal's office, it was empty. The papers had gone. The PC had gone. Even the kettle and glasses had gone. Damnation. He was too late. Moussa must have been telling the truth when he said Hamza had betrayed them. Maybe he was even a double agent. Ali shook himself angrily and banished the thought. Whatever the situation, the men from Dar El-Tawhid had already melted away into the dark, endless, unpredictable maze of cul-de-sacs, courtyards and alleys of Old Damascus where they would never be found and Ali was no nearer learning what the delivery to Moustapha Al-Sekem's Hands across the Sands actually involved. Frustrated, no longer bothering to conceal himself or steal stealthily through the shadows, he clattered furiously through the toilets, the schoolroom, the library and back to the mosque. There was no-one to hear him and nothing to find. The trail had gone cold.

It was nearly ten when he gave up. He was unsure what to do next. The safe-house was no longer safe and he knew no-one he could trust. He decided to retrieve the Nokia, call Colonel Ibrahim, find the Syrian branch of Wadi Insurance, preferably before midnight, hand himself in and admit defeat. It would not be easy, swallowing his pride like this. Nevertheless, whilst Hamza's life was at stake, Ali's pride could take a hit or two.

Passing along eerily quiet Straight Street in the footsteps of St Paul, King Herod and Emperor Tiberias, he spotted Anas and his kid brother Firas sitting on the base of a broken column under a Roman arch. Anas' stubbly scalp gleamed a little in the soft glow of the street-light. He was wearing his usual pale blue shirt, bottle-green jogging pants and brown sandals. Firas still sported the red and black striped shirt of local soccer club Al-Jaish SC and grubby white shorts but was bare-legged and bare-foot. Fellow Iraqis, thought Ali, would surely help.

''Hey,'' he called out as he approached.

Anas was holding a bottle of Stella beer. Firas jumped anxiously.

''Ali!'' Anas called. ''Everyone's looking for you. The police, Hisham, Osama, everyone.''

''Well, I'm here now,'' Ali replied.

The brothers glanced nervously at each other.

''I didn't take the money,'' Ali said flatly.

''We know,'' said Anas. '' Tamer stole it.''

''That's why everyone's looking for you,'' chirped Firas, ''To tell you everything's fine, kulu'u tamam.''

''They want you to come back,'' said Anas. ''Imam Talal says you're his best student.''

''Where is Imam Talal?'' asked Ali.

''Not far,'' said Anas. ''Want some beer? It's still quite cold.'' He rummaged in his glue-sniffing bag for another green bottle. ''It's OK. Firas gets them from the Journalists' Club.''

''I heard something happened to Moussa Bashir.'' Ali took the bottle. The glass was streaming with condensation. The brothers glanced at each other again, more nervously.

''He got hit by a car when he was chasing Tamer,'' said Anas. ''The funeral's tomorrow.''

''At the mosque?''

Anas nodded. ''Ten o'clock.''

''What about Tamer?''

''The police got him,'' gulped Firas, dancing anxiously on the spot.

Ali tapped the beer-bottle against his thigh and considered his options. He did not believe a word of this story. It was clearly a ploy to return him to Talal Hafez. On the other hand, it was the surest way of finding him and thus finding out what had happened to Hamza.

''Can you take me to Imam Talal?'' he asked.

''It's late,'' said Anas. ''Can't you wait till the morning?''

''Stay here with us,'' Firas suggested, ''Under the arch.''

''You haven't opened your beer,'' Anas observed.

''I'm no longer thirsty.'' Ali turned away. ''Besides, I don't drink. See you, boys.''

Firas squeaked. Osama, ghost-like in a glowing white galabeya, and five burly, baseball-bat-bearing men were approaching from Bab Sharki.

''Looks like they found you after all,'' Anas smugly remarked, swigging some beer.

Smiling, Ali slipped the last exploding Chiclet onto his tongue, settled the glasses on the bridge of his nose, checked the square for exit-points and waited calmly, hands by his sides. He had expected this, and was prepared.

''Run,'' Firas urged anxiously, ''Run, or they'll kill you.''

''Shut up, Firas,'' snarled his brother. ''He stole money from the mosque, killed Moussa and beat up Tamer and now he's gonna get what's coming.''

Osama and the others were strung in a line like gunslingers in an old cowboy film. Which to take out first? The biggest? The quickest? Osama? How much fighting would he do anyway? Surely he would just give orders. Six against one, seven if Anas joined in, were not great odds. Ali knew he'd have to move quickly and efficiently if he was to win this fight.

''Ali.''

There was no greeting, just the name, spoken without emotion.

''Osama.'' Ali nodded acknowledgement. ''And you brought your little friends. Six big men to tackle one small boy. What a hero you've become.''

Osama spat into the dust. ''Choose your words carefully, Ali. They may be your last.''

''That's what Moussa Bashir said,'' Ali replied, ''Just before I threw him off a roof.''

The flicker of uncertainty that passed across Osama's thin features gave Ali his cue. He hurled the unopened beer-bottle at the man on Osama's right, knocking him cold.

Moving quickly, Ali fired a dart from his glasses into the neck of the guy on the left, who cried aloud, clapped a hand to his throat and dropped like a sack of rice. Twisting, ducking, Ali fired the second at the man at the end of the line who also fell where he stood. As the remaining three yelled and charged forward, Ali leapt over the low, wire fence and rolled on his shoulder through the Roman arch into the bushes.

Seizing his shirt, Anas cried ''I got him'' and swung a clumsy punch which Ali easily dodged, but the contact had slowed him down. He spat out the gum and, shoving it up Anas's nose, rolled away from the shattering crack and blood-chilling shriek.

''Gesundheit,'' called Ali, steadying himself behind a broken Roman column, pulling the gun from his waistband and surveying the scene.

The men he had hit with the beer-bottle and knock-out darts lay unconscious in the dust. Anas, cradling his face, was slumped on the road, blood streaming over his fingers. Firas, crying, was squatting beside him, hand on his back.

''Drop the bats.'' Ali pointed the Sig-Sauer's round black eye at Osama, ''Or I'll drop you.''

As the bats clattered to the street, he took the Walkman from his pocket, pressed Play and tossed it to the biggest thug shouting ''Catch''. The device exploded with a flaming roar. There was another terrible scream but Ali charged forward, the gun in his right hand, the Axe in his left, and sprayed a burst of tear-gas into Osama's face. Osama howled and clawed at his thin face, breaking his glasses with his agonized scrabbling.

Spraying again to left and right, Ali crashed through the gang to the other side. When he turned round, he could see the mayhem he had caused. Two thugs, their clothes and hair on fire, lay on the road, possibly dead. Osama and the others were blundering blindly around in the choking gas, coughing and cursing in equal measure.

''You broke your specs, Osama,'' Ali remarked. ''No need to cry.'' He raised the gun.

''No!'' cried Firas. ''Not in cold blood!''

Ali grinned, swung the muzzle upwards and shot out the street-light. Everything plunged into darkness. Then he twisted the cap of the Axe can clockwise and exploded the smoke-bomb. A thick black cloud filled the street and Ali moved away, back towards the city. He did not want to be around when the cops came. Suddenly, out of the mist, darkness, loomed the white-robed, hook-handed, black-bearded spectre of Talal Hafez.

''Where's Hamza?'' Ali shouted, raising the gun once more.

Talal spread his hands. ''Hamza? Who is this Hamza?''

''Your goons kidnapped him,'' barked Ali. ''Where is he?''

''You're mistaken,'' said Talal. ''It wasn't us. Maybe the police? Or the security service?''

Ali had two bullets left. He could put one through Talal's knee, make him talk. He drew back the hammer and squinted through the Siglite Night-Sight along the seven inch barrel.

''I won't ask you again,'' he said coldly. ''Where is Hamza Madani?''

Talal Hafez ran his hook through his beard. He seemed to be considering his options, calculating the odds of Ali shooting him, or not.

Then Firas ran wailing across the road.

''My brother's hurt, teacher. Come help him.'' He tugged at Talal's hand.

''Firas!'' Ali yelled, waving the gun, ''Get back! Get back!''

Talal seized the boy's thin shirt and dragged him to his chest. The metal hook flashed brightly in the darkness as the needle tip pressed into the flesh of Firas' neck.

''Put down the gun!'' ordered Talal. ''Put down the gun, or I will kill the boy.''

''Go ahead,'' said Ali, feigning indifference. ''He means nothing to me.''

Firas choked.

''Go ahead,'' Ali repeated, ''Kill him. And then I'll put a bullet through your beard.''

He held the gun in both hands and trained it on Talal's left eye.

The sharpened steel pricked Firas' skin and made him howl, a mix of pain and terror. Even in the darkness, Ali could see a trickle of blood redden the ashen skin.

''I'm not bluffing,'' Talal said coldly, ''But I think you are.''

''This is a Swiss-made Sig-Sauer M11-A1 pistol,'' said Ali. ''It is a nine-millimetre calibre hand-gun. The barrel is nearly four inches long, the whole gun seven. It takes fifteen rounds and has a short-reset trigger. I trained with this gun. I know its mechanism inside out. I could put a bullet through your skull in the time it takes for you to draw a breath. Draw well, Talal Hafez. It will be your last.''

But he was bluffing. He did not want to risk hitting Firas. Even though the pistol had night sights, Firas was writhing and squirming like a landed fish. He could easily get hit. And Ali only had two bullets. He would have one shot. As his mind furiously tried to work out what to do, Talal dragged Firas up his chest by the chin so the boy's bare toes left the ground. The golden eagle badge on the red and black Al-Jaish shirt twisted out of shape.

''If you shoot me,'' the Imam said, ''My death reflex will slit his jugular and his blood will gush out like a ripped hosepipe. It will cover you from face to foot. Firas will die for the cause but his blood will be quite literally on your head, your face, and you will never wash away the blood of an innocent child.''

''Let him go,'' said Ali. The thirty-two ounces of polymer steel were getting heavier.

Talal dug his hook into Firas' throat again. More blood dribbled over the skin. Further down the street some of the men were beginning to stir, and Ali suddenly understood that Talal was waiting for reinforcements. He swore. He would have to shoot him before they arrived and chance Firas' safety, or escape, lose his target, lose Hamza. Torn, undecided, uncertain, the mouth of the gun wavered, then swung back, then wavered again. Ali swore again and decided.

''Let the kid go,'' he said, lowering the pistol, ''And I'll surrender.''

''Gun on the floor.'' Talal jerked Firas violently up and down. ''Floor.''

Slowly Ali placed the gun on the ground next to his foot and kicked it away. Scornfully Talal pushed Firas away. Tears were streaming down the boy's pale cheeks, snot was bubbling thickly from his nose and blood was dribbling from the two long, gashes which punctured his neck. Ali caught him against his chest, marvelling at the skeletal figure's mortal fragility.

Talal regarded Ali appraisingly. Ali tensed his shoulders, expecting at least a punch. It did not come. Instead Talal nodded briefly and gathered up the gun.

''Come with me,'' he said, ''And all will be clear.''

#22. AL MASBAK 2, OLD CITY, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Sunday July 12, 06:25

ALI HAD stopped struggling against the ropes that bound him to the wooden chair in the middle of this mean little room. Instead he waited, conserving his strength whilst his brain hatched plan after plan, as it had been since understanding that Talal Hafez really did not know Hamza Madani and that Ali had been tricked, infuriatingly so. Maybe Hamza had simply bailed out and abandoned the mission. Ali shook his head. This he could not accept. Not yet anyway.

He had been brought at gunpoint to this pleasant medieval courtyard with its blossoming cherry trees, gurgling marble fountain, pretty hanging flower-baskets, neat, alternating stripes of brown and white bricks. Met by some men from the mosque and marched up to the second floor, he was stripped naked and searched thoroughly then tied to this chair in an empty, bare-floorboarded room. The early morning sunlight was poking enfeebled fingers through the dusty slats of the window shutters and casting barred shadows on his chest and legs.

He was a little scared. Talal was vengeful and crazy, particularly after Moussa's death and Ali's disabling of his gang. They had tortured Mokhtar and cooked his head in a tin. Was that his fate too? Shuddering, feeling nauseous, he tried to set the thought aside, and failed. What would it feel like, having your brain cooked? How long before you went mad, before something fused inside, before something melted? God Almighty, what would it feel like, for your eyeballs to melt like ice-cream in a hot hand? And what would happen to Fatima now he had failed? Would Colonel Ibrahim allow her to stay, or would he send her back to Iraq? What was Talal planning? Had Ahmed Ahmed received Hamza's messages?

Time passed. The angle of the sun changed. The merry splash of the fountain filtered through the shutters. Somewhere a clock chimed eight.

The door clicked open and Talal Hafez entered with Hisham. They both looked refreshed and alert. Hisham set a white plastic bucket of water on the floorboards under the chair then placed a large, blue rubber-covered box between Ali's feet. It was a twelve-volt, six galvanic cell, lead acid car battery. Ali's innards froze.

''Sala'am aleikum,'' said the Imam. ''Did you sleep well?''

''Well enough,'' Ali answered. ''I wondered when you'd show up, you weasel,'' he said to Hisham. ''Not man enough to join the fight but sneaky enough to come to the killing.''

Hisham merely scowled and uncoiled a pair of crocodile-clip tipped silver wires.

''Don't be a sore loser, Ali,'' Talal admonished. ''You did your best but now we need to know exactly who you are and what you are doing here.'' He pointed his hook at the battery which squatting like a malevolent toad on the floorboards, the two wires trailing now from each white powder-encrusted terminal. ''You will tell me who sent you and why.''

Ali shivered as the jagged lump of ice jumped into his throat. He was suddenly terrified. Hisham stepped between Ali's naked knees and stooped down with the wires. Wincing, Ali sucked in a sharp breath as the metal jaws bit savagely into his scrotum.

''For every answer you fail to provide,'' said Talal Hafez, ''Hisham will send enough volts to power a truck through your manhood. I hope you feel a lot of pain.''

''Thanks,'' grunted Ali, as the second set of teeth closed painfully on the tip of his penis.

''When you stop feeling pain,'' Talal Hafez continued, ''Your testicles will have melted.''

Ali's fingers gripped the hard wood of the chair. His buttocks shifted as his body instinctively squirmed away from the gathering storm. Hisham flicked a switch on the battery. A loud, sinister hum crackled into the silence. Ali felt a prickling tingle in his groin. Sweat broke on his brow and chest. God Almighty…and now, to make it worse, Hisham blindfolded him. Unable to see, unable to know where the other boy was, what he was doing, Ali felt utterly defenceless and totally vulnerable.

''So,'' Talal Hafez' voice seemed very far away, ''Who are you and why are you here?''

Ali clenched the chair-arms. How bad could it be?

''Fuck you,'' he said.

It was as bad as could be.

A desperate scream erupted from the depths of his soul as a giant hand yanked off his balls and a massive wave of overwhelming pain blotted out every other feeling, every other sensation, every other thought except what was happening in his balls, a tidal wave of agony tearing up through his body which arced and shrieked and thrashed in the chair and, although it could not have lasted more than twenty seconds, the pain felt like an hour.

Ali's head dropped. Sweat slicked his body, dripped on to his thighs. He felt his hair wet. He felt his cheeks wet. He felt his groin wet. His brain had been erased.

''Who are you and why are you here?'' Talal's voice, faint, indistinct, under water.

Ali's tongue felt like a huge chunk of rubber foam. His wrists and ankles throbbed from where they had smashed into the rope restraints.

Another shock crashed through him, battering his mind, shattering his bladder. He twisted, writhed, screamed until he thought his throat would be flayed raw. Pain coursed through every nerve, probing, poking, exploring, jabbing, intruding into every cell of his existence. He realised he was crying, tears soaking into the cotton blindfold.

''Come now,'' said Talal Hafez, ''Your name is Ali, you were born in Baghdad…''

Dimly, dumbly, he shook his head slowly, feeling his bones turn to water, his brain turn to mush, his bowels turn to slush, as for a third time the giant hand squeezed him, wrung him, flung him and tossed him on another wave. His heart raced and the sinews jammed through his neck like cords of steel but his scream was weaker now, and he passed into unconsciousness, head lolling on to his shoulder like that of some broken doll, a silver string of frothy saliva threading together his collarbone and mouth-corner.

He vomited twice down his naked chest. Hisham threw the bucket of water over him.

Outside he could hear the playful gurgling of the courtyard fountain and the merry tweeting of some birds. Inside was just more pain, more suffering, more smells, more tears. He was being emasculated, shock by shock. He would never father children. He was only fifteen.

''I'm only fifteen!'' he shouted defiantly. ''How can you do this to a kid?''

''When the kid is a threat to the revolution, a danger to the ulema,'' said Talal Hafez, ''Any means are acceptable.''

The fourth shock made his breaking, fraying body dance crazily in its bonds. His knees jerked frantically, his shoulders shook, his head snapped back and forth, as though the puppeteer were having a fit, as the pain swelled, fanning through him again. It felt as though a pile of bricks was being dragged slowly through the tip of his cock. He puked again and pissed down his leg.

Enough.

''I'M A SPY!'' he yelled. ''A SPY! I WAS SENT HERE TO SPY ON YOU!''

His chin hit his chest again as he heard a satisfied grunt from the teacher in the corner. Impeded by his thick rubber tongue and speaking hesitantly through his tears, Ali told them everything, about the Arab League's suspicions, Operation Flashlight and Hamza Madani.

''Thing is, Talal,'' He raised his blindfolded face. ''Hamza Madani has passed all the intelligence on to the Joint Security Council. They will be coming for you, probably right now while you're wasting your time with me. You're finished.''

''Perhaps,'' said Talal, ''But you will not live to celebrate.''

The hum from the battery intensified as Hisham turned up the voltage. Oh God, They were going to electrocute him!

''Wait!'' he cried, but the pain seared through him once more, sundering his joints, tearing him apart at the seams. His teeth rattled and his body juddered. ''Wait! I can help you!'' The voltage increased again and now it was not a shock coming in short, sharp bursts, it was a constant, a permanent force occupying his groin, invading his balls, setting up camp in his lower body, its fingers spreading, never-ending, never-relenting, never-stopping, roaring through his ears, on and on and on and on… ''Please! Let me help you!'' Ali screamed.

''You want to help me?'' Talal Hafez asked coldly.

Ali screamed YES YES YES.

''Then die.'' Talal twisted the dial to its limit.

The current surged into Ali's shrinking skull and he passed out again.

Merciful God, he was dead. Ali was dead. His heart did a sudden, light back-flip of joy.

The bright white light of Heaven and the sound of merry birdsong, chuckling streams and chattering children greeted him gaily. He had made it. Hamdullilah. Thanks be to God.

The pain was gone, replaced by a dull, nagging soreness in every pore and cell. His wrists and ankles ached abominably, along with most of his muscles, and his swollen genitals throbbed leadenly. The blindfold was gone and he blinked rapidly to clear his vision. Still everything was golden-white. Somewhat blurred, somewhat hazy, a white-robed angel hovered nearby, ready to minister, ready to heal, ready to help him face God's throne. Ali sighed contentedly.

''You know what they say about jihad, Ali?''

What was Talal Hafez doing in Heaven? Ali did not understand.

''Ibn Nuhass talked of a hadith in which The Prophet, Peace and Blessings Be Upon Him, was asked about the best jihad.''

Someone was sawing at the ropes that bound Ali to the wooden chair. Talal Hafez was pacing the bare boards, gesticulating with his hook.

Ali's heart thumped back to earth. Bollocks. He was still alive. He was still in this bloody room with these bloody maniacs. A cold wave of disappointment broke over his head.

'' 'The best jihad', he said 'Is the one in which your horse is slain and your blood is spilled.' Moussa is the horse but yours, Ali, is the blood.'' Talal Hafez dragged the hook through his beard thoughtfully. ''I am giving you the chance to save your soul, to redeem the sin of murder by paying a blood-sacrifice which will be your own worthless life, for, as Ibn Hanbal said, the most righteous believer is he who is killed whilst shedding the last of his blood. This is your moment to ascend to Heaven.''

''I was hoping to have a few more years before that happened,'' Ali said thickly.

''You wanted to help me,'' said Talal, ''And so you shall. This afternoon a wedding party shall take place in a very popular Old City restaurant called Leila's. The bride is the daughter of a prominent Shi'ite businessman, the groom the son of a Government Minister. Around two hundred guests will include politicians, military and security officials and members of the Syrian media as well as many important figures from the world of business and commerce. You will infiltrate the wedding party and blow it up.''

Hisham was drawing a thick, khaki-coloured canvas body-warmer from a holdall. Two wires, one red, one blue, protruded from the back. It was a bomb-vest.

''This,'' Talal Hafez continued, ''Contains two kilograms of high-explosive and half a kilogram of steel ball-bearings. You should kill around fifty guests, injure and cripple a further hundred. You will utterly destroy the restaurant. The wedding reception will be a blast.'' He smiled grimly. ''You see, I too can joke.''

Hisham was already feeding Ali's arms through the holes.

''If the guests are as important as you suggest,'' Ali said, his head clearing rapidly, ''There will be tons of security, maybe even some of my people. How will I get in?''

''Through the kitchen,'' said Talal. ''You will be delivering vegetables from the market.'' He smiled again. ''The Al-Amin market. Nice twist, don't you think? That the market which shares your vile, treacherous name will ultimately lead to your death.''

Hisham zipped up the jacket. Ali felt the weight of the explosives and felt sick.

''Get dressed.'' Hisham threw Ali's clothes at him.

''Hisham will come with you,'' Talal explained, ''And when you are in an advantageous position, he will detonate the bomb.'' He tossed Hisham a mobile phone. ''Just press Hash Five,'' he said, ''And run. Fast.''

''You won't get away with this,'' Ali said. ''My people are combing this city for you. It's only a matter of time before they catch you.''

''Time enough to go out with a bang,'' said Talal. ''One more delivery and we will shut up shop. I will escape through the desert, maybe back to Iraq, and disappear. They will not find me.''

''Ah,'' said Ali, ''That word 'delivery'. I saw it in your email exchanges with Hands across the Sands. Several deliveries to Moustapha Al-Sekem in Jordan. What does it mean?''

''My,'' said Talal, ''You have been busy.''

''What are they? Bombs?''

''Bombers,'' said Talal. ''We send bombers, worthless beggar-boys, glue-sniffers, little whores from the alleys who perform sex-acts in toilets, street-scum that no-one will miss.''

''He means you, Hisham,'' said Ali cheerfully. ''He's described you to a tee.''

Hisham scowled.

''It allows them one chance of salvation,'' said Talal, ''To redeem their lives for God.''

''By blowing themselves to pieces,'' said Ali.

''Exactly.''

''And you smuggle them across the borders in Al-Houri's delivery trucks,'' said Ali, ''Hidden inside crates of machine parts and someone at the borders waves them through.''

''All the paperwork is in order,'' said Talal, ''And there are always so many crates so late at night. It would take several hours to check them all. Our boys have fought in Iraq and Egypt, Jordan and Lebanon, and now in Syria we will strike our deadliest blow.''

''What about the Jerash Festival?'' said Ali. He was dressed now, his navy blue T-shirt tight over the bulky bomb-vest.

''Well, well.'' Talal narrowed his eyes. ''After today, it will be Moustapha Al-Sekem's problem, not mine. You look splendid. Connect the wires.'' Hisham did so. ''You are now primed, a walking, living, human bomb, a dead boy walking. If you cry out, warn anyone or try to run away, Hisham will shoot you in the knee and then explode the bomb. Wherever you are in the cramped Old City, you will cause carnage. The wedding is our primary target but anywhere will do. It does not really matter who you kill.'' He stroked Ali's cheek. ''You're so lucky. In one hour you will be with the angels in Heaven. I almost envy you.''

''Feel free to take my place,'' said Ali, getting unsteadily to his feet.

''One bullet left.'' Hisham dug the Sig-Sauer into his side. ''Enough to rip a hole through your stinking guts. Let's go.''

They went down the stairs and into the hall. Talal's men, now a gallery of grotesques, watched silently. Osama's thin face had swollen to twice its normal size, his eyes reduced to tiny slits in the puffy flesh, the skin a painful-looking purple with weeping, angry blisters bursting everywhere. A pus-stained, blood-soaked bandage was wrapped around the middle of Anas' face where his nose had once been.

''He won't be sniffing any more glue,'' Ali remarked.

The man he had hit with the bottle had stitches in his forehead whilst the hands of the man who had caught the Walkman were swathed in gauze, the skin tight, plastic, puckered and pink. Firas, sticking plasters starkly white on his scrawny throat, looked deeply traumatized.

''The men from the mosque,'' Ali laughed. ''Good luck against the Syrian Army, boys.''

''I wonder you can joke,'' Talal remarked.

''The Martyr goes to his death with a light heart,'' said Ali. ''Hadith 1. Ali ibn Hassan from Baghdad said it.''

Hisham jabbed him with the gun and snarled ''Move.''

#23. OLD CITY, DAMASCUS, SYRIA

Sunday July 12, 14:34

IT WAS bright and hot in the courtyard. The sun had warmed the bricks and the paving slabs radiated heat into the soles of Ali's bare feet. The fountain gurgled peacefully. Al Masbak 2 Cul-de-Sac 306102.

''You know who the next delivery is?'' Ali said. ''It's you.''

''Shut up.'' Hisham jabbed him again with the pistol.

''You heard him,'' Ali responded. ''He's breaking for the desert this afternoon. He said 'I', not 'we'. He's closing down the operation. What use are you? You're his recruiting agent and he ain't recruiting any more.''

They passed narrow, winding streets, stray, squalling cats, old men snoozing in plastic chairs, small half-naked boys playing football in the dust, passed through the city and the life of the city, death walking with them.

''You're off to Amman in a crate,'' Ali continued, ''And you're coming back in a box. Several boxes. Several small boxes, 'cos I've seen a suicide-bombing. They scrape whatever bits of charred, bloody meat they can find off the walls and bag it up. The guy who did my parents, they found enough to fit into a shoebox. Maybe they could fit you into your glue-sniffing bag.''

''Shut up,'' Hisham repeated.

''Well, if that's the way you want to go,'' said Ali, ''I won't try to stop you but I thought you were smart. Seems you're just a dumb-ass like Tamer after all.''

Al-Amin Market was massed with afternoon shoppers. Hisham and Ali went to a stall where produce was laid on the pavement under a shady canvas awning and purchased some cabbages, carrots, peppers and cucumbers and piled them into a wooden box.

''Carry it,'' Hisham commanded.

''It's difficult,'' Ali said, ''With this vest on.''

Hisham scowled angrily. ''Give it to me then,'' he said, putting the gun in his pocket.

The walls and minarets of the Umayyad Mosque loomed over the huddled, crowded rooftops. The restaurant was very near. It looked out at the mosque. Ali knew it had two floors, wooden stairs, wooden walls. It would catch fire in seconds.

He could jump Hisham now but he still had the detonator and the bomb might be triggered anyway if they ended up rolling round in the street. In addition, Firas was trailing them and Talal was no doubt somewhere close by, probably with a back-up detonator. He had to disarm the bomb somehow.

He heard the music from Leila's minutes before he saw the wedding party, the women ululating, the men rhythmically clapping. Dressed in a dark grey suit and red tie, the bridegroom was dancing slowly round his bride who was clad in a shimmering white gown, a tiara woven into her glossy black hair. They seemed so young, so carefree, so joyful, and so much in love. Four men in traditional Syrian costumes were dancing with swords, skipping through glinting blades lying crossed on the cobbles. The guests included a sprinkling of men in olive-green uniforms. Medals and epaulettes winked in the sunshine. Everyone looked happy.

''You want to destroy all this?'' Ali gestured. ''Why? For what?''

''They are enemies of Islam,'' Hisham replied, ''Takfir, excommunicate. They deny their faith. They are worse than unbelievers.''

''How are they takfir?''

''They dance,'' said Hisham, ''They drink. Their women are uncovered. They have betrayed everything. They have betrayed themselves.'' He gestured to a narrow, paved path that led through a herb garden to the restaurant. ''Here.''

''I need the toilet,'' said Ali.

''What?'' Hisham jammed the gun into his ribs.

''I need the toilet. I'm not going to die on a full bladder.''

Hisham hesitated.

''If I don't go,'' said Ali, ''I'll have to do it here right in front of the wedding guests. That'll put a stop to you. In fact,'' He fumbled at his shorts, ''I'm not sure I can hold it any longer.''

''All right,'' snapped Hisham. ''Up the road.''

They entered the toilet next to the Umayyad Mosque. One or two men and a couple of kids were there. It stank of urine. Ali hated being barefoot. God knew what he was treading in. He headed for the same cubicle he had occupied yesterday.

''Keep the door open,'' Hisham directed.

''You're going to watch me have a shit?''

''Sure.'' Hisham leant against the wall, the box of vegetables cradled in his arms.

Shaking his head, Ali tugged down his shorts and sat on the cold toilet-seat.

''Can you get me a cigarette?'' he called. ''Let's have a last one together. Old time's sake.''

Hisham looked irritated. ''We'll go to the kiosk outside,'' he said.

Grunting, Ali pulled fistfuls of paper from the wall-dispenser and wiped himself. Then he pulled his shorts up again and flushed the toilet. In the pan with the paper was a plastic wrapper.

Hisham bought two cigarettes. They stood in the corner of the square facing the big Roman arches that strode, stark and white, from the darkness of Hameediya Souk and the steps that led towards the Umayyad gate. Some kids were playing hopscotch. Others were riding skateboards down a ramp. Some pigeons were pecking at the sand on the pavement. In just ten minutes, bloody chaos would explode here because some people were insane.

''What did you expect from life?'' Ali said conversationally. ''Not this, I guess.''

''No,'' said Hisham, ''I wanted to be a basketball player.''

Ali grunted. ''I wanted to be a tennis player.''

''You know what I want most?'' said Hisham. ''A hot bath. And my dad to come back.''

Ali drew on the cigarette, felt the smoke creeping insidiously into his system. ''Why do you do this, Hisham? Take boys to them?''

'' 'Cos I hate them.'' Hisham spat on the pavement. ''These boys, these Tamers and Anases, they're pathetic, they make me sick, living on the street, selling themselves, selling their dignity, bleating on about how unlucky they are and how the Syrians don't give them a chance because they're just immigrants. They might as well serve some purpose and die for jihad.''

''You believe in Holy War?'' Ali said carefully, flicking ash from the Marlboro.

''You bet,'' said Hisham. ''I wanna exterminate every stinking traitor we can. They're a disgrace to Allah.'' He tossed his cigarette on the floor and poked Ali with the gun. ''Come on,'' he said. ''It's time.''

''Give me the box,'' Ali said. ''You carried it far enough.''

Hefting the vegetable box up against his chest with his knee, he led the return to Leila's back door. The guests had gone in. The antiseptic smell of thyme wafted from the herb garden.

''Kitchen delivery!'' he called. ''Vegetables from the market.''

A white-coated, white-hatted cook appeared. ''Great. Pop 'em on the work-top, will you?''

''Tips?'' asked Ali.

''Cheeky brat,'' said the cook.

''If we peel them and chop them?''

''That's fair enough,'' agreed the cook. ''Dice the cucumbers, peel the carrots, slice the peppers and I'll give you five hundred pounds.''

Hisham seemed shocked. This was not part of the plan.

Ali grinned and picked up a sharp knife. ''You heard the man, brother. Let's get to work.''

''What the hell are you doing?'' Hisham hissed.

''By the time we finish, the guests will be seated for lunch,'' Ali explained. ''We can probably help serve this food and get really close to them.'' He slammed the knife-blade through a cucumber. ''If I'm going to die, I might as well do it properly and hope you and Talal are right.''

While he worked, singing along to the kitchen radio and Fairouz' 'Nassam Alayna El-Hawa', he identified the door to the dining room, the door to the toilets and the doorway that led, through a beaded curtain, to the well-advertised roof-terrace with spectacular views over Old Damascus. That, he supposed, was where the bride and groom were being photographed.

''Nassam alayna el-hawa, men mafra el-wadi, ya hawa dakhl el-hawa, khedny hala blady'' he warbled, ''Ya hawa ya hawa, yally tayer bel-hawa…''

''I wonder you can sing,'' Hisham hissed. ''Let's do it.''

''Fe mantoura ta'a w soura, khedny la 3endon ya hawa,'' he finished. ''You're sweating, Hisham. It isn't hygienic for a kitchen-worker to sweat so much.''

''Enough pissing about.'' Hisham jabbed the gun into Ali's ribs. ''Get moving.'' Turning his head, he called in a loud voice ''We're just off to see the wedding party, tamam?''

Then he uttered an ear-piercing scream as Ali skewered his left hand to the bench with the kitchen knife, the blade boring through the back of his hand to drive deeply into the wood. Ali smashed him round the head with a cabbage, kneed him sharply in the guts and crashed the wooden box down on his skull. Hisham slumped sideways. Ali kicked the gun out of his limpening hand and searched for the mobile.

''I think he got the point,'' Ali remarked to the open-mouthed cook.

Crouching under a lemon tree among the beds of rosemary, thyme and lavender, he took the Nokia 1100 he had retrieved in the toilet, dialled the double hash jamming signal, tore off his T-shirt, reached behind his back and yanked the blue and red wires away from their terminals to make the device safe. He could not help breathing a relieved sigh.

Drawn to the kitchen by Hisham's wild, hysterical screaming, wedding guests were now swarming from the dining room. The cook appeared in the doorway with the bridegroom and his father, a middle-aged, thick-set man in an army uniform.

''That kid stabbed him in the hand,'' he yelled.

''Oh my God!'' cried the groom's father. ''He's wearing a bomb!''

A dozen people screamed. A dozen security men drew their weapons. A dozen muzzles aimed at Ali's head. A dozen hammers clicked. Time to go.

Rolling on his shoulder through the bushes as a dozen bullets shredded the shrubs and ripped up the earth, he burst into the street, acutely conscious that he only had one bullet left in the recovered Sig-Sauer. Three men were coming, and he could hear the howl of police sirens approaching up Al-Amin Street. He ran across the square towards the kids playing on the steps by the remains of the Roman Temple of Jupiter.

''Sorry guys,'' he said, grabbing a black and red skateboard and jumping aboard just as one of the men drew his gun and fired. Pilgrims and tourists cried in alarm as one bullet ripped into the stonework above Ali's shoulder and another smashed through a silk-seller's window tucked just inside the souk's gloomy entrance.

Gripping the edges of the skateboard with his toes and crouching low at the knees, partly to avoid being shot and partly to lower his centre of gravity, Ali clattered down the stone steps and scooted fast past Saladin's tomb. His left hand extended for balance, he dialled 1-1-1-1 on the Nokia 1100 with his right. Another bullet whizzed past. He dug down with his right heel and, lifting the board, changed direction. He had to lose these guys and get back to Talal Hafez before he disappeared into the mazy Old City. Weaving through ancient streets where upper storeys met high-above to blot out the sky, he swayed fluently through knotted clumps of children and cats.

''Wadi Insurance,'' said the voice on the phone. ''How can we help you?''

''This is Salawa,'' he said. ''The target is on the move. Al-Masbak 2. Cul-de-sac 306102. He's got about eight men but most of them are walking wounded. Understand?''

Another bullet tore into the road.

''Understood.'' It sounded like Hala Ghaboury. ''Are they shooting at you, Salawa?''

''Just a bit,'' said Ali. Another bullet clanged into a bin. ''I'm heading back now.''

And then what? Ali sped down another ramp, accelerated round a bend and into Al Masbak Alley. Glancing over his shoulder he could see that the men had dropped too far behind to catch him. He whooped, wobbled, then, arriving abruptly outside the yard, turned the skateboard sideways to screech to a stop.

There he was, Talal Hafez, in the courtyard, waiting by the fountain for Firas or Hisham to come running in with news of the bombing. He seemed puzzled. He would have heard the explosion by now. He was fiddling with his phone, presumably either calling Hisham or sending his over-riding detonation signal.

Ali kicked down hard on the skateboard, making it spring up into his hand and, as Talal, raising his eyes, registered shock, flung it at the preacher with all his might. Talal managed to ward the heavy skateboard away with his hook but Ali had a split second to get through the defence with a jumping back-kick into the chest which knocked the imam backwards into the trough of the fountain. Ali piled on top, punching him savagely in the side of the head with his right fist, hoping to stun him, or even kill him, whilst choking him violently with his left hand.

Talal gurgled and kicked, the hook thrashing close to Ali's face. Sirens shrieked in the distance. Ali heard shouting, Osama, Firas, others.

Talal's hook slashed down Ali's right cheek, slicing the skin. Ali cried aloud, then all the rage and hurt he had pent up since May erupted in a volcanic red mist consuming every fibre with a hatred, a sheer, naked hatred of an intensity he had never before experienced. He punched Talal hard in the kidneys and kneed him brutally in the right thigh, to deaden it. Talal, shouting, rolled over in the water-trough.

Jumping on his back, Ali dug his knees into Talal's sides and forced his face into the fountain. The man roared again, confused, distressed, frustrated, wounded, trying desperately to shake him off, like a dog trying to rid itself of a troublesome tick, got an elbow up, jarred Ali's jaw, then lurched sideways again, threatening to tumble them both. Ali scrabbled for the Timex on his wrist and yanked out the garrotte. Looping it over the imam's head, he tugged at the wire with all his strength. Gargling, Talal kicked violently as the wire bit savagely into his throat.

''You killed my parents,'' Ali hissed fiercely, ''You killed my brothers. You crippled my sister. You tried to kill me.''

Shoving his knee into the small of Talal's back, he pulled harder as the wire cut more deeply into the now-bleeding flesh around the man's Adam's apple. The man lurched again, choking, shaking like an epileptic rat, and almost threw Ali off.

''You go to Hell,'' Ali hissed in his ear, pushing the face into the fountain again. ''Even those who kill with suicide-bombing shall meet the flames of Hell. It is written, you bastard.''

Talal's blood-stained fingers clutched desperately at the wire, trying to loosen it. Ali wrenched it tighter. Something deep inside the imam's chest rattled, like trapped air knocking in a boiler. There was blood in the water, blood matting that great black beard. The hook beat a wild tattoo on the marble lip of the fountain. Sirens ululated like women at a wedding. Somewhere he heard gunfire. He heaved at the wire again and cursed Talal to Hell. Talal uttered a dreadful gargling sound as his windpipe was crushed. His feet kicked on the ancient stones. The hook rattled again. His entire body heaved for breath. Blood seeped from his mouth then, suddenly limp, he collapsed face-down in the fountain with Ali still on his back.

The wire had bitten into Ali's fingers, drawing blood.

Someone was shaking him. He may have been crying.

''Ali,'' said Hamza Madani, ''Ali. He's dead. Let him go. He's dead.''

Gently he levered Ali's fingers from the wire and, even more gently, folded the boy protectively into his chest.

#24. AL-YARMUK BORDER POST, HIGHWAY 35, JORDAN-SYRIA BORDER

Tuesday July 14, 03:31

AMUN'S FINGERS were numb on this cold, cloudy night. After six hours' duty, he was bored. There was nothing to see in the desert except for the dim milky-white disc of the partially obscured moon and an occasional skittering, sandy-coloured, bat-eared desert-fox but he preferred to be outside in the cold to being tucked up inside the little concrete shed with his card-playing, roll-up smoking colleagues. Their loud, raucous laughter and constant, good-natured cursing overwhelmed the crackling hiss of the radio and worsened as the night progressed and the arak bottle emptied. Propping his M-16 against the wall, he sat down in a plastic chair and glanced towards the brightly lit, barbed-wire topped building that housed Syrian Customs and Border Control a hundred metres further along the lumpy tarmac road.

Border duty had delighted this teenage conscript. It was soft. There were no dignitaries to inspect you, no sergeants to bully you, no skirmishes with Lebanese insurgents, Palestinian guerrillas or excitable, trigger-happy Israeli soldiers, just hours of looking at papers, looking in cars and waving goodbye to the people passing between the two countries. The signs with their promise of adventure, You are now entering the Syrian Arab Republic and Welcome to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan, had excited him, stirred his patriotism. Every evening, when the shift began, he and his comrades would salute their flag, salute the portrait of their King and sing their national anthem but now, after a month, the routine had grown stale, the hours of the night-shift dragged, his companions were common and boorish and no-one came through the border at three a.m.

He wondered idly what the Syrians were doing. He guessed they would be watching television. He did not have much contact with them. They kept themselves to themselves. Occasionally he would see them playing football in the sand. Mostly he never saw them at all.

A cat scurried across the empty car-park. Where had it come from? Where was it going? The nearest house was far out of sight.

Amun scratched his thin, straggly beard. It had taken several months to grow but he was confident it would fill out in time to rival his father's.

Coarse laughter burst from the shed along with the slap of cards and the chink of money. He had told them that gambling was prohibited but they told him to get lost.

The dull, distant drone of an engine seeped into the silence. Amun sat up straight. The drone intensified. Twin yellow beams cut through the inky night-sky. Across the border, some Syrian soldiers emerged from their building. A truck was coming.

Amun watched it bounce towards the barrier. A sudden, fierce blaze of light poured over the border-post thrusting the desert into deeper, starker darkness. A man in a khaki uniform and a red and white khefiyah moved into the middle of the road and waved the driver to stop. The driver jumped down from the cab, shook hands all round and disappeared into the building whilst two soldiers with flashlights went round the back of the truck to inspect the cargo.

''Truck coming!'' Amun called to his colleagues.

''You handle it,'' came the reply.

Amun tutted disapprovingly. They were so unprofessional. He stood up and waited.

Ten minutes passed before the soldiers, having completed their search, disappeared into the office as well. Twenty further minutes passed before they emerged again with the driver and returned to the truck. Good-humoured laughter tinkled from the desert. Another round of hand-shakes and the driver climbed back to his cab. The engine bellowed into life as the barrier lifted.

Amun scratched his throat. The truck was heading towards him, its yellow headlights casting his silhouette into sharp relief against the grey concrete wall of the customs shed.

''Truck's coming,'' he called again.

The sergeant stuck his head out. Amun could smell the liquor.

''Wassup, Amun? Can't you deal with it? 'S only one lickle truck…''

''Sarge, supposed to have two to inspect…''

''Syrians let it through?''

''Yes.''

''And they're paranoid. If they think it's OK, it's OK.''

The truck, a large Renault with a white cab and blue tarpaulin sides, drew up alongside. AL-HOURI DELIVERIES was stencilled in white letters on the side. The driver wound down the window. Amun could hear tinny music twittering from a radio.

''Evening, son,'' the driver said cheerfully. He was unshaven, wore a black baseball cap pushed back from his brow and a white T-shirt under a red and white short-sleeve check shirt. A cigarette was stuck to his lower lip and his left elbow rested on the window-slot.

''Sala'am aleikum,'' Amun replied as the handbrake grated on.

Narrowing his eyes against the smoke curling up from his cigarette, the driver handed his passport through the open window. Amun learned that Youssef Abdullah, from Latakia in Syria, was thirty-five years old, a Muslim, married and one meter seventy-eight centimetres tall.

''You were a long time at the Syrian side,'' he remarked.

''You know those fellows?'' asked Youssef Abdullah. ''Great bunch. Got a cuppa and a smoke. I'm a regular on this route. I do all Al-Houri's long-haul deliveries.'' Youssef Abdullah appraised Amun. ''Haven't seen you before. You new?''

Amun snapped the passport shut and examined the documents in the lorry's headlights. Youssef Abdullah was delivering machine-parts to a factory in Amman. He had a customs inspection form stamped by the Syrians just a few minutes ago, another form stamped by some Damascene bureaucrat authorising the export, an import licence signed by an Amman administrator, letters from the factory manager and Mr Morsi of Morsi's Machine-Parts and a log-book in which his frequent trips between the two capital cities were recorded. He came through the border at three every Tuesday morning and had been doing so for several weeks.

''I have to look in the back too,'' said Amun.

''Sure,'' said Youssef Abdullah. ''Help yourself but I got to be in Amman by six and it's a couple of hours from here. If I'm late, I'll lose my bonus. They don't like unpunctuality.''

Amun flashed his torch over the plastic snaps that held the tarpaulin in place. They looked all right. More laughter and the chink of glasses drifted from the hut.

''Sounds like you're missing a party,'' said Youssef Abdullah.

Behind the rear barn-doors at the rear were dozens of large, closely stacked wooden crates labelled MORSI MACHINE-PARTS. Amun knew he ought to open them all. Clambering up into the truck, he tried to drag one of the stacks closer but failed to shift it even a centimetre.

''What kind of machine-parts?'' he asked.

''For turbines,'' said Youssef Abdullah, ''On wind-farms. In the desert. You know?''

Amun tried another, without success. The crates refused to budge. They were just too heavy. Unable to lift the crates down, he was unable to open the ones at the bottom. Jumping down from the truck he went to the hut. He could barely see the others through the smoky fog.

''Need to inspect the contents,'' he coughed.

''It's three in the morning,'' the sergeant said wearily. ''It's Youssef Abdullah. He comes through every week. He always has the same stuff, turbines for windmills, it's always too heavy to shift, and those paranoid Syrians will already have broken their butts to stamp the documents so why should we do it twice?'' Crowing victoriously, he slapped down a King of Hearts.

Annoyed, Amun returned to the truck. There were probably eighty cases and his colleagues were clearly opting out. He could order Youssef Abdullah to do it.

''Oh man,'' whined the driver, ''I gotta be in Amman by six.''

''I don't care.'' Amun grabbed a crowbar. ''You wait till the job's done.''

The first four crates contained rounded black metal sheets.

''Hi, Youssef. Wanna drink?'' The sergeant, materialising from the night, slung his arm round the driver's shoulders.

''Sure,'' the driver replied. ''You got tea?''

Amun, regarding the seventy-six crates still to be opened, felt his jaw drop.

''Don't worry,'' the sergeant slurred. ''He'll nail 'em all up again before you go.''

''I'll be here till morning,'' protested the driver and Amun together.

There was a momentary pause whilst the three men looked at each other.

''The Syrians have already cleared this stuff,'' said the sergeant quietly, ''And all the paperwork's in order.''

''But…,'' Amun began.

''Up to you,'' said the sergeant.

''It's for Moustapha Al-Sekem,'' added Youssef Abdullah softly. ''If I'm late, he'll complain to the King.''

''You might find yourself posted to Bethany facing the Israelis across the Jordan,'' said the sergeant. ''You wouldn't want that, would you? They're mental. They shoot at rabbits for kicks.''

''Okay,'' said Amun, conceding. ''Off you go.'' His hands fell helplessly to his side. For some inexplicable reason he felt like crying.

''Good lad,'' said the sergeant. ''Cup of tea?''

The smoky sound of a Fairouz song, 'Qudak ranan', filled the cab as a grinning Youssef Abdullah changed gear and shifted the cigarette between his lips. He had got through unscathed again, as smooth and simple as always. No-one asked too many questions at this hour, especially of someone who had made this journey dozens of times. It had become so easy.

He tapped his fingers against the wheel. Only ninety minutes or so till he delivered his cargo, got his money, had a bite of breakfast with Al-Sekem's men and got back on the road. He would be home by mid-afternoon. His wife would have a dinner waiting. He thought of the beaded bracelets he would buy his girls. The reward was worth the risk. He eased into fifth gear and roared alongside the gleaming white ribbon of the River Jordan a hundred metres below.

Perched on top of a ridge, the town of Ajloun overlooked the whole fertile plain which spread all the way to Amman. Fig trees, vineyards and orange groves made a nice change from the barren wilderness of the desert. Changing gear, Youssef eased the Renault up the steep hill towards Ajloun Castle.

Al-Sekem's compound was enclosed inside a razor-wire, chain-link fence and patrolled by khaki-clad guards with M-16s and rusty brown Rottweilers with massive heads. Moustapha Al-Sekem was developing alternative energy sources. Frequently on television, he was famous, respected and rich, which was useful for intimidating raw young soldiers. He also paid well.

At Youssef Abdullah's single, low hoot, the striped wooden barrier lifted to let him pass. He gently nursed the truck towards a large brick shed with an enormous steel door. This bore the name AL-SEKEM ENTERPRISES in big black letters and slid sideways noiselessly as the truck approached. Once inside, Youssef cranked on the handbrake and switched off the engine. Al-Sekem's assistant signed a form then signalled for a fork-lift driver to unload the crates.

This guy gave Youssef the creeps. He was short and square with arms like steel cables and a neck that merged with his shoulders. He was also a piebald freak. His skin seemed to have been scorched and blackened whilst other areas seemed bleached white. Most of his face had been burned away in some terrible accident leaving him with lumpen, misshapen features as though he had been drawn by a small, uncoordinated toddler with poor motor skills who had just stuck things together for a laugh. A patchwork of long, fine ginger hair sprouted in seemingly random places on his scalp. This was Uthman. He did not speak. Youssef had heard that, in the torment of the fire-storm that had maimed him and killed his wife and children, he had eaten his own tongue.

''Crate Thirty-One,'' said Youssef Abdullah, accepting his one hundred dinars.

Crate Thirty-One was carefully unloaded and the lid was shifted aside. To no-one's surprise, a boy in white socks, white trainers, dark green shorts and a dark blue T-shirt clambered out and stretched. A blue Pokémon rucksack dangled from a hand. A cheap silver Timex glinted from the wrist.

''Phew,'' he said, ''A little warm in there. Hi.'' He flashed a smile. ''I'm your special delivery from Damascus, compliments of Talal Hafez. My name is Hisham.'' Nodding at Uthman, he added cheekily ''You're a fine-looking fellow.''

''Don't joke with him,'' hissed Youssef. ''He'll rip off your head with his bare hands.''

By way of demonstration Uthman picked up the crowbar with which they had opened Crate Thirty-One. Holding it in both hands, he bent it into a circle as though it were made of plasticine and tossed it onto the floor with a clatter.

''Very impressive,'' the boy remarked, slinging his rucksack over his shoulder and sounding distinctly unimpressed. ''What do you do for an encore? Eat the bar?''

''Youssef Abdullah is right,'' said a new voice mildly. ''Uthman is not a man to provoke.''

The boy turned to see a tall, slim, middle-aged man standing behind him. He was dressed in pale grey slacks and an open-necked white shirt. A gold chain nestled in the V. His dark hair was cut short and slicked back with a gel which glistened in the harsh light of the warehouse. He was wearing several gold rings, a gold Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch and dark Oakley glasses. He was strikingly handsome, with brilliant white teeth and a smooth, lineless face. This was Moustapha Al-Sekem and he looked vaguely familiar.

''Welcome, Hisham, to Al-Sekem Enterprises.'' He did not extend his hand. ''I trust you travelled well.''

''Not really,'' said the boy. ''Crammed inside a crate and bouncing over a pot-holed road for four hours isn't my idea of fun.''

''Nevertheless, we got you here,'' Al-Sekem said flatly. ''I hope you're not a complainer. I cannot abide complainers.'' He gestured to Uthman. ''Take him to his room.'' He fixed his dark glasses on the boy's tawny eyes. ''You will stay as my guest in my villa. You will find the view spectacular. If you need your clothes laundering, place them in a bag and hand them to the butler. If you want anything to drink or eat, dial zero from the phone in your room and it will be brought to you. I will meet you for lunch at four. Do not be tardy. I cannot abide tardiness.'' He raised his voice. ''Unload the crates,'' he ordered, ''And someone deal with this driver.''

Youssef Abdullah watched the boy leave. Poor little sod, he thought. He was different from the usual lot. Most were dulled by fatigue or fear or fanaticism but this one seemed almost excited by it all. Youssef shook his head. Poor little sod, he thought again.

The boy followed Uthman through a plain grey door into a plain grey corridor then up a gentle slope towards another grey door at the end. The corridor was undistinguished but for the hum of the strip-lights and the low murmur of air-conditioning.

Uthman leaned against a push-bar and the second door swung away opening onto a lushly carpeted, richly decorated reception room with cream and gold-painted walls which were covered, at regular spaces, ornate gold lamps and dingy gold-framed oil paintings. Beneath a large gold-framed mirror stood an antique table on which rested an expensive-looking Japanese vase decorated with entwined yellow and purple flowers. In a facing alcove was a meter-high marble statue of a flute-playing faun sitting on a rock. Next to the faun, a white door led into a room which contained a king-sized bed covered in white sheets, another huge mirror, a plasma-screen television and DVD player, a mahogany writing desk, a deep armchair piled high with cushions, a chest of drawers and a thick white rug. There was also a rather poor, vaguely impressionistic portrait of a multi-robed Bedouin riding a fairly scrawny camel. There was no balcony and not much of a view, just a bank of scrub-covered earth, but there was an en-suite bathroom with a deep tub, the white marble shot through with threads of gold and a matching wash-basin and toilet. A fluffy white dressing-gown hung on the back of the door and six fluffy white towels were heaped on a shelf. Little bottles of Moulton Brown shampoo, soap and conditioner were lined up under the mirror. It was even better than Room 1212.

Dropping his rucksack on the carpet, Ali flopped down on the unbelievably comfortable bed. The absence of door-locks made him uneasy. Nevertheless, he phoned for a mango juice and a grilled chicken sandwich with mayonnaise, then took a hot shower. The snack arrived ten minutes later while he was looking through the drawers. They were full of clothes, jeans, shirts and football shirts, socks, trainers, boxer shorts, swimming trunks, sports shorts, sandals, trainers, shoes, everything he might ever need. It was all freshly laundered and freshly pressed. The cupboard under the television contained a stack of recently released DVDs, Bee Movie, Horton Hears a Who, Happy Feet, Cars, Ratatouille - all safe, child-friendly choices.

''This is great,'' he told the man who brought the snack.

''We were expecting you,'' the man replied.

Ali selected Ratatouille, lay on the bed in the fluffy white dressing gown to watch the adventures of a rat who cooked, ate his sandwich and reflected that, two days ago, his mango juice had been consumed in the Journalists' Club of Damascus with Hamza Madani. The big basement-bar up Qassioun Hill had long wooden tables covered in plastic cloths, plastic plants in plastic pots and a garden out the back. They had chosen it because it was noisy with a mix of shisha-smoking Syrians and Stella-swigging Westerners and they were unlikely to be overheard.

''I can't believe you abandoned me,'' Ali said for the thousandth time.

''It had to be done,'' said Hamza again, ordering thick, syrupy Arabic coffee with several mounded heaps of sugar.

''I knew you didn't like me,'' said Ali, sulking still.

''Grow up,'' said Hamza scornfully. ''It was nothing to do with you. It was all about Mokhtar, what those bastards did to him, what they did to my sister and parents. There was always more for me than just looking after you.'' He piled more sugar into his cup. ''The world does not revolve round you, you know.''

''I thought you were dead,'' said Ali angrily, ''Or a prisoner. I surrendered to find you. I got tortured and strapped into a bomb because I wanted to find you so don't say I'm selfish, you prick. If anyone's selfish, it's you because you didn't tell me what you were doing. You left me to get hurt. You left me to die.'' The force of his fury surprised him. He grabbed the packet of Gitanes Blond and, lighting one, recounted his story, how he had found the flat wrecked, assumed Hamza had been seized, encountered Moussa, fought with Tamer, escaped over the roof, fought Talal's gang, surrendered to save Firas' life, was tortured, struggled with Hisham, defused the vest…

''Yeah, yeah,'' said Hamza, waving a hand. ''Change the record, Ali, you're boring me.'' Ali's back stiffened sharply as though he had been slapped in the face. ''It's what agents do. It's part of the job. You want to be a spy? Well, this is the life you have to lead. Get used to it. I took our stuff and escaped through the doctor's flat across the hallway.''

''You left me for dead, and without any papers.''

''I had to take your papers in case they found out who are,'' Hamza glared across the table. ''I had a job to do.''

''Yeah,'' Ali sneered, ''Getting revenge for your friend. Well, Hamza, your quest for revenge got me tortured and nearly blown up.'' He stirred the thick juice with his straw. ''You can't let your personal feelings interfere with a mission.''

''What are you saying?''

''You're driven by revenge,'' snarled Ali.

''So are you.''

''I'm driven by the mission.''

''The hell you are, you pompous, jumped-up little shit,'' said Hamza angrily. ''You're as driven by revenge as anyone else. You just won't accept it. They killed your parents, and your brothers. Your sister lies crippled in a hospital bed. You can't tell me you don't want revenge.''

Falling silent, Ali stuck his face into the mango juice. He had thought himself beyond personal feelings. Maybe he wasn't. Maybe he was motivated by hatred. He tried never to think about the bomb, or his family, or the war. It was easier to start again. But the feelings that had overwhelmed him when he had killed Talal Hafez, that black rage… this was a side of his character he had never, never seen before. Just remembering the intensity frightened him.

''We need to finish it,'' he told Hamza softly, ''Finish the mission. We need to know what Al-Sekem's doing. We need to know what he's planned for the Festival. I can find out, travel through the Al-Houri pipeline, pretend to be Hisham. That's who they're expecting, that's who they can have.'' He felt he knew enough about the other boy to borrow his identity. ''It's the final delivery. It must be something bigger than a suicide bomb.''

Hamza pointed out that security at the Festival would be immense.

''Security everywhere is immense,'' said Ali. ''They still get through.'' He slurped the last of the juice. ''Listen, if there's going to be some kid with a bomb strapped to his back, it'd be better, surely, if that kid was me. You get Colonel Ibrahim there. Get Rashid. Get anyone. I'll find out what he's up to and you lot do the rest.''

It sounded foolproof.

Hamza took him shopping in trendy Hamra Street, pedestrianized with potted trees running down the centre and dotted with traditional box-shaped street-lamps mounted on black metal posts. Here, in a fashionable boutique, he had got an orange Quiksilver T-shirt, genuine blue Levi 501s and new white trainers, real Adidas this time, no fakes. Hamza also returned the money he had taken from the drawer but said he would hold on to the ID, refugee card and passport given that Ali was supposed to be Hisham Mahmoud and there was no time to get new documents issued.

''By the way, where did you hide your phone?'' Hamza inquired as they kissed goodbye.

''You really don't want to know,'' Ali grinned, running his fingers through his thick hair.

Startled by a sudden noise, he woke to see Uthman standing by the bed.

''What do you want?'' he shouted, scrambling upright and regarding the ruined figure, the black-and-bleached skin, the wispy strands of orange hair, the lumpen, misshapen nose, the lopsided, letterbox, lipless mouth. ''What do you want?'' he repeated.

Uthman pointed to the watch on Ali's wrist and grunted. It was already four. The DVD had finished. Ali had fallen asleep somewhere around Remy's family reunion.

''Anyone can cook,'' he quipped to Uthman, ''Even a rat.''

Uthman grunted. Ali shrugged and turned it off, deciding to watch the rest after dinner and wondering briefly it was weird to fancy animated, flame-haired cartoon women like Colette. Self-conscious under the creature's steadily appraising gaze, he sloughed off the bath-robe like a tired, heavy skin, pottered to the toilet then dressed again in the green shorts and dark blue T-shirt he had brought from Damascus, slipped his feet into some black and orange thongs and followed Uthman down the short corridor to the dining room.

#25. VILLA AL-SEKEM, AJLOUN, JORDAN

Tuesday July 14, 16:02

THE VIEW of the Ajloun Valley that fell away from the immense picture-window was indeed spectacular. Row after row of short, scrubby, spiky-branched olive bushes and long lines of lush, laden lemon trees stretched through the desert to the shimmering white buildings of Ajloun town which spread like a fungus up the hillside. To the right, the jagged tumble-down tower of Ajloun Castle pointed at the sky like a broken finger.

''You are wondering when the castle was constructed,'' said a soft voice behind him. It had a clipped, staccato quality, the consonants sounding hard somewhere in a trans-Atlantic lilt. Moustapha Al-Sekem had arrived. He was wearing a white double-breasted Armani suit, a black open-necked shirt, white slip-on shoes. ''It was built in the twelfth century by Izz-Al-Din-Usama, one of Salah Al-Din's generals, to control the road from Cairo to Damascus. The tower was added by the Mamluks. It was an astounding feat of engineering.'' The Doctor stepped forward, gold necklace, rings and dark glasses glinting their greetings. ''How are you settling in?''

''I took a bath, watched a film, had a nap,'' shrugged Ali.

''I hope you found the clothes we left for you,'' said Al-Sekem. ''You may wear any of them. They are at your disposal. Please.'' He extended an arm to indicate that Ali should leave the picture-window for the living room. It was huge. Ali descended three long white marble steps into a sunken area which contained three large sofas arranged as three sides of a square round a coffee table topped with smoke-grey glass. A vast white rug which reminded Ali of Siberian snowfields he had seen on the Discovery Channel lay on the marble floor in front of a tall gold-framed mirror. On either side stood matching sculptures in gleaming white marble of generously bosomed, big-hipped, half-naked nymphs twining sinuously round slender vines and, on a small table, a bust of Alexander the Great.

''I am a great admirer of the Macedonian King.'' Al-Sekem rested his gold-ringed fingers on the frozen curls of marble hair. Ali noticed his nails were dirty, cracked and broken. ''To have conquered the known world by the age of thirty. To have kings and emperors bow before you. To be lauded and admired across cultures and peoples for millennia. This is an achievement beyond any other. To hold the power of life and death in your hand and know that, at a word, at a gesture, you might cut off prince and peasant, destroy communities, wipe out worlds…this is power, Hisham. This is power.''

''I much prefer the Alexander who, generous in victory, forgave his enemies, forgave the Spartans, forgave and allied with Porus,'' said Ali.

''Bah'', snorted Al-Sekem contemptuously, ''Then you are both weak and foolish.''

''Tell me about the statues,'' said Ali. ''Bernini, I believe.''

Al-Sekem shot him a quizzical glance. Ali inwardly groaned. A street-boy should perhaps not be an expert in either Renaissance Art or Ancient History.

''The Rape of Proserpina.'' Al-Sekem tapped the gleaming marble with the broken nail of his index finger. ''Feel the power of the God as he takes what he wants, no negotiation, no compromise, no questions. The original is in the Villa Borghese in Rome but the copy is perfect. Observe the bulging muscles, the powerful sinews, the facial distress, the strong fingers denting the flesh. The ancient Gods had unfettered power. They could do anything. Ethics, morals, human frailty, none of these hindered their ambitions or their desires. Here the brutal violence of rape is frozen in eternal celebration of the God's supreme action, his total and absolute control of the woman.''

''The faun outside my room,'' said Ali. ''It looks more like an early Bellini. Are you sure you know what you're buying?''

Dr Al-Sekem's razor-thin smile resembled a once-savage, now-healed scar. He gestured to a circular sheet of thick glass in the centre of the floor. It was perhaps one and a half metres in diameter, a couple of centimetres thick. Beneath it Ali noticed a swirling, milling dozen large, flat, blunt-faced, round-bodied, silver-grey fish.

''These are piranha,'' Al-Sekem informed him, ''From the Orinoco River in Venezuela. Fearsome predators with extraordinarily sharp teeth and an appetite for meat, they hunt in packs. Blood in the water sparks a feeding frenzy. They can eat a fully grown human male within an hour. I can show you if you wish.''

Ali's jaw fell open.

''Not you, Hisham. Not unless you disappoint me.'' His laugh chilled Ali's blood.

The dining area was set by a window which overlooked a ten-metre swimming pool full of twinkling blue water and an red clay tennis-court. Beyond that, the stone-strewn terrace sloped steeply away to the olive groves. A young bikini-clad woman sprawled on a lounger and soaked up the sunshine.

''You may use the pool any time,'' said Al-Sekem. ''You will find what you need in your room. Also the woman if you wish. I brought her here to amuse you. She is Russian or Ukrainian or something. It is of no matter. She is an unbeliever and therefore cannot be dishonoured.''

The girl lay face-up, bronzed and bronzing in the fierce afternoon sun. She was twig-thin with long, honey-smooth legs that stretched languidly to the V of her purple bikini briefs. Her hip-bones seemed sculpted from bronze. She had removed her bra and her soft, full breasts rose roundly, proudly from the flat, smooth plain of her stomach. Grape-black curls cascaded down her neck, fanning over her gleaming biscuit-coloured shoulders as, squinting through ruby-tinted sunglasses, she filed her purple-painted fingernails and pouted her purple-painted, heart-shaped lips in a voluptuously mocking kiss.

''I see a tennis-court,'' Ali said hastily. ''Do you play?''

''Why?'' Al-Sekem replied. ''Do you wish me to teach you?''

''Oh,'' said Ali before he could stop himself, ''I play myself.''

''Indeed.'' Al-Sekem seemed pleased. ''Shall we say eight o'clock tomorrow morning? We have three days before the Festival. You may as well enjoy yourself.''

He brought Ali to the table. Glimmering candles in the centre reflected their flickering flames in the crystal flutes, shining gold cutlery, white bone-china and starched white cloth. From a silver ice-bucket protruded the green neck of a bottle, condensation masking the glass.

''Will you take a flute of champagne?'' Al-Sekem beckoned to a man in a white smock. ''It's a Dom Perignon 2002. One hundred and eighty dollars a bottle and the finest of the recent vintages.''

Ali asked for mango juice.

''I don't trust a man who doesn't drink.'' Al-Sekem sipped from the elegant goblet. The cracked, dirty fingernails detracted considerably from the overall impression. ''Something too ostentatiously Puritanical, too zealously fundamentalist about them.''

''Will the girl be joining us?'' Ali asked hopefully, sitting in the high-backed, heavy ash-wood chair on Al-Sekem's left as his host seated himself at the table-head.

''She is watching her figure,'' said Al-Sekem indifferently, ''As, indeed, are you, I see.''

He really did have the coldest smile Ali had ever seen.

The mezze arrived, hummus, grilled red pepper, halloumi cheese, cucumber chunks, dainty meatballs, vine leaves stuffed with rice and raisins and baked flat-bread. Ali raked something from each dish onto his plate. He had not eaten properly for several days, not since the grilled chicken and chips he had shared with Hamza at the Journalists' Club.

''I hear Talal Hafez is dead,'' Al-Sekem began conversationally.

''Yes,'' said Ali. ''Their bloody agent, this Ali Al-Amin kid killed him. He was supposed to blow up the restaurant, Leila's. I stabbed him in the hand with a kitchen knife and legged it. God knows how he got away.''

''This is the child I was informed about,'' Al-Sekem mused.

''Yes,'' said Ali. ''He thinks he's some kind of super-spy but he's a jumped-up little jerk. Uthman could break him in pieces.'' He crammed some bread into his mouth.

''Why did you come here?'' asked Al-Sekem quietly. ''After all, your leader is dead.''

''I want to complete his mission.''

''What did he tell you about the mission?''

''Not much. That it is something to do with the Jerash Festival, that's all.'' Ali took another stuffed vine-leaf. ''I came because I thought I could help you.''

''Oh,'' said Al-Sekem in a voice like rustling paper, ''You'll certainly do that, Hisham, you'll certainly do that.''

Ali piled some red pepper strips onto a slice of halloumi. ''I hate these people,'' he said. ''I'm Syrian but I'm treated like garbage in my own country.'' He recounted what he could remember of the real Hisham's story, about the dead dad, the conscripted brother and the mother doing 'favours' for the Kurdish landlord as a way of paying the rent…

''I am garbage,'' he repeated emphatically.

Al-Sekem sipped more champagne, dabbed his lips with his starched white napkin, seemingly considering. A bird wheeled by then dropped out of sight. Thin clouds were drifting lazily across the washed-out blue sky.

''I understand,'' he said eventually. ''You and I, Hisham, we are the same.''

Two white-shirted men emerged from the kitchen bearing silver platters.

''Ah,'' said Al-Sekem, licking his lips, ''The main course.''

A silver bowl containing salt-crusted French Fries was placed in the centre. White china plates with gold-leaf rims were placed in front of the diners. Creamy grey half-cauliflowers nestled invitingly on bright green lettuce leaves. Al-Sekem held his knife like a surgeon about to operate.

''I trust you like brains?'' He sliced delicately into a lobe.

Grilled brain. Lovely.

Ali eyed it suspiciously. ''What's it from?''

''I believe they have come from a lamb,'' said Al-Sekem, ''As have the tongues.'' He indicated a plate of green lettuce topped with small, curly, grey strips. ''The testicles, however, came from a ram.'' He indicated another plate on which rested two skewers of cubed red-brown meat. ''I believe Uthman acquired them himself.''

Ali almost choked on his mango juice.

''Tuck in,'' said Al-Sekem, ''Before your balls go cold.'' He uttered another dry, mirthless laugh. ''Bon appétit.''

The brain was rich, creamy and a little bland, the tongues tasted furry and the ram's testicle was spongy and vaguely lemony. They were not entirely unpleasant.

''I am from Palestine,'' Al-Sekem began, ''A country that no longer exists in any official capacity. When I was seven years old, the Israeli army cleansed the population from the city of Jericho. My uncles and cousins were lined up against the wall of their shop and shot dead. My aunt was raped and then shot. The neighbours were herded into a garage which was set alight. They all burned alive. These are atrocities the Israelis have yet to answer for.'' His voice hardened, rose in pitch. ''One day they shall answer. They and all those who collaborate with them shall answer. Justice will be executed upon the guilty, wherever they can be found.''

Ali lay his knife and fork quietly on the plate and wiped his lips with the napkin.

''My mother, father and sister escaped across the River Jordan,'' Al-Sekem continued, ''Even after the Israelis blew the Allenby Bridge, they clambered across the wreckage, staggering through the ruins with both Israelis and Jordanians firing from both banks upon them. My old grandmother, who was seventy, fell into the river. The Israelis shot at her while she drowned. We never found her body. My country was dismembered, my people ethnically cleansed, my homeland reduced to a blank white space on a map, other parts labelled 'Occupied Territories'. The Jordanians did not want us. We reminded them of their shame, their part in our defeat, their abject failure to confront the Israelis, to fight effectively…but their guilt was so great they gave us farmland here in Ajloun. My father died eight years later, a heart attack brought on by the stress of forced migration, the exhaustion of grinding out a meagre existence growing olives on a borrowed farm. He was forty-eight. That is my age now. My mother died three years later.''

''I'm sorry,'' said Ali. ''I know what it's like to lose your parents.''

''I won a scholarship to Yarmouk University in Irbid,'' said Al-Sekem, seemingly not hearing, ''To study Agricultural Engineering. After that I gained a PhD, a doctorate in Environmental Management, from the University of Cairo then I travelled to the USA for post-doctoral research in alternative energies at the University of Virginia. What I saw there shocked me to my core. Waste. Greed. No respect for natural resources. People squandering the wealth of the planet. Mankind has completely ruined this planet. They have dug it up for coal, drilled its surface for oil, chopped its trees down for wood, polluted its air with their chimneys. Yet there is no need. Nature does it all, through the sun, through the waves, through the wind. Nature provides everything we need but Man is greedy, destroying Nature for profit, killing God's creation for money. So I dedicated my life to creating new sources and new power, to sustainable development, and returned Jordan to build a wind-farm here, on this mountain, close to my old family farm. I have built wind-turbines across the Ajloun Ridge. I have installed photovoltaic panels in this house and all the houses in the village so they are powered by the Sun. I have now won a contract to supply these panels across Amman itself, and to construct more wind-farms in the Western Desert and in the north. I will build a hydro-electric plant at Bethany on the Jordan, and another on the Sea of Galilee, and we will desalinate the Dead Sea. We will irrigate the desert settlements along the King's Highway near Mount Nebo. But it is still not enough. The greedy and stupid continue with their oil-burning cars, their gas-guzzling lorries, their coal-fired power stations. They continue to mine and dig and drill despite my work. They anger me.'' He drained the champagne flute. ''But these insects will not stop me. I will save the planet. I have created Hands across the Sands. Together with Al-Arian Construction in Egypt, the Red Crescent, UNICEF and the Jordanian Government, we spent four million dollars on aid projects from Aleppo to Aqaba, from Cairo to Kirkuk. Twenty or thirty schools, orphanages, mosques, hospitals and village communities get grants from my foundation. Hundreds of people in Egypt, Syria, Palestine and Iraq have benefitted from my gifts. Jordan, my adopted home, stands to benefit most from my gratitude for it is here in Jordan that I will leave my legacy of change.''

The waiters brought dessert, fresh figs and coconut ice-cream, two glasses of arak and a flask of water. Ali swamped the strong aniseed taste with as much water as he could and then with ice-cream. Al-Sekem mixed a little water with his, swilling the glass till the liquor clouded.

''It is my passion, my life. It occupies every waking moment, every sleeping one. I dream of turbines and solar panels. I dream of building Paradise on Earth. It can be done. It can!'' Al-Sekem slapped the table. ''But first we must cleanse the earth, cleanse it of greed and corruption, the temptation of profit, cleanse it of Man so Mother Nature can heal what is left.''

''So,'' Ali said carefully, ''How do you square blowing up buses with saving the planet?''

''It is all God's work,'' Al-Sekem said indifferently.

Ali sipped the cloudy arak again. He hated it. ''Where do I come in?'' he asked.

''Ah,'' said Al-Sekem, ''You are going to sing.''

The glass froze at his lips. ''Sing?''

''It's why you were chosen.'' Al-Sekem swallowed his arak. ''Because you can sing.''

Ali had not known Hisham was a singer. His heart raced sickeningly.

''What do you want me to sing?'' he said.

''Whatever you like,'' said Al-Sekem, a Dictaphone magically appearing in his hand. ''You don't mind if I record you.''

It was not a question. Ali sensed the whole dinner conversation had been recorded anyway. Reluctantly, because his voice had just broken and was still somewhat croaky, he pushed back his chair, swigged another mouthful of arak, decided 'Buttons', 'Lollipop' and 'Pocketful of Sunshine' would be deemed inappropriate, and cleared his throat.

''I learned this in school,'' he said, hearing the nervous quaver in his voice.

''Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away,

Now it looks as though they're here to stay,
oh I believe in yesterday…

Suddenly I'm not half the man I used to be,

There's a shadow hanging over me,
oh yesterday came suddenly.''

Al-Sekem, seemingly satisfied, clicked off the Dictaphone. ''That,'' he declared, ''Is what you will sing at the Festival. And now you may amuse yourself before bed.'' Standing up, he smoothed his white Armani jacket. ''Acquaint yourself with the girl if you wish. I must return to work. Thank you for your company.''

''Wait,'' Ali said urgently as the man, bowing very slightly, made to leave. ''You brought me all the way from Damascus to sing at a festival because Talal Hafez said I had a good voice?''

''Just so,'' said Al-Sekem. ''The speakers will be powered by the wind. Your voice will be amplified by Nature herself. It will be a perfect demonstration. Why? What did you expect?''

''But the lorry, the crate…''

''Avoids unnecessary paperwork,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Enjoy your evening. Should you require anything, dial zero. Do not forget our morning appointment. Eight o'clock. You will find whites in your room. Do not be late.''

''Could I see the factory?'' Ali was grasping desperately for something. ''The turbines? I'm interested in the engineering.''

''Surely you would rather inspect Katya's engineering?''

There was something in Al-Sekem's laugh that sucked all the warmth from his jokes.

Ali was confused. None of this made sense.

Puffing out his cheeks, he crossed the floor to the window and gazed out at the girl basking lizard-like in the early evening sunshine.

What if he was wrong? What if Moustapha Al-Sekem really was a legitimate businessman? He was mad, yes, but what if he wasn't dangerous? What if all Hisham really had to do was sing an old Beatles' song in front of a few dozen people?

Moustapha Al-Sekem saw himself as the saviour of the world but the God-Complex he possessed did not adequately explain his connection with Dar El-Tawhid, with Talal Hafez, with the suicide-bombers. Perhaps he did not know what Talal did with his money. But what about the special deliveries, the boys that had preceded him? What had happened to them? What about Hands across the Sands and Amr Al-Arian? And how did the girl fit into the picture?

Slipping on his Monster Dogs and shoving his hands into his shorts pockets, he stepped out into the sapping heat of the terrace. Immediately sweat prickled his skin.

The girl was lying on her back, her right foot drawn up beside her left knee, her arms flat by her sides. The purple briefs were simply a tiny V-shaped pouch.

''Hi,'' he said. ''I'm Hisham.''

The girl did not move. ''Katya Kinkhladze,'' she said. ''My friends call me Kinky.''

Ali hardly dared breathe. Her bare breasts, softly rising, softly falling, reminded him of freshly baked bread-rolls. A thought of melting, dripping butter fired through his brain. He shook himself fiercely, like a dog after a shower. He could not help staring. He had never seen breasts before. Breasts had simply been something he and his friends had giggled about in Primary Six or his brothers had lusted over in the Playboy magazines they had got from American soldiers. In fact the only breasts Ali had ever seen had been in the pictures Mohammed had torn out of Playboy. Once he had taken advantage of his brothers' absence to remove some from their under-the-mattress hiding place, folded them out on his knee and tried to imagine what his brothers found so fascinating. He had not really understood why that tingling sensation had been so enjoyable but it had drawn him back to those pictures several times until, one afternoon, Hussein caught him, smacked him round the neck for 'being dirty' then bought his silence with a Charmander card and a Marlboro Light.

''You speak English?'' she asked, appraising him through the ruby-coloured lenses.

''A little.'' Ali dropped onto the edge of the sun-bed next to her. ''Can you speak Arabic?''

''Not much,'' said the girl. ''Can you speak Georgian?''

''No,'' he said, cursing Colonel Ibrahim for not including Georgian, whatever that was, in his Basic Training. ''How old are you?''

''Don't beat about the bush, do you?'' She smiled suddenly. It was like a camera flash illuminating her whole face. ''Though you can beat my bush any time you like. I'm twenty-one.''

''I'm eighteen,'' he lied breathlessly. ''Three years' difference isn't much.''

The girl smiled again. ''Put some lotion on my back, would you?''

Failing to repress a not unpleasant quivering in his stomach, he groped for a yellow bottle of Soltan, squeezed a white smear of cream into his trembling palm and massaged it caressingly into the woman's satin-smooth skin.

''Why do they call you Kinky?'' he asked, choking down the boulder.

She settled on her side. ''That's for you to find out,'' she murmured silkily.

Ali's hands reached the strand of the bikini thong and the peachy half-globes of her buttocks, bare to the sun. Inexplicably he felt like crying. He asked what she did at the villa.

''I entertain Moustapha's guests,'' she told him. ''I can entertain you if you wish.''

''How much?'' The question heaved through a thick soup in his throat.

''You're a guest of Moustapha's,'' shrugged Katya. ''He'll take care of it.''

Cream oozed over her buttocks. God Almighty, he was throbbingly hard. Maybe he should go for it. You only live once. Why die a virgin?

She was a whore.

She was also a woman.

He was a schoolboy.

What would his mother say?

His mother was dead.

What would Fatima say?

God, it was so hot.

He stripped off his rapidly dampening T-shirt.

''My.'' Katya sat up. ''You look very fit. Swimmer?'' Ali nodded, the pebble in his throat becoming a boulder as she ran a neatly filed purple fingernail down the middle of his chest. ''I bet you're very good at breast-stroke. Perhaps you can show me.''

Ali swallowed the boulder as the fluttering butterflies in his stomach metamorphosed into a stampeding elephant herd.

''You seem a touch tense,'' she breathed. He caught a delicate lilac perfume as she leaned closer, caught his wrist in her fingers. ''I am an expert masseuse. I could ease your tensions very quickly.'' He hesitated. ''I have arak,'' she said, ''And Marlboro Lights if you're interested.''

Ali allowed her to lead him down the steps to the under-pool pump-room. Ducking beneath an overhead maze of pipes, they found a corner among some packing cases and sacks. The girl placed Ali's hand on her right breast, and, with her fingers, fiddled with his zip. The shorts fell away to his knees. Ali blushed hotly.

''Oh my, Hisham.'' she said lazily, ''What a naughty boy.''

Ali gulped, closed his eyes and surrendered to a dozen new and extremely pleasant sensations.

Up in the living room, the piranha swam in lazy circles.

#26. VILLA AL SEKEM, AJLOUN, JORDAN

Wednesday July 15, 08:43

THE YELLOW Slazenger tennis ball whipped briskly past Ali's head and crashed into the black wire netting behind him.

''Thirty-love.'' Al-Sekem strode two paces down the baseline and bounced the ball for his next serve. It thundered into the clay a metre away from stranded Ali and soared over his head.

''Forty-love,'' called Al-Sekem. ''Come on, Hisham, get your racket on the ball.''

Crouching on his line, balancing his racket, Ali squinted into the early morning sunshine.

Al-Sekem bounced the ball twice then tossed it into the air, swung his racket through its arc and sent it spinning viciously on to the court and away to the side.

Ali's feet felt nailed to the ground.

''Game!'' crowed Al-Sekem. ''Five-two. Do you want a rest before I take the set?''

He was the perfect picture of smug fitness, his tanned, muscled legs working strongly as he moved, his ground-strokes fluent, his movements calm, unhurried, controlled, his dark glasses sweeping the court like searchlights.

Ali slumped into his plastic chair, dragging a sweaty hand through his thick hair and wiping sweat from his beetroot face with a rough flannel towel. It was not even nine and already baking hot, the sun reflecting harshly off the pale terracotta tiles, penetrating his Monster Dogs and boring through his eyes to the headache thumping beyond.

This was a nightmare. He had held just two service games, and one of those after a drawn-out deuce. He was losing, and he was better than Al-Sekem, far better. The man was slow, leaden-footed around the court, but Ali could not get his passing shots together or return the man's predictably topspin-heavy serves with any penetration or pace. Frustrated and irritable, he slugged water from a two-litre plastic Baraka bottle then examined the racket. Perhaps there was a problem with the strings and immediately banished the unworthy thought. The racket was a black, white and yellow Babolat Aeropro Drive GT with carbon fibre and tungsten strings, a graphite frame and the Cortex Dampening System to reduce vibrations, as endorsed by Rafael Nadal. When he had played tennis on the pot-holed school court a lifetime ago, he had dreamed of owning a racket like this. Now he did, and he was disgracing both it and his favourite player. The problem was that the image of the driver's head was so firmly imprinted on his brain and eyelids that nothing could erase it.

His mind kept revisiting the horrors of the night. He had rinsed his vomit down the sink, wiped up with a dishcloth, sprayed some air-freshener around the kitchen then staggered back through the living room, back past the dozing piranha, back through the corridor, half-running, half-skipping, not caring whether someone heard him or not, to the safety of his bedroom where he had shut the door with his back, breathing heavily, almost panting, through his open mouth, clenching and releasing his fists as he had wondered what to do, starkly aware that there were no locks, he was in a house peopled by maniacs, that if they came for him… he had thrown cold water over himself then paced the carpet frantically, weighing his options.

He had said goodnight to Kinky on the steps by the picture-window where they had paused to admire the night-view and listen to the soothing chorus of chattering insects. The encounter in the pump-room had been tensely, excruciatingly embarrassing. Ali, his face flaming, his heart thumping sickeningly, his fingers trembling and fumbling, his eyes darting left and right, anywhere but meeting hers, had mumbled his wishes fiercely into Kinky's black hair. She had laughed a silvery laugh and said she could certainly oblige, and she had. Twice. Ali's cheeks had burned more fiercely than before.

He had felt suddenly peckish. The place was deserted. Al-Sekem had gone. Uthman had gone but Ali's glass was still on the table, still half-full of cloudy liquor. Holding his breath, he had tipped the contents down his throat. It felt as though someone were stripping it out with a blowtorch. Then he had pushed through the swing door into the kitchen thinking he would find himself an apple.

There were half a dozen stainless steel units, a deep sink, several large knives in solid granite chopping blocks, a huge fridge, a wine-rack, cooking utensils, pots, pans, steamers, blenders, bowls and bags of fruit and vegetables, everything except apples.

Clicking his tongue irritably, he also wanted a glass of milk to dampen the arak burning in his stomach. He yanked open the fridge door then, the carton of milk falling in slow-motion to burst on the tiles, had recoiled in horror, hand pressed to his mouth to choke off a desperate cry of disgust, and puked violently into the sink, for there, on the bottom shelf of the fridge, had rested the severed head of the driver Youssef Abdullah.

There was a human head in the fridge.

A human head.

What were they planning to do? Who had put it there? Who had severed it?

Uthman probably.

The body had almost certainly gone to the piranhas. They provided instant corpse-disposal. These people were psychos. He had slammed his fist into the pillow. So much for being on the wrong track. He was very much on the right track. He just did not have enough information yet. He would have to keep pushing Al-Sekem, and Katya Kinkhladze, but without spooking them, otherwise he might end up in the piranha-pool too, his head sharing shelf-space with the driver, their cold, dead eyes exchanging glances of surprised resignation for all eternity, or at least until Uthman cooked their brains for his lunch.

Oh fuck!

Ali had clapped his hand against his mouth again. What if the brain he had eaten for lunch… he had rushed into the bathroom and vomited again and again until he was empty, wrung out like a cloth.

Afterwards he stared at himself in the mirror. His tawny eyes were red and tearful, his face a pale washed-out grey, like week-old cigar-ash, his cheeks furrowed like corrugated card. He seemed to have aged about fifty years. The afternoon's excitement had long since expired.

When Uthman had appeared in his room at ten to eight, he was already dressed in the Adidas whites he had found in the drawer. Giving up on sleep altogether when the light had started bleeding through the curtains at around six, he had showered, brushed his teeth for the twentieth time then sat on his bed watching a rat making soup on the DVD player.

''Another set before we have breakfast?'' Al-Sekem was insufferably smug for a forty-eight year old man with twelve hours' sleep behind him who had just beaten a fifteen year old boy who had had none.

Ali blinked in the bright sunlight. Most of his serves had gone into the net. He shook himself. Get a grip, he ordered. Focus on the game. Concentrate.

Hunkering down, holding the Babolat firmly but loosely, trying to remember what his coach had taught him, a thought flashed through his mind, a warning that he might not want to win this game. His opponent, after all, kept heads in his fridge. And now, as Al-Sekem served and Ali reacted quickly to whip the ball over the net with a stinging backhand; he understood why he was losing. His mind was blocking his actions. His subconscious was willing him not to provoke the businessman. It was causing him to play below his best.

The ball dropped just inside the line and span away from the plodding server. Ali had taken a point.

Steady, his subconscious told him. The man keeps heads in his fridge.

But, said his rational mind, he needs me to sing at the Festival.

He did want to win. He wanted to win very badly. He was sick of Al-Sekem's patronising comments. He was sick of the insanity. He was determined to show the man he was not afraid of him. Call it a warning shot of his own.

Although the second serve kicked up, Ali managed to get above it and power a forehand drive at his opponent's feet. The businessman leapt away, getting his racket under the ball, returning it to Ali's backhand and running into the net. Ali's lob, beautifully executed with a full follow-through, looped the ball back over Al-Sekem to drop just inside the baseline behind him.

''Love-thirty,'' called Ali.

The next serve cannoned at his head. He ducked and cried ''Out!''Al-Sekem was rattled.

The second serve sat up and begged to be hit. The ball zinged off the sweet-spot of the Babolat's strings right down the tramline.

''Love-forty,'' called Ali.

Cursing furiously, Al-Sekem, puce-hued, bounced the ball for several long seconds, wound himself up and let the serve go. It was long. He spat on the court. The second serve bounced low and slow. Racing towards the net, Ali cut, backhanded, under the ball and sent it skidding off the net-cord to plop dead on the clay.

''Game!'' he shouted triumphantly.

Al-Sekem's face darkened. As they passed each other on the change-over, Ali heard him curse again. Katya Kinkhladze had appeared on the sun-bed in her purple bikini. Ali waved.

''Keep your mind on this job,'' Al-Sekem snarled, ''Not your blow-job.''

Ali laughed. He felt more comfortable, in control, whilst Al-Sekem, fuelled by anger and frustration, began to fall apart. Shots went into the net or out or popped up to be smashed.

Ali held his serve, broke again, held again and found himself four-love up. Kinky had started applauding his shots which made Al-Sekem even angrier. His cheeks were now a worrying shade of heart-attack red.

''Would you like a rest?'' Ali asked cheekily, ''Before I take the set?'' and danced aside as two balls, smashed across the court, whisked, bullet-like, past his legs.

''Just get on with it, you little prick,'' shouted Al-Sekem, flailing unsuccessfully at the next hard, deep serve and seeing his next, weak return blasted into the net. ''I think you have put the gypsy's eye on me, you filthy Damascene mouth-whore.''

Grinning, Ali tossed the ball up again. Now he knew he would win. Al-Sekem had lost his focus whilst he had got into a smooth rhythm and was swinging the Babolat comfortably. His footwork was improving and he no longer needed to run, just choose his positions and grind the other down.

Ali followed the swerving serve into the net. Predictably, Al-Sekem tried to lob him. Predictably, it was not high enough and Ali, pumped, adrenaline and endorphins flooding his system, smashed it into the far corner. Kinky clapped enthusiastically.

At five-love, with Al-Sekem serving to save the set, Uthman appeared, just in time to see his boss lose the set when Ali crashed a double-handed backhand winner across the court. Ali whooped and punched the air. He felt fantastic. Rafa would have been proud.

Silently, sullenly Al-Sekem tossed his racket to Uthman and stalked off the court.

Ali leaned on the net, grinning. ''Want a decider?'' he called.

Gripping the racket in both hands, Uthman broke it in half like a dry twig and dropped the pieces on the grass. Then he lurched after Al-Sekem.

''No need to snap,'' Ali called flippantly, skipping to the small poolside table where breakfast had been laid out. Kinky appraised him through her ruby-shaded sunglasses. This morning she was wearing the bikini bra. Ali felt a pang of disappointment.

''You're pretty good for a street-urchin,'' she remarked as he helped himself to a glass of fresh lemonade, some still-warm flat-bread, a ladleful of fuul and some figs and perched on the adjacent lounger.

He wanted to warn her, tell her what he had learned last night, but he did not know how to raise the matter diplomatically. He could hardly open a conversation by declaring 'There's a head in the fridge.'

''I played at school,'' he said truthfully.

''You look tired,'' she said, putting a hand of concern on his cheek.

''I didn't sleep too well,'' he told her.

She laughed. ''Naughty boy.'' She danced her fingernail deliciously down his cheek. ''Perhaps we can continue where we broke off yesterday. We can go more slowly if you like.''

Something in his face communicated danger and her effervescent good humour deflated like bubbles on champagne left out overnight.

*

STILL in his whites, Moustapha Al-Sekem scowled behind the slats of the Venetian blinds in his office window. No-one beat Moustapha Al-Sekem, especially not this boy, this guttersnipe, this sometime hand-whore, a glue-sniffer, a corrupter and recruiter of boys for the network, a child with no morals, a child with no scruples. He was little more than a beast. He did not deserve to live. The profile which lay on his desk told him everything about Hisham Mahmoud and Al-Sekem hated him. His home was soiled by him. Everything he had worn would be burned. They had accumulated over the years. They had belonged to other boys who had passed through the villa anyway. There had been several. Most were boring, one or two were awful, but not one had been as skin-crawlingly, slimily repulsive as Hisham Mahmoud.

He glared over the rim of his arak glass to where the boy was engaged in an earnest conversation with the Georgian whore. No doubt he was telling the tale of the head in the fridge. Al-Sekem had watched the film of the kid chucking up without any real emotion. Uthman, by contrast, had gurgled with joy but something troubled Al-Sekem, niggled him, nagged at him, like a persistent itch. It was not just that Hisham's voice was nothing like as good as Talal Hafez had led him to believe, more cluster of cats than choir of angels, nor his sporting talents, nor even his appearance, those stupidly sensitive features and full lips, that stupid thick hair, those stupid thick eyebrows, those stupid cheeks that, when he smiled, plumped up like a squirrel chomping nuts, those fat little ear-lobes, that stupid olive-shaped face – God, how he hated him! – it was the easy, breezy confidence bordering on arrogant yet watchful disdain that grated so much. He was fifteen. Al-Sekem drank. He hated Katya Kinkhladze too.

He had picked her up on a rare trip to Amman. She had been drinking coffee in Books @ Café in Rainbow Street. Al-Sekem had concluded his business at the Wild Jordan Centre, a lucrative contract for supplying photovoltaic panels to its hotels in Dana. She had the cheap looks, sensual body and willing mouth that Al-Sekem suspected boys would find attractive. She had left Georgia the previous summer following the brief but bloody war with Russia, was studying Arabic at the University of Jordan and running short of funds so for a stack of cash and a luxurious life-style she had suspended her studies and accompanied him back to Ajloun as his live-in hostess, entertaining his guests and being seen on his arm. He felt nothing towards her, not even when she danced for him, insinuating her naked legs round the silver pole and jangling her butt-cheeks. She was, like the boy, merely another piece of disposable meat who would be dead in a couple of days when Al-Sekem would create a new identity in a country that would both appreciate and reward his considerable talents and audacious vision.

Finishing his drink, he was suddenly disturbed by a presence in the doorway, a guard who was gripping a teenaged boy above the elbow. The unresisting, uncomplaining boy was dressed in dirty olive joggers and a frayed, stained, beige T-shirt. His naked feet were filthy. He stank of poverty, deprivation and desperation. A filthy, blood-stained bandage was wrapped loosely round his left hand.

''We found him climbing over the compound wall,'' explained the guard. ''He says he is Hisham Mahmoud from Damascus and is a special delivery from Talal Hafez.''

*

SUCKING up the last of the lemonade, Ali set the glass on the table beside him and swung his nicely browning legs off the lounger. It was time for a swim. He had spent much of the morning sizzling in the rather fetching canary yellow trunks he had found in the drawer and playing Snap with Kinky. She had paled alarmingly under her tan when he had told her about the head, and that Hands across the Sands funded suicide bombers. She claimed she had no idea, nor that the boys she had 'entertained' went on to blow themselves up in buses, markets or crowded mosques.

They came for two or three days, swam, lay in the sun, prayed a lot, and then left. Al-Sekem told her they were sent to foster-families in Jordan, that his villa was a kind of rehabilitation centre, a halfway house between the orphanages and the family home. Hands across the Sands helped kids make the adjustment from one institution to the other.

''It's a halfway house all right,'' Ali remarked, ''Between Earth and Heaven. Or Hell. Was there a weasly guy with furry teeth, tons of pimples and really bad breath? Name of Yasser?''

Kinky grimaced. ''Really bad pimples. They oozed white pus. He sweated a lot.'' She remembered how he had frozen at her touch and stared past her head with dead, blank eyes.

''You're sending them away to die as men,'' said Ali, ''So they can enter Paradise. It's part of Al-Sekem's sick deal. That boy Yasser. He killed my family. That's why I'm here. To stop Al-Sekem, to end this.''

''I thought you seemed different,'' she said thoughtfully. ''The others were very religious. They spent most of their time praying. One or two were terrified of looking at, let alone touching my boobs.'' She smiled and laid her hand on his knee. ''Not something you struggled with, you naughty boy.'' She let her fingers walk up Ali's thigh. He caught her wrist in a steely grip.

''What's he up to, Kinky? What's he planning for the Jerash Festival?''

''I don't know,'' she said irritably, shaking off his hand. ''He tells me nothing. I get all this for an occasional massage, maybe some erotic dancing, a hand-job or two. I'm not complaining.''

''And Al-Sekem? What do you do for him?''

''He has no interest in me,'' she said simply. ''I thought he was homosexual but he isn't. As far as I know, none of the boys who have been here were molested. I believe him to have no sexual impulses or urges either way. Uthman, on the other hand, would love to get his freakish hands in my knickers. He slavers over me. They all give me the creeps.'' She sighed and tossed her hair gently. ''Have you ever seen Al-Sekem's eyes? They chill me to the bone. And he has no eyelashes, none at all. Some disease called madarosis made them fall out when he was a kid. He looks like some primitive reptile that has spent too long in the dark.''

Shuddering, she recalled the Russian soldiers who had pawed her breasts and groped her bottom as she served vodka in the little Georgian border bar she had helped her parents run, until a stray tank-shell had blown it apart in the brief August war.

''They give me the creeps,'' she repeated, heading for the 'little's girl's room' with a suggestive sway of her hips.

Ali puffed out his cheeks. Although this place was a lunatic asylum, he had never experienced a holiday like it. Luxury living, awesome views, an endless supply of excellent food, and a beautiful, half-naked woman sprawled on the sun-bed next door. His brothers would have called him a 'lucky dog'. Smiling quietly he hummed ''Yesterday, I got a pocketful of sunshine'' and stood up for a swim. Suddenly Al-Sekem and Uthman emerged from the house with Hisham.

Hisham. Here.

Damnation. He had to think quickly.

''That's Ali Amin!'' he shouted, ''The Super-Spy! He works for the Arab League!''

''Liar!'' yelled Hisham. ''He's Ali the Super-Spy. He works for the Arab League.''

Hisham sprang at him. Cocktail glasses, cups, plates cascaded to the tiles as the two boys crashed onto and over the sun-loungers. Hisham got his hands round Ali's throat, squeezing, throttling, choking… His dark eyes blazed with rage.

''I'll kill you!'' he screamed.

Pressing his thumbs into Ali's windpipe, Hisham shifted his weight to straddle his opponent, getting his inner thighs against Ali's ribs, but, as he moved, Ali stopped trying to lever the choking fingers off his neck, and slammed instead one hand into Hisham's balls and the heel of the other into Hisham's gut. The pressure on his throat ceased instantly as the other boy rocked sideways clutching his groin and whimpering like a kicked puppy. Wincing, Ali sat up among the smashed crockery and shattered glass. Jagged splinters had pierced his skin. Gingerly he touched his bruised throat.

''That's Ali Amin,'' he said hoarsely. ''He must have found out where we are.''

Al-Sekem, standing over the sprawling boys, seemed to be assessing this development.

''Ask him how he got here,'' Ali said angrily. ''He didn't come from Al-Houri, that's for sure, partly because he didn't know about it and partly because the driver's dead. Yes, I saw the head in the fridge. His paymasters brought him here.''

''He's lying,'' Hisham whimpered tearfully. ''I hitch-hiked.''

Ali brushed china specks from his trunks and snarled ''So how did you cross the border?''

''I got ID.'' Hisham was struggling to sit up. ''It's in my pocket.''

''Forged,'' said Ali, ''Undoubtedly forged.'' He nodded at Hisham's left hand and the raw, half-healed wound between the third and fourth fingers. ''Ask him how he got that scar.''

''You…you stabbed me!'' Hisham stammered, ''In Leila's kitchen.''

''Just as I said.'' Ali feigned angry disgust but his stomach was somersaulting like an Olympic diving team. ''I stabbed him when he sabotaged my mission.''

Hisham's voluble protest transmuted into a snuffled whine of ''He's Ali, not me''.

After an eternity, Moustapha Al-Sekem, indicating Hisham, issued his orders.

''Get the truth, Uthman,'' he said. ''Use any method you like. Just get him to talk.''

Uthman lifted the boy with one terrifying hand and slung him over his shoulder. His lipless grin, malicious, delighted, cruel and excited, chilled Ali's blood.

Plainly terrified, Hisham begged ''Please! You have to believe me. I'm Hisham. You must believe me.'' His ashen, tear-streaked face vanished down the steps and into the pump-room. Moments later a shrill, almost inhuman scream shattered the silence.

Ali kept his face impassive, though his stomach and groin were crawling with ants of nervous anticipation. ''Bloody spy,'' he said casually. ''I hope Uthman breaks his legs.''

''Oh,'' said Al-Sekem casually, as another desperate, bowel-loosening cry resounded round the garden, ''He'll do much more than that.''

#27. VILLA AL-SEKEM, AJLOUN, JORDAN

Wednesday July 15, 14:03

ALI DIVED into the pool and swam a length, his mind working furiously at every stroke. Whatever Uthman did to him, Hisham could only keep repeating the truth and they would either believe him or not. Either way, it would be better if he died under Uthman's ministrations, though Ali doubted this would happen. Uthman was almost certainly capable of inflicting unimaginable agonies while stopping just short of total incapacity or death. He heard more banshee-shrieking as his head burst through the blood-warm water into the sunshine. Maybe he should kill Hisham himself but cold-blooded murder was different from hot-blooded vengeance. Anyone knew that.

Yes, he had killed people, but not deliberately and with malice aforethought. Moussa Bashir had fallen off a roof. Talal Hafez…he had it coming. He blocked it from his mind.

He might have to kill Hisham. His own life might depend on it.

But how to do it? Stab him? Cut his throat? Bludgeon him with a hammer? Strangle him? Drown him in the pool? Garrotte him with the wire from his watch? All these methods would involve watching Hisham die, and die slowly, and he was not sure he could do that, watch someone's life ebb away, hear the last rattling breath, see the lights in the eyes fade out and know that he, Ali Hassan, had snuffed them out. Except Talal…

He turned for another length and heard another ear-piercing scream.

Hurry up, Uthman! Finish him off!

Come on Hisham. Just die, will you? No-one wants you. No-one cares about you. No-one will miss you, you worthless piece of street-trash!

He turned for another length. Better to get out and leave the mission unfinished. That was what Colonel Ibrahim would say. It was what Hamza Madani would say. There would be other opportunities to catch Al-Sekem. After all, there was plenty of evidence to at least bring charges. The cops could move in. Al-Sekem might even be 'killed in the cross-fire'. Yes. That was the best option. It was certainly better than falling into Uthman's clutches.

Determined now to leave this mad-house as soon as possible, and with another horrible shriek ripping through his ears, Ali seized a rung of the aluminium ladder but stopped halfway, water running in rivulets down his back and legs.

Al-Sekem, dressed now in light grey Armani, grey slip-on shoes and a white, open-necked shirt, was standing on the tiles. His dark glasses seemed to zoom into the murkiest corners of Ali's brain.

''Your friend is sticking by his story,'' he said mildly.

''I'm not surprised,'' said Ali. ''He's a spy. He's probably had…what do they call it?… interrogation-resistance training or something.''

Well aware that he had experienced nothing of the sort, he swung himself up the ladder and out into the sun.

'Uthman,'' said Al-Sekem conversationally, ''Has removed all his toenails and scalded his legs and genitals with a steam-hose but still he claims to be you.'' He sounded as though he were describing the weather or a rather dull movie. ''We beat him, of course, and burned his penis, and yet he insists he is telling the truth. What do you make of that?''

Ali reached for the dark blue towel on his lounger. His mouth had gone suddenly dry. God Almighty. He would crack within seconds. Toenails, steam-hose, burns on his willy… he had to get out of here.

''I have instructed Uthman to try something different,'' Al-Sekem said disinterestedly, picking at one cracked fingernail. ''A stiff broom-handle pushed roughly through his anus might loosen his tongue.'' His laugh was cold. ''It will certainly loosen his innards.''

Ali gulped. ''I hope he doesn't die first,'' he said. ''He could tell us so much.''

''Oh,'' said Al-Sekem, ''Uthman is a very skilled interrogator. He will get the truth.'' The staring black glasses resembled twin bullet-holes. ''Unless he's already telling the truth.''

Ali sat on his lounger. ''He's a trained liar. Moussa Bashir knew it, Talal knew it, everyone knew it.'' His laugh sounded so forced, so phony.

''Come and see,'' said Al-Sekem. ''It is a modern miracle.''

Ali felt sick. ''I don't want to,'' he said.

Al-Sekem insisted, so Ali followed him down the steps to the pump-room. Yesterday he had been romping under a wide grey pipe with Katya Kinkhladze's beautiful lips pressing down on his, her hand somewhere between his thighs. Now he was about to witness the worst horror imaginable. Steel yourself, he told himself. This is the boy who tortured you, electrocuted your testes, ran a current through your cock…

Uthman met them in the entrance. There were bloodstains on his slacks and splashes of vomit, snot, shit and urine on his shirt. The lipless, letter-box mouth grinned hideously out of the bleached lopsided face.

''Hi, Uthman,'' Ali said jovially. ''Don't mind us. You carry on the good work.''

But the rigid, icy fingers of horrified fear were probing deeply into his spine, into his arms, into his brain. His stomach lurched wildly. Hisham had been reduced to an almost unrecognisable lump of weeping, bleeding animal-meat hanging in a too warm, soaking wet, hazy, clouded atmosphere. Condensation streamed down the rough concrete walls.

Suspended naked by his wrists from a pipe, arms outstretched above his head, his toes did not quite touch the concrete floor. His left shoulder looked dislocated and every muscle and sinew seemed on the verge of snapping. His nose, swollen, misshapen and purple, had been broken with a hammer. His right eye was badly bruised and very swollen. His chest and abdomen were smeared with blood and vomit. Bright scarlet blood spattered the floor and urine had pooled around his feet. These were a mass of angry pink wounds where the toenails had been ripped out with pliers. Huge, puffy, weeping blisters smothered his legs from the two hundred degree steam-hose. Some of the skin had peeled away revealing red, raw flesh. Yellow burn-marks pocked his groin and cigarettes had been stubbed out on his nipples. Several brown craters marred his penis, three on the shaft, two on the circumcised head, one on the tiny puckered lips of the slit. More cigarette burns-glared angrily from his balls. His pubic hair had been set on fire. Dark crimson blood had splashed up his ankles and calves. Tears flowed over his bruised, bloodied cheeks. He was shaking uncontrollably, his body jerking against its bonds in some grotesque jig. Inadvertently, Ali pressed his fingers to his lips against his rising breakfast. Whatever Hisham had inflicted on him was minor compared to this.

''You wish to speak with me,'' Al-Sekem stated flatly.

''I don't know what to say,'' Hisham sobbed. ''I am Hisham Mahmoud. I am from Damascus. I did study at the Dar El-Tawhid madrassa. Moussa Bashir was my friend. Everything I told you is true. I don't know what else to say.'' He sobbed again.

''That you are Ali Al-Amin,'' said Al-Sekem.

''But I'm not,'' wailed Hisham, ''He is. The other one. I swear on my mother's life. I swear on the Holy Qur'an. I swear on the Prophet! I swear I'm telling the truth.''

Sighing impatiently, Al-Sekem shook his head at Uthman who, gargling with joy, caught up the red rubber hose-pipe which flailed and thrashed in his shiny plastic hands as, with a sharp, savage twist of the nozzle, a searing, scalding white cloud of steam shot geyser-like from the narrow brass mouth. The sudden explosion of heat brought beads of gunmetal sweat to Ali's skin. Somewhere inside the cloud Hisham screamed like one demented as two hundred degrees of hissing, spitting steam melted his testicles.

Uthman grunted something. Al-Sekem considered. Yes, the boy might not last and Uthman had applied considerable pressure, yet he was sticking to his story. No-one could withstand that level of questioning, no matter how well trained he had been.

''You've hurt me so much.'' Hisham was whimpering now. ''Please don't hurt me again. I'll die if you do…. '' He started sobbing again. ''I don't want to die. Not like this. Please. You have to believe me…''

Ali stared, spellbound. There was something evilly hypnotic about Hisham's condition.

Uthman grunted something else. Al-Sekem agreed. They should interrogate the other boy too but one needed to be able to walk, to stand on that stage in Jerash on Friday and sing to the world. He would have to take his chances with Hisham. An idea crept into focus.

''Let him down,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Clean him up, put some cream on his wounds and dress them. Give him a glass of sugared water. Wrap him in a blanket to keep him warm and give him something for the pain.''

Hisham sobbed gratefully.

''I am not saying I believe you,'' Al-Sekem was saying. ''I just do not want you to die yet. Be assured, though. Die you will, eventually and somehow, but it will be when I choose.'' The black holes turned to Ali. ''I will be occupied for the rest of the day, working to ensure that the Festival opens with a bang. Katya will amuse you and you may order what you wish for dinner.''

Ali scampered through the grinding pumps and hissing valves up the concrete steps from this blood-soaked, pain-sodden cellar of agony and out into the sunshine. He retched into a scrubby shrub. Only yesterday it had been a bower of bliss. Now it had become a sopping scene from the worst imaginable nightmare, and he had felt very vulnerable in just his trunks.

Kinky was back, sprawling on her sun-bed, raven hair tumbling over her sun-burned shoulders. Ali gazed at her long, elegant legs as the bottom fell out of his stomach.

''Who is that boy?'' she asked disinterestedly.

''Another bomber,'' he said. He had to get her to meet with Hamza, phone 1-1-1-1, pass on a message to Hala Ghaboury, contact the Colonel, but she was running her tongue over her pursed, pouting lips, stroking his thigh, breathily suggesting another sensual, mutual massage with silky aromatic jojoba and sandalwood oils…oh my….Ali caught a breath, bit his lip and felt his eyelids gently close. Maybe, if he could just relax, it would be better this time?

*

THERE was a soft tap on the bedroom door. Kinky was early. Ali's heart quivered. Smoothing his hair, dabbing some Boss behind his ears, breathing on his hand, Ali wished he had dressed in smarter clothes. Never mind. He still looked good in his new blue jeans and orange T-shirt. Leaning as casually as he could against the wall, he opened the door with a welcoming smile.

Hisham, Uthman and Moustapha Al-Sekem stood in the corridor next to the faun. Hisham was draped in a very loose pale blue robe. He looked terrible. His face was badly bruised, his blackened lips swollen like charred sausages, his eyes reduced to slits in puffy, purple flesh and his crushed, obliterated nose a gross purple distortion the size of an orange. His legs and feet were swathed in white surgical dressings.

''What the hell is he doing here?'' he growled, the smile erased from his face.

''I expect he's tired,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Sit down, Ali.''

Hisham limped heavily to the bed and carefully sat down. His eyes never left Ali's face.

''I am sorry we hurt you.'' Al-Sekem sounded utterly insincere. ''The festival is close and there is much to do. I have no time to investigate your stories properly so you will stay here, as my guests, until the festival is over. Then we shall talk again and decide what to do with you.''

''Kill us,'' muttered Ali, glaring at Hisham, ''Like he did the driver.'' He threw himself defiantly into the chair. Somewhere over his head Colette, Linguini and Remy were cooking ratatouille for a restaurant critic. ''Tell me, Doctor Al-Sekem, why Youssef Abdullah's head is in your fridge.''

''Dead men can't tell tales,'' Al-Sekem smiled icily. ''It's as good a storage place as any.''

''What did you do with the body?''

''My fish feasted well,'' Al-Sekem replied.

''Well,'' said Ali, repressing a shudder, ''What about Ali here? He's a spy. He knows who we are. He may already have told his people. You cannot take the chance. Kill him now.''

''My,'' said Al-Sekem, ''You're a bloodthirsty little beggar.'' He seemed in an immensely good humour. ''I thought, since you are old friends, you might become room-mates tonight.''

Ali choked indignantly.

Al-Sekem did not have time to waste on this. Hisham or Ali or whatever he was really called would extract the truth from the other boy by buddying up during the night. Or not. It no longer mattered. They would both be dead within twenty-four hours anyway. The deadline was approaching and nothing could be allowed to prevent him from fulfilling his mission, especially two street-boys. He also had that singing voice programmed into the computer. He did not need either of them now.

''You will have to postpone your night of passion with Ms Kinkhladze, I'm afraid,'' he answered dryly. ''Play nicely, Hisham, or you will disappoint me, and you do not want to disappoint me, do you? Not when the piranha have recently tasted human flesh…''

Uthman grinned his hideous, lop-sided grin and shut the door.

Knowing the room to be bugged, Ali slammed up the volume on the DVD player so the cooking rat was yelling then he went to the bathroom and turned the shower on full.

''Did you enjoy your time with Uthman?''

Hisham's lips were so swollen he could barely speak. When he did, the words came out in a breathless croak.

''Do you know what they did to me, you lousy fuck? They broke my nose, ripped out my toenails, steamed the skin off my bollocks, burned every inch of me and fucked me with a broomstick. Thanks a bunch, you lousy, stinking, fucking bastard.''

Ali grunted unsympathetically. ''Sorry if they hurt you,'' he said insincerely, ''But you electrocuted me, tortured me and tried to blow me up, remember?''

Revenge, said Hamza's voice in his head.

Self-preservation, Ali mentally countered.

''I had to,'' said Hisham. ''Talal and Moussa… they made me. And you said you're a spy.

''Yeah, right,'' Ali laughed. ''As though people use kids for this kind of thing. I made it up to scare them and impress you.''

''But you're pretending to be me,'' whispered Hisham angrily. ''You stole my identity. Who am I supposed to be? You? They'll kill me.''

''They're gonna kill you anyway,'' said Ali. ''Me too, I expect. They're total psychos.'' He told Hisham about Youssef Abdullah's head in the fridge and the piranha tank. ''Trust me,'' he finished, ''And I'll get you out alive.''

Hisham looked doubtful. ''So who am I?''

''Dunno,'' Ali shrugged. ''You can be Anas if you like.''

''And what if he shows up?'' snapped Hisham. ''Who will he be? Firas?''

''They're in jail,'' said Ali. ''I saw them arrested. Say Ali got killed in the cross-fire.''

Hisham shook his head. ''I don't know whether to believe you or not,'' he said finally.

''That doesn't matter,'' Ali said flatly. ''I'm your only chance of staying alive.''

Hisham winced as the painkillers started wearing off but he seemed convinced. Ali felt a little happier as he turned off the shower and lowered the volume on the TV. It was good to have another ally in the villa.

Hisham moaned again and lay back on the king-sized bed. Ali went for some painkillers.

Rooting through the kitchen cupboards, he realised the Festival was almost here, the endgame was approaching and he still had no clear idea what Al-Sekem was planning, except that he, Ali, had to sing 'Yesterday' whilst the speakers were powered by wind-turbines, and that, by the end of the day, he and Hisham would probably be fish-food.

It had to be a bomb.

Shifting packets of rice and macaroni aside, Ali found a plastic tub of paracetamols tucked behind some orange jam. He pocketed a fistful, decided to get some milk from the fridge. The head had gone. He had not realised he was holding his breath until he exhaled. Perhaps it had been mailed. Perhaps it had fed the piranhas. He took a bag of ice-cubes from the freezer for Hisham's face and returned to the room.

It was a long night. Moaning and muttering, Hisham drifted in and out of sleep whilst Ali, in pyjama shorts, paced the carpet, frothing with indecision, wondering why Kinky had not come. Presumably Al-Sekem had warned her away. Maybe he had caught and stopped her. Perhaps she had abandoned the villa altogether.

Hisham groaned again. Trying not to puke at the red, raw patches where the skin had peeled away from the legs, Ali stripped away Hisham's loose robe, daubed antiseptic ointment on the burns, changed the dressings on his legs and feet and re-strapped the dislocated shoulder. Hisham thrashed about deliriously and uttered a sequence of heart-splitting wails.

Ali still did not know what Al-Sekem was planning but he knew he had to be stopped. The damage done to Hisham could easily be done to him too. What if Uthman came for him with his steam-hose and broom-stick?

He had one weapon of his own. He had brought it with him in his rucksack. All he could do was plant it and wait. Hash Five would blow the whole damned place to bits. He squirmed into his jeans, a T-shirt and trainers and padded through the living room towards the terrace. The cool marble sculptures stood sentinel over the circular glass-covered pool. Inside, the flat silver-grey fish hung motionless in the murky water. Hating and fearing in equal measure the fierce, jagged teeth and expressions of low cunning and malicious intent, Ali dragged the thick white rug across the marble floor and over the glass. He did not know how they might cope without light. Perhaps they would turn on each other in a cannibalistic frenzy when the hunger became too much. Perhaps they would just expire in the darkness. Either way, no-one would be coming back to feed them after tomorrow.

Outside, in the cool night air Ali lit a Gitane he had found in the kitchen. As usual, it made him momentarily, light-headedly dizzy as the nicotine fingers dug deeply down into his lungs. The Ajloun valley was still and silent but for the incessant, high-pitched whirring of cicadas and crickets. The distant lights of isolated farmhouses blinked in the darkness. The swimming pool lay smooth and glassy-black. The tennis net drooped, dew seeping into its ropes. Above him, the indigo sky stretched away to infinity, its surface pricked with bright white stars. The red tip of his cigarette glowed angrily. The rucksack was heavy with the weight of the bomb-vest he had carried from Damascus. Somehow it seemed appropriate to use this one, to reconnect those wires he had yanked out among the thyme and rosemary bushes in Leila's herb garden and to conceal this vest which should have scattered Ali's parts in bloody gobbets to the four corners of the Earth, behind the powerful, sucking, vacuum pump under the pool and know that Hash Five would end it all.

He took one final deep drag from the Gitane, tossed the rest into the pool where it fizzed angrily and died, then, hefting the bomb onto his shoulder, he went down the steps.

#28. SOUTH THEATRE, JERASH, JORDAN

Thursday July 16, 13.02

BLAZING FROM a clear blue sky, the sun beat furiously down on Ali's head as he dragged a big black loudspeaker across the ancient stone stage of an old Roman theatre. The white T-shirt and blue nylon shorts clung clammily to his skin and sweat plastered his hair to his skull. Midday and manual work were unhappy companions, he reflected, rocking the speaker on its corners.

Uthman had fetched the boys for breakfast at eight. They had sipped mango juice and nibbled some soft white cheese and scrambled eggs whilst Al-Sekem's men loaded Youssef Abdullah's Renault with crates, speakers and microphones, Uthman checked the clasps and the blue tarpaulin that read AL-HOURI DELIVERIES and Moustapha Al-Sekem himself, dressed in his white Armani suit, black shirt and dark glasses, looked on, coffee-cup in his gold-ringed hand. Now Ali knew why they had killed the driver. They had wanted his truck.

''Good morning, Hisham,'' Al-Sekem had called jovially. ''I hope your voice is not impaired by lack of sleep.''

''I doubt it,'' said Ali.

''Where is Anas?''

''On his way,'' said Ali. ''He can't move as quickly as me these days. No toe-nails and second-degree burns slow a person down, you know.''

''Quite,'' said Al-Sekem. ''You will travel in the car with me and Uthman. No funny busy, or I will shoot you.'' He patted a squarish bulge in his jacket pocket.

Ali had spread his palms innocently. ''You hurt my feelings, Doctor Al-Sekem. I have done nothing against you. I am disappointed you do not trust me like Talal Hafez did.''

''Talal Hafez is dead,'' said Al-Sekem.

''OK, bad example,'' said Ali, ''But you must know how much I admire your work, the alternative sources of sustainable power, Hands across the Sands. I could be your protégé if you would let me. I have many skills, you know. Which car is Miss Kinkhladze travelling in?''

''Miss Kinkhladze will join us later,'' Al-Sekem said, ''For the opening ceremony itself.''

Squashing his disappointment, Ali peeked into the back of the Renault and saw the dozen crates stacked up. A truck-bomb, he decided. It had to be a truck-bomb. Presumably he and Hisham were to detonate it or drive the truck or something similar but he was unable to confirm it with his Timex detector because of the number of people milling about so he simply clambered into the back of a black BMW X5 SUV with Hisham, who was dressed in a loose, washed-out grey galabeya, and fastened the seat-belt. Uthman sat in the passenger seat, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the boys. Al-Sekem drove.

Followed by the Renault truck, they swung out of the compound, passed Ajloun Castle and descended a steep hill into the fertile valley of olive groves, orange trees, fig bushes and irrigation channels and into the desert. Behind them, row upon row of tall white wind-turbines sprouted from the hillside, their long spindly arms turning steadily. Hisham and Ali exchanged glances but no words. Hisham looked strained and nervous although he had been crammed to the eyeballs with painkilling drugs.

Ali flicked through the glossy programme. There was a brief biography of Moustapha Al-Sekem, a brief history of Al-Sekem Enterprises, an advert for Morsi Machine-Parts, another for Al-Houri Deliveries. There was a long technical essay about wind-power written by a professor from Irbid University. There was a piece about the charitable work of Hands across the Sands and a list of institutions sponsored by the organisation. Ali noted that the Mohamed Bin-Rahman Mosque in Damascus was named but the Dar El-Tawhid Madrassa was not. Over the page he found a group under the heading IRAQ and gasped. Halfway down the list was Sisters of Mercy Orphanage, Baghdad.

Memories flashed across his mind, memories of Salah, of Sayed, of Magdy, of Samir, of Mr Ala'a and Sister Gihan and that black-wire mole, the cupboard under the stairs, that bloody scratchy uniform, the slop they served as food, the brutality of his caning, the ice-cold showers…

''It's a terrible place,'' he told Al-Sekem. ''You should stop the funding.''

''They do an excellent job,'' Al-Sekem replied disinterestedly, changing gear and accelerating out of a bend. One gold-ringed hand rested on the shift-stick, the cracked nails looking brown and dirty in the half-light of the car's interior. The 3000 cc, 4.8 litre, V8 engine of the X5 roared angrily through the desert.

The small convoy swept quickly through the small, dull town of Jerash towards the ruined remains of Roman Gerasa. Conquered by the Romans in 63 BC, Gerasa was in 90 AD incorporated into the province of Arabia. Sixteen years later, the Emperor Trajan ordered a road-building programme which had connected the cities of the Decapolis together. The city had become so prominent the Emperor Hadrian had spent the winter of 129-130 AD there. A vast commemorative arch which still stands at the entrance had been constructed to mark the occasion. In 749 an earthquake destroyed many of the proud, towering buildings and what survived had been buried in sand and soil. The site lay undisturbed until 1806 when a German explorer discovered the remains, although actual excavations did not begin until 1925. The result was the uncovering of a near-perfect Roman city which attracted thousands of visitors each year.

Dozens of khaki-uniformed policemen were already patrolling the site when Al-Sekem's SUV drew up at the barrier. Scrambling into the Renault they examined the boxes, found nothing suspicious and waved the convoy through. So not a truck-bomb then. Ali was getting frustrated.

The mid-morning heat was harsh and fierce. The strong sun glared dazzlingly off the enormous white columns, temple walls and flights of steps which lined wide, white, smoothly paved streets. Ali settled his Monster Dogs on the bridge of his nose and trotted after Al-Sekem into the Oval Forum, a vast open space enclosed within a slender-pillared colonnade. Some children were playing around a tall metal structure topped with a torch. To the left, a steep grass-covered hill ran up through forgotten blocks of fallen stone to a small clump of ragged trees. This was where spectators would sit for the opening ceremony, for the Jordanian Police Pipe-Band, the Minister of Arts, Culture, Museums and Antiquities and the new Crown Prince who would ignite the Flame of Culture and declare the festival open. Unless Al-Sekem killed him first.

They moved into the main street, the cardo maximus, lined either side with tall, thick columns and scarred with the two thousand year old tracks of chariot-wheels. Hisham's heavy limping slowed them down and Ali hung back to help him. To his enormous relief, he saw Hamza Madani, dressed like a tourist in beige slacks, leather sandals, a flowery yellow short-sleeved shirt, sunglasses and a floppy wide-brimmed sun-hat shadowing them on the other side of the road. He was taking pictures of the delicate mouldings in the stone lintel of the Temple of Artemis and also, more surreptitiously, of Al-Sekem, Uthman and their group. Pausing at a fast-food stall and savouring the smell of frying onions, Ali dug in his pocket for some coins.

''How much is a hot-dog?'' he chirped at the vendor.

''Two dinars,'' came the reply.

Hamza materialised beside him. ''Seven-Up please.''

''I think it's a truck-bomb,'' Ali said from the corner of his mouth. ''Renault. Al-Houri Deliveries. Anas! You got a spare dinar?''

Uthman was striding menacingly towards him.

''He's a looker.'' Hamza opened his can with a fizzing spurt.

''Hisham!'' Al-Sekem was shouting. ''Come here!''

Scowling at Hamza, Uthman dragged Ali away by his elbow.

''Do not wander off,'' Al-Sekem had snapped. ''You have work to do.''

Now, as he helped push the speakers around the stage, he saw some of the crates being unpacked. They contained glossy programmes, packs of Haribo sweets, cardboard sun-visors, cushions for spectators and a giant laminated banner advertising Hands across the Sands which was to be strung across the entrance to the South Theatre, an ancient amphitheatre containing countless stone rows running in steep semi-circles up from a narrow rectangular stone stage. Uthman was setting up microphones. The other men were sorting cushions into one pile, packs of sweets into another and so on.

Al-Sekem had hired a troupe of traditional dabke dancers for a spectacular festival launch. It would take place at around seven-thirty just after the opening ceremony under the flickering glow of a hundred burning torches which were now being fitted around the arena.

Ali leaned against a laurel-crowned bust of Apollo and wiped sweat from his face with the back of his hand. There was no shade whatsoever in the South Theatre and, to make it worse, the blinding sun stared relentlessly back from the white stones, white walls and white sand. Had they found the truck-bomb? He needed to know.

''Moustapha, I need a drink,'' he called.

Uthman grinned his lipless grin and tossed across a bottle of water.

Damnation. Ali tipped some into his mouth, swilled it around, spat it out.

Hamza Madani entered the theatre, camera raised.

Ali's heart hammered excitedly but Hamza simply shook his head, took a snap and left.

So it wasn't a truck bomb. For God's sake!

Maybe there was nothing. Maybe he was paranoid. Maybe it was all in his head but Doctor Al-Sekem was as mad as a mongoose and what he had witnessed at the villa left him certain something was going to happen. Wildly, desperately, he looked round the South Theatre. He had to think of something, and fast. He felt sure they were going after the Minister, Prince Hussein and the huge crowds at the opening ceremony, but how? With what? He slammed the bottom of his fist backwards into the wall.

Hisham sat in the dark doorway suffering in the heat. He looked intensely miserable and squirmed occasionally as his injuries prickled despite the loose-fitting galabeya not rubbing his burns too roughly. The plump white sausages of his bandaged toes poked through the sandals. His nose looked like a split, splattered tomato. His breathing was harsh and irregular.

''You all right?'' Ali handed him the Baraka bottle.

''No,'' Hisham admitted. ''I feel like shit.''

''Do you need more paracetamol?''

Hisham pulled a face, shifted on his bottom, groaned quietly, nodded.

''Moustapha!'' Ali called. ''Anas needs some painkillers! I'm just gonna get some.''

Al-Sekem flashed, lightning-fast, across the arena to seize Ali's bicep tightly in a gold-ringed vice.

''Don't call me Moustapha, you little shit,'' he hissed, ''And no, you're not. You stay here where I can keep an eye on you.''

''But he's sick,'' Ali protested.

''So what? He's a little shit like you. He's going to die? Let him die. You betrayed him anyway. His blood will be on your head.''

Drawing himself up to his full five foot four and moments away from killing the man, he levered Al-Sekem's broken fingernails away from his arm.

''Listen, Moustapha,'' he said slowly, ''If he dies, here, in the South Theatre, at your concert… well, how will you explain it? There's no piranha pool here. There are hundreds of policemen though. Dead boy in the arena. Evidence of torture. Secret Service. Questions. Before you know it, Moustapha, you will be in a cell getting a broomstick shoved up your ass, you murdering scumbag.''

Al-Sekem stepped back, his expression that of a man slapped in the face with a dead rat.

''You talk and talk,'' Ali continued, ''And nothing happens. Talal Hafez said you were just a talker. He was right.''

Al-Sekem's face contorted. ''You wait!'' His voice rose in a manic scream. ''Just you wait till the Festival starts! Then you'll see, you shitty little prick!'' He struck Ali across the cheek with the back of his hand. Ali collapsed against the wall in an untidy bundle.

Al-Sekem crouched down. ''Do you know what sarin is, Ali?''

''It's a nerve-agent.'' Ali scrambled into a sitting position, rubbing blood from his cheek, feeling a sudden hollow despair in the pit of his stomach. ''It was developed by German scientists in 1938 and named after them, Schräder, Ambros, Rüdiger and van der Linde, but the Nazis never used it. Terrorists unleashed it on the Tokyo subway in 1995 killing thirteen people. Saddam Hussein used it against the Kurds killing hundreds. It is classed as a Schedule One Weapon of Mass Destruction.''

''Clever boy,'' Al-Sekem said approvingly. ''Sarin is a compound of methylphosphonyl diofluoride and isopropyl alcohol and is deadly to humans. After inhalation, death occurs within one minute. Symptoms of sarin poisoning include a runny nose, a tightening of the chest, nausea, drooling, difficulty in breathing, loss of control of bodily functions. The victim vomits, defecates and urinates then his body spasms, convulsing until he suffocates.

''Sarin is five hundred times more toxic than cyanide. Even in vapour form it is absolutely fatal if inhaled or absorbed through the skin. A drop of sarin the size of a pinhead can kill a human within thirty seconds.''

Al-Sekem removed his dark glasses. His eyes were utterly expressionless icy blue chips. The absence of lashes made them creepily reptilian.

''Two litres of liquid sarin are concealed in those speakers,'' he continued. ''The precursors are contained in different shells. A small explosive device will destroy the shell-casings. Sarin is highly volatile. The liquid vaporizes in seconds. The precursors will mix together and the sarin vapour will leak through the mesh. It is colourless and odourless. No-one will know it is there. Every single person in this arena will die within minutes.''

''They'll hear the explosion,'' Ali said numbly.

''No, they won't,'' said Al-Sekem. ''And if they do, they will think it a problem with the speakers. But it gets even better. I have two hundred windmills running at full power. The sarin will be spread into the air and, carried by the windmills, will spread across the entire region, to Jerash, to Ajloun, to Amman itself fifty-four miles away. Every city, every village, every town in this miserable country will die and those that do not, well, after Saddam Hussein used it on Halabja, the population never recovered. Miscarriages, colon cancer, skin and eye problems, birth defects, genetic disorders…. the same will happen here.''

''You'll kill thousands of people,'' Ali gasped.

''Millions, I think,'' Al-Sekem smirked. ''The country of Jordan will effectively be liquidated but it is only forty-six miles from here to Nazareth in Israel and only sixty-eight from here to Jerusalem and less than thirty to my dear home-town of Jericho. With the turbines driving it on, the sarin will reach there within hours. Israel too will be crippled.''

''Sarin degrades very quickly,'' said Ali, trying to remember what he had read about it.

''I'll take that chance,'' said Al-Sekem.

''And you? How will you escape?''

''I have the antidotes,'' said Al-Sekem craftily, ''Atropine and pralidoxime. I also have a biological warfare suit. I shall merely drive away through the dying hordes and make my escape to China or North Korea or Libya, somewhere a visionary of my genius will be appreciated.''

''I thought you were an environmentalist trying to refashion the Earth,'' said Ali. ''Killing millions of innocent people doesn't seem very environmentally friendly to me.''

''They are not innocent!'' Al-Sekem's voice rose again into a Hitlerian howl of insanity. ''They have betrayed everything, everyone. They turned their backs on Palestine. They turned away from the dying and the dead, the persecuted and the pulverised. They made peace with the Jews. They followed America. They sold their culture, their very identity for a few lousy dollars. They deserve nothing but extermination! Extermination! Everyone of these insects shall die! And you, my dear Master Amin, Master Ali Amin from the Joint Security Council of the Arab League, will have the honour of detonating the device.''

Ali shook his head. ''Do you know how many agents are in this place? Hundreds. They'll shoot you down like a dog.''

''They'll be too busy dying to bother about me.'' Al-Sekem's icy eyes never flickered. Ali became aware that he had not yet seen the lashless lids blink.

''Where did you get it from?'' said Ali. ''You weren't mixing it up in your kitchen, surely.''

''Iraq,'' said Al-Sekem. ''Saddam's famous stockpiles of chemical weapons disappeared as soon as the Americans arrived to people like me with the money and the means. These nerve agents and mustard gases and rockets were distributed all over the region. We developed the formula with some of Saddam's chemists, ran some tests…The orphanage you named.''

''The Sisters of Mercy.''

''Quite so. The Sisters of Mercy. Aptly named, don't you think?''

Everything fell into place. Al-Sekem had tested the sarin on those who had disappeared.

''That's where I saw you,'' said Ali thoughtfully. ''You were there when I was beaten.''

''That was you?'' Al-Sekem seemed surprised. ''We were going to do you after the skinny runt who betrayed you but you got away in an ambulance.''

''Sayed,'' said Ali strongly. ''His name was Sayed.''

Al-Sekem shrugged. ''Whatever. He was an orphan. Who would miss him?'' Slamming his sunglasses back on, he jack-knifed upright and shouted for Uthman.

Ali was taken to a Portaloo just outside the South Theatre and handcuffed to the cistern pipe, a strip of black electrical tape stuck roughly across his mouth.

''We'll fetch for your debut,'' said Al-Sekem as he locked the door and placed an 'Out of Order' sign on the handle. ''Just relax and prepare your soul.''

Ali straddled the toilet-seat. Sarin was the deadliest nerve-agent he had learned about apart, perhaps, from tabun which could be absorbed through the eyes as well as the skin.

Sarin.

Al-Sekem was right. A pinhead-sized drop could kill a man in a minute. Two litres were stashed inside the speakers up on the stage. It would devastate the Jordan Valley for decades and he was stuck inside a toilet. The Timex told him it was three-fifteen.

Thinking back to the orphanage, he processed the new information. On his first night, Mental Magdy had claimed three boys had disappeared, then, just after his failed escape attempt, Sayed had been taken away for a reward for telling the truth. Some reward. Ali now knew he had been murdered by Al-Sekem with the sarin in that little room under the gym. God, what a way to die. And if he hadn't escaped, he, Ali, would have been next. He wondered how much Sister Gihan knew about it, how deeply complicit Mr Ala'a had been. Did they know what Al-Sekem had done in their basement? Had they asked questions? Had they asked, or had they simply shut their eyes to these crimes?

Rattling his handcuffs against the pipe, he tried to kick the plastic sides of the toilet but couldn't quite reach. He thought he might be able to overturn it if he rocked it but he couldn't get any purchase and anyway the Portaloo was lodged between two others. The thought of Al-Sekem and the sarin, of Sister Gihan and Mr Ala'a, was driving him crazy. He had to get out, but how?

He gave up tugging the pipe when he realised it was not going to break. He also gave up trying to kick the wall or the door. He could not shout because of the tape over his mouth. He was hot, thirsty and very sweaty, but all he could do was wait and conserve his strength until the door of the Portaloo clicked open again.

Hours passed. The toilet grew stuffier, the stink of chemicals stronger, Ali's skin clammier. He could feel the perspiration soaking his hair but at least the cut on his cheek had stopped bleeding. By the time Uthman returned, Ali's breathing had also changed, to a shallow panting, like a thirsty dog.

The early-evening dusk was punctured by floodlights and burning brands. Uthman unlocked the handcuffs and tossed in a set of baggy red satin trousers, black boots, a white shirt with puffy, frilled sleeves, a red satin waistcoat with gold braiding and a red satin turban.

''Oh great.'' Ali removed the tape from his face. ''I'm going to die looking like Aladdin.''

Uthman, grunting and waving a gun, jammed his foot firmly in the door.

''Don't I ever get any privacy?'' Ali exchanged his sweat-soaked clothes for the ridiculous costume. ''Any curly-toed slippers? Go the whole Arab stereotype?''

Scowling, Uthman pushed him impatiently back towards the amphitheatre.

At the rear of the South Theatre's stage was a narrow space crammed with musical instruments, bags, boxes, holdalls, cardboard coffee-cups, sandwich wrappers, all kinds of debris. Three regularly spaced doorways opened onto the narrow platform.

Far away, at the end of the cardo maximus, a crowd of thousands had gathered on the hill to watch the Police Pipe-Band march around the Oval Forum. The sorrowful, wailing ululation of bagpipes, drifting on the still night air, drowned out the cheerful buzzing of cicadas in the olive-groves.

''Where's Al-Sekem?'' he demanded.

''With the Prince,'' answered a goon. ''Sit down.''

He pointed at a green plastic chair in the third doorway from the entrance. Ali obeyed. Hisham, thin face pinched with pain, sat in a chair nearby.

As the last keening note from the bagpipes floated away to die in the darkness of the desert night, Ali heard a faint rattle of applause and watched as people began flowing into the theatre, families, children, grandparents, foreigners, a blend of jeans, shirts, frocks and dresses, hundreds of people filling the amphitheatre's hard, stone, semi-circular rows, fourteen in the lower section, fourteen in the upper, the two halves separated by a wide walkway. In the sea of faces, Ali spotted Hamza Madani, third-row centre.

Now, his brain urged his body. Run across and tell him now.

With a sharp warning grunt, Uthman clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder and held him firmly in the seat.

Colonel Ibrahim, wearing a dark brown suit, came glowering through the ancient arch accompanied by the Minister for Culture, a short, portly man in a light grey suit, blue tie and a red and white khefiyah, and Crown Prince Hussein, the heir to the Hashemite Throne of Jordan, a fifteen year old with a thatch of curly black hair and glasses. Moustapha Al-Sekem, gold rings blinking in the flickering torchlight, white Armani immaculately pressed, was walking alongside, and chatting amiably. Katya Kinkhladze, spectacular in a knee-length, short-sleeved black cocktail dress, teetered on ridiculously high, stiletto heels, arm entwined in the Minister's. He seemed mightily flattered by the attention and laughed heartily at her remarks. Al-Sekem showed the party to their seats in the front row, Colonel Ibrahim, the Prince, Kinky and the Minister, then jogged lightly up the steps into a spotlight.

''Your Royal Highness, esteemed and honoured Excellency, ladies, gentlemen and children, welcome to the South Theatre and the first event of this wonderful festival. It is indeed a pleasure and a privilege to be headlining this event, this annual celebration of traditional music, dance and drama in the splendid setting of this ancient city and marking this year the elevation of your Royal Highness to the rank of Crown Prince.''

Sliding the mike from the stand, he paced once downstage.

''I am Doctor Moustapha Al-Sekem and I am the Founding Chairman, Chief Executive and Scientific Advisor of Al-Sekem Enterprises. The lights, the sound, everything you will witness tonight is powered by windmills built in my factory as part of my small contribution to Jordan's development of sustainable, renewable energy. This evening's show will, I hope, reveal once and for all the awesome power of Nature and the potential for the human race to move away from fossil fuels and stop raping the Earth for its own needs.''

People clapped enthusiastically.

''I am also,'' Al-Sekem resumed, ''The founding chairman of Hands across the Sands.''

There was another burst of applause. Al-Sekem bowed humbly, hand on heart.

''This is a charity that supports educational institutions such as schools, religious colleges, orphanages, shelters for the homeless and children's hospitals in five countries across the Middle East. My projects stretch from Siwa in Egypt to Baghdad in Iraq, from Aleppo in Syria to Aqaba on the Jordanian coast, and into the West Bank of Palestine, my birthplace. I believe it vitally important to repay my debt to the nation that accepted me some forty years ago, a poor child, a skinny refugee, come from Jericho in search of bread and an education.''

More applause. The audience was lapping him up. Ali wanted to puke.

''First this evening, Highness, Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, Al-Sekem Enterprises and Hands across the Sands are proud to present, all the way from Petra, the dance-troupe Habel Mwadea.''

Prolonged applause greeted the band as it entered through the first door. The five men were attired in baggy white trousers, baggy white shirts and black waistcoats and black turbans embroidered with gold thread. Ali recognised all five instruments, the oud or lute, shaped like a half-pear with a short neck and wide-bellied body, the mijwiz, or reed clarinet, which emitted a harsh buzzing sound, the beautifully decorated, hand-held, vase-shaped drum with a goat-skin membrane known as tablah, the rikk, a round tambourine with metal discs and a goat-skin surface, and the yarghoul, a reed-pipe smaller than a mijwiz and with fewer finger holes. The band occupied a position on the left as the dancers, four men and three women, appeared through the centre door. The men were dressed in black trousers tied at the waist with red sashes, white shirts and black jackets decorated with gold braid. Red and white checked Jordanian scarves covered their heads. The women wore long black dresses with elaborately embroidered gold, red and white-beaded hems. The same decoration was stitched round their neck-lines. Long red, white and gold-beaded flaps dangled from the sides of their red turbans. They lined up in alternating genders, men on the outside, and bowed in unison to the audience. A singer in long black and gold robes entered through the final door, acknowledged the applause and took the microphone. The torchlight cast long shadows on the ancient stones.

''Good evening,'' said the singer. ''This first dance is a famous Jordanian dabke set to the words of the Lebanese song 'Ala Dalouna' or 'Help Us, oh Lord'.''

Ali groaned at the irony.

The band struck up the tune and the troupe, arms across each others' shoulders, stamped sideways and forwards in time to the music.

''Help us, help us, pray to our Prophet against the evil eye…''

Al-Sekem stood by Ali's chair. ''Good, aren't they?'' he said slyly.

The audience started clapping rhythmically.

''Help us, help us, pray to our prophet against the evil eye…''

''When am I on?''

''Soon,'' said Al-Sekem.

''And how, precisely, am I to detonate your device?''

''With your voice,'' said Al-Sekem. ''When you hit the highest note in your song, the device will ignite. There is a chip in the microphone which is coded to recognise your voice and programmed to send the detonation signal to the speakers.'' He chuckled. ''Yesterday all your troubles seemed so far away. Never was the song more appropriate.''

He started clapping as the dance drew to a close.

''Suppose I don't sing?'' said Ali.

''Uthman will shoot you,'' Al-Sekem said simply. ''We will tell the audience you fainted from stage-fright and then play the recording to show them what they missed. It's all covered, Ali. Just say your prayers, go out and save the world.'' Fiercely he kissed Ali's forehead. ''You're a dead boy walking and you always were but soon you will be in Paradise in the arms of Allah.''

The applause died down. Habel Mwadea were chattering happily as they came off-stage. Al-Sekem returned to the microphone.

''What a great start to the Festival,'' he crowed. ''But now, Highness, Excellency, ladies and gentlemen, Al-Sekem Enterprises and Hands across the Sands are proud to present, for the first time in Jordan, and in the presence of the new heir apparent to the Hashemite throne, the latest singing sensation from Iraq. His impact tonight, I assure you, will spread well beyond the confines of this little theatre. In fact, his song will impact on every man, woman and child in this kingdom. Ladies and gentlemen! Ali Hassan Al-Amin!'' He threw out his right arm.

Ali gulped.

It was time.

#29. SOUTH THEATRE, JERASH, JORDAN

Thursday July 16, 20:09

HE shuffled on-stage in his Aladdin costume to a wave of applause from thousands of people. The spotlight glared in his face. Al-Sekem put a fatherly arm round his shoulders.

''Ali is originally from Baghdad,'' he told the crowd. ''He was brought up in an orphanage which happens to be funded by Hands across the Sands.''

More applause, sympathetic this time.

Ali tried to still his trembling knees and quell his sudden feeling of sickness.

''Discovering Ali's wonderful voice, the Principal sent him to Damascus, to the renowned academy of Dar El-Tawhid, the House of Unity, another organisation sponsored by Hands across the Sands, where he learned The Qur'an and developed his singing talents.'' Laying his left hand on his heart again, he added modestly that he was humbled that his money was used so wisely, taking a poor boy from a Baghdad slum to a caring orphanage, a Damascene school and the South Theatre stage on the opening night of the most prestigious regional arts festival. ''What a long journey,'' he concluded, ''But what a fruitful one. Hands across the Sands indeed.''

The Minister of Culture was leading the applause, standing up, appealing for quiet.

''Highness, ladies, gentlemen!'' His voice echoed round the arena. ''I think Doctor Al-Sekem is the greatest man alive!'' The stormy clapping sickened Ali even more. ''His generosity, his far-sightedness, his nobility should stand example to us all!'' Some people stamped their feet and whooped. If only they knew what they were whooping.

''Thank you, Excellency,'' said Al-Sekem, ''For your generous words. I am truly humbled that my little work can have such profound effect. I know you will not be disappointed. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you again Ali Hassan Al-Amin!'' Al-Sekem retreated into the shadows.

Ali heard the response crashing round the ancient theatre. He didn't know what to do. He moved up to the microphone. ''Errr…'' he said, ''This is my first time on-stage.''

There was a light ripple, a sympathetic murmuring. He was desperately searching for Hamza, for Colonel Ibrahim, for the young prince, but the light was too strong. He couldn't really see any faces. He glanced over his shoulder. Uthman's looked like a freakish clown's.

''Before I begin,'' he said, ''I would like to thank Doctor Al-Sekem, who I admire and respect beyond anyone in the world…'' Approving applause. ''He has treated me with such kindness, like his own son.''

He cleared his throat uncertainly, glanced over his shoulder again. The snub nose of a silenced Sig-Sauer Mosquito burrowed bluntly through Al-Sekem's fingers.

''I learned this song in school,'' he said slowly, ''Before I went to the orphanage, before terrorists killed my family, in the days when I was happy.''

Hisham's pallid face shone with a sickly glow.

''My parents died,'' Ali said, ''My brothers died and my sister had her leg blown off by a suicide-bomber. She is twelve years old. If Hands across the Sands means anything, it must mean an end to terrorism.''

There was a positive torrent of applause.

''An end to violence and hatred.''

It echoed round the long-standing arena.

''Islam is my faith,'' he declared. ''Islam is my life. Islam is life.'' Hot tears sprang into his eyes. ''The God that I love does not want to see men killing men, men killing women, men killing children in His name. The God that I love, Allah the Merciful, Allah the Beneficent, Allah the Bringer of Peace, does not want this endless cycle of death and destruction.'' He glanced backwards. Al-Sekem looked furious. The appeal was not getting through. ''Allah is the God of Peace.'' The clapping was joined by the stamping of feet. Al-Sekem raised the gun, held it at arm's length, and aimed at Ali's head. He cocked the hammer.

Tears rolled down Ali's cheeks. It was too late.

''Anyway,'' he sniffed, ''This song is in English, it's by The Beatles, it's called 'Yesterday' and it seems most appropriate.''

He took the microphone in his hand. The crowd fell silent.

''Yesterday,'' he quavered, ''All my troubles seemed so far away…''

He sniffed again. Someone shouted ''Get on with it!''

''Now it looks as though they're here to stay…''

The tears were salty as well as hot.

''He's rubbish!'' someone bellowed.

''Get him off!'' yelled another.

A tomato splattered on his knee.

Ali wiped his tears with the back of his hand. At last he had a plan, a desperately risky plan, but a plan nonetheless.

He would die. He would never know if it worked. But he had to try. There was no choice.

Allah be with me, he prayed mentally, Allah save me. Allahu Akhbar! God is Great.

The Sig-Sauer's staring eye, like its master's, never blinked.

''Oh I believe in yesterday…''

Ali's voice trembled at the end of the line. The dabke troupe watched him curiously.

''Suddenly,'' Ali sang, sniffing, ''I'm not half the man I used to be…''

Al-Sekem grinned and waved goodbye.

''There's sarin in the speakers next to me…'' Ali sang, his voice strengthening. ''He's gonna kill both you and me…'' He practically yelled the last line into the microphone - ''HE'S GONNA KILL BOTH YOU AND ME – ALLAHU AKHBAR!'' - and hit the floor as Al-Sekem pulled the trigger and a bullet smashed into the stone.

Half a dozen security men exploded from their seats.

''Everybody out!'' bawled Hamza Madani, firing a gunshot into the air.

Colonel Ibrahim bundled the Minister and the Crown Prince towards the exit.

Katya Kinkhladze screamed.

People milled around in confusion, yelling and falling over each other in a desperate scramble for the door.

Hamza sprang onto the stage.

''There's sarin in the speakers!'' Ali said urgently.

''Fuck!'' Hamza stood up. ''Clear the site! Rashid! Down here! Sarin in the speakers!''

Dr Rashid, dressed in shorts and a flowery shirt, scampered across the auditorium.

Ali surged to his feet shouting ''Get Al-Sekem! He can still set off the bomb!''

But Al-Sekem was gone. Instead it was Uthman holding the Dictaphone aloft like an Olympic torch.

''Uthman!'' cried Ali. ''Don't do it! You don't have to do it!''

Uthman's lipless, lopsided mouth stretched into a hideously malicious grin.

''Uthman!'' cried Ali again. ''Don't do it!''

The nightmare face, with its scorched, bleached, plastic patches, the lumpen nose, the straggly strands of ginger hair, shone with pleasure. He gurgled something and pressed 'Play'.

''Yesterday…'' Ali's voice, magnified a hundred times, boomed round the now-empty theatre. ''All my troubles seemed so far away…''

The world stood still.

Suddenly, from the darkness of nowhere, erupted Hisham. He crashed into Uthman and knocked the Dictaphone from his hand. It skittered away across the stones.

''You bastard!'' Hisham screamed shrilly. ''You bastard!''

Stamping violently on the Dictaphone, Ali stamped out his voice, stamped out the possibility of detonation, stamped until the machine shattered into pieces, kicked those pieces into the night.

Hisham, wrestling with Uthman, was clawing frantically at the piebald face until Uthman, roaring like a furious bull, seized the boy and hurled him across the stage into the steps of the auditorium. Hisham bounced off, his head striking stone with a sickening crunch.

Uthman roared again and brought the Mosquito to bear on Ali's heart.

Ali stared into the black eye of the muzzle. Grunting with joy, Uthman grinned a final hideous lipless grin and straightened his arm.

A small hole appeared in the centre of the piebald bleached-bone forehead. A thin thread of bright red blood spilled down the plasticine nose. The eyes widened in surprise. The cold black mouth of the gun muzzle drifted sideways.

The second bullet, bursting through his chest, sent a blood-spray over Ali's face. A huge blood-patch blossomed on his breast. Uthman clawed at the cloth as a third bullet tore through his throat. This time the blood fountained like someone had severed a high-pressure hose. Uthman dropped to his knees, glared angrily at the sky then fell face-forward onto the stage. Hamza Madani, crouching behind Ali's shoulder, was holding a smoking gun in both hands.

Ali scrambled up the first three rows to where Kinky was cradling Hisham in her arms. She raised her eyes and gave a slight shake of her head. Ali, grimacing, took the boy's hand.

''I'm sorry,'' he whispered, ''So sorry.''

Hisham tried to smile. ''It's all right. Everything hurts.'' He shifted. ''Why is it so dark?''

''You're a hero,'' said Ali, ''You saved us all. You saved thousands of lives. You saved the country.'' He squeezed the ice-cold hand. ''I'm proud of you, Hisham. You are truly my friend.''

''Will I be in Heaven?'' Hisham sounded like a little boy afraid of the night. ''I'll say... hello…to your…parents. Oh!'' A wave of pain rolled through him. ''Ali,'' he gasped, ''I'm cold.''

Mutely, bleakly, Ali and Katya's eyes locked across the battered, broken body.

''La illaha ill-Lallah, Muhammad-ur-Rassul, AllahLa illaha ill-Lallah, Muhammad-ur-Rassul Allah,'' chanted Ali, ''There is no God except Allah and Muhammad is the Messenger of Allah...'' The Prayer for the Dying, the last words a Muslim should hear.

Gasping again, Hisham stiffened, then the light in his eyes began to fade as his breathing slowed. His head fell sideways. With a last great heave and a single soft sigh, he was gone.

#30. VILLA AL-SEKEM, AJLOUN, JORDAN

Thursday July 16, 21:23

THE LITTLE blue Golf bounced wildly over the rutted desert road towards Al-Sekem's villa, Hamza Madani cursing as he wrenched the steering wheel round ninety degrees and sent the car skittering sideways through a bend on loose, pebble-strewn sand. Overhead, two black Chinook helicopters shadowed their progress, the deafening roar of the double rotors drowning the rattle of the Volkswagen's engine and churning the dust into thick, swirling clouds. Black-clad commandoes were emerging from the olive groves and orange trees, spraying the sky with long bursts of brightly coloured tracer bullets which reminded Ali of the celebratory fireworks that had marked the start of the Jerash Festival. Ropes fell from the choppers, a dozen black-clad men clinging on like grapes on a vine, sliding into the compound out of sight, the shooting began and the Chinooks swooped away again as an explosion illuminated the razor-wire and those huge steel doors inscribed AL-SEKEM ENTERPRISES.

Skidding to a halt alongside the abandoned X5 they noticed the driver's door was gaping open like some horrendous wound or the black maw of a waiting predator.

''Booby-trap!'' yelled Ali. ''Leave it!''

He leapt from the car, flinging the stupid turban aside, and raced up the slope towards the terrace feeling for his mobile phone. He was going to detonate the bomb, blow up the villa, erase the whole damned thing. Behind him the shooting intensified and grenades popped against the factory gates. Four Rottweilers charged out, barking, snapping, foaming with fury, engulfed within a screaming, whirling hailstorm of bullets.

The sleeping pool lay smooth and glassy under the stars. The bomb was under the deep-end, close to the aluminium ladder. Ali weighed the Nokia in his palm. Hash Five would do it.

There was a sudden flash of white in the darkness. Al-Sekem, crouching, leaping, crashed into him like a charging polar bear and tumbled him into the pool. The water was surprisingly cold. Ali's head broke the surface. He coughed and spat out the chlorinated water. Surging up, Al-Sekem embraced him from behind in an octopus-grip, dragging him to the white-tiled bottom.

Ali clutched the Nokia tightly but, with his arms pinned to his sides, he could not press the keys. Anyway, he did not really want the device to explode under his own feet. Just don't drop it, he urged, and lashed at Al-Sekem's shins with his heels. He made no impression underwater but he was not panicking, just carefully releasing his breath in slow streams of tiny silver bubbles. He thought he had more lung capacity than Al-Sekem and anyway, he had a plan.

Prising off the waterlogged boots with his toes, he slid the satin trousers down his thighs as another shiny bubble broke the surface. His chest was swelling, his eyes were beginning to pop, his lungs were starting to strain. He fed more air through his lips and kicked free from the pants. He caught them in his hand. The boots had sunk out of reach. Al-Sekem jerked him violently, crushing him again.

Just as Ali felt his chest threatening to burst, Al-Sekem pushed upwards into the air to suck in a fresh lungful. Seizing the chance, Ali slammed his head back into his captor's face. Something crushed against his skull. Al-Sekem roared with pain. Ali bent the man's gold-ringed fingers back as he fought to escape the stifling octopus-grip.

Al-Sekem took another deep breath, pinned Ali's upper arms against his sides and plunged underwater again, manoeuvring him against the tiled wall so he could squash him. Ali felt his lungs squeezed by the pressure of the man's chest on his back. Now he was almost immobile. Al-Sekem was shaking him, trying to make him drop the phone. He lashed back with his heel, tried to head-butt again. Nothing happened. Al-Sekem, standing on the floor of the pool, was slowly crushing the breath from his body. Silver discs dribbled up from his lips. His lungs strained. Black spots danced before his eyes. Al-Sekem pressed again. Ali could feel the tiles, cold and smooth, against his cheek. His fingers were numbing in the cold water. He dared not drop the phone. He had to act, and act now, before he passed out.

Bracing himself, he slid his hands and knees up the tiles and heaved against his captor with every ounce of his remaining strength. As Al-Sekem was forced a pace backwards, Ali managed to get his feet up too. His chest hurt and his vision blurred but he pushed strongly once again and extended his legs to their full length. This time Al-Sekem, still clutching Ali against his chest, staggered and slipped. Ali got his heel to Al-Sekem's knee and trod down as hard as he could. Al-Sekem opened his mouth, swallowed water, coughed, spluttered and, releasing his grip, struck for the surface.

Ali shot upwards, gulping down another massive lungful of air as his head popped through. Al-Sekem, still coughing, was floundering. Ali whipped him hard across the face with the wet trousers then wrapped them round Al-Sekem's head. He swam for the side, clambered out, tore off the waistcoat and raced back to the house shouting for Hamza but Al-Sekem was already coming, ripping the trousers away, heaving himself from the water, peeling back the soaking white jacket, coming after him, through the doorway, dark glasses gone, water streaming from the gelled black hair and dripping onto the night-black shirt.

''Ali Al-Amin.'' Al-Sekem's nostrils flared. ''I will kill you with my own bare hands.''

Ali backed towards the table. ''Give it up, Moustapha. It's over.''

As though in confirmation, an explosion rent the night, rocking the villa and shooting a jagged, orange plume into the sky. A wind-turbine swayed alarmingly, one of the steel hawsers that held it upright snapping with a vicious crack.

Al-Sekem scooped up one of the heavy, ornate chairs and hurled it at Ali, who dived to the right. The chair glanced off his left arm. It hurt like hell. He grabbed a candlestick off the table and flung it at Al-Sekem. It missed. Al-Sekem laughed coldly.

Pivoting on his right heel, Ali shot a slapping snap-kick at the jaw and a roundhouse at the ribs. The impact stung his wet feet. His third kick missed altogether.

Almost lazily, Al-Sekem caught his ankle. After a momentary consideration, he smashed his elbow into Ali's knee then flipped the boy over and flung him head-first and screaming along the length of the polished wooden table, his flailing limbs sending crockery and cutlery flying to the floor. He skidded off the end and crashed painfully into the marble steps that led to the picture-window. The coffee-table shattered against the steps showering him with splinters of glass. Another chair burst into matchwood somewhere close to his face. He could feel blood on his head, a sharp pain in his knee and a dull fire in his left arm. The baggy white shirt was shredded to rags. He was a sitting-duck.

Struggling into a sitting position, he shuffled sideways to his right and inched up the steps on his bottom. He wanted Al-Sekem to think he was going to try to escape through the window so he would throw a sculpture and break the glass. But he didn't. Instead he scooped up a chair-leg and, stepping to the edge of the thick white rug, smacked it hard into his palm.

''This is a strong, solid chunk of wood,'' he said. ''What Uthman did to Hisham, I shall do to you, and then, my dear Master Amin, I shall beat out your brains.'' Hefting the leg, he strode decisively into the centre of the rug.

Panting for breath, arm hanging uselessly, knee screaming insistently, blood flowing freely, Ali squirmed backwards towards the picture-window. This was the end. Ali braced himself, swallowing hard. Suddenly he became aware of the Nokia phone, hard in his hand. Hash Five, Hash Five, Hash Five pounded in his fogging brain. He pressed #5. The phone fell from his failing fingers. He was finished.

A rumbling explosion roared upwards and outwards. Every pane in the villa shattered. Ali shielded his head with the remnants of his shirt and his hands. Shards of glass sliced his skin. Several hundred litres of water erupted volcanically from the pool, cascading over and through the house in a tidal wave of fury. Sun-beds, terracotta tiles and pieces of pipe, hurled into the air by a massive, invisible hand, danced in the billowing smoke then collapsed as though exhausted into the angrily flaring tongues of flame that leapt greedily to devour them. The wind-turbines lurched violently, giants stumbling drunkenly after a party. Water poured into and shorted the electrical system which sprayed the room with crackling, popping violet-blue sparks.

Al-Sekem, shaking his head uncomprehendingly, bared his gleaming white teeth in the most savage expression Ali had ever seen. The businessman seemed scarcely human.

Another deafening crack was followed by an ominous creak, like that of breaking ice.

Al-Sekem glanced down then back at Ali. For a second they stared at each other, the man in the middle of the rug, the boy with his back against the window-frame. The creak evolved into a long-drawn groan and, with another shattering crack, Al-Sekem plunged from view. The water beneath suddenly boiled furiously. A gold-ringed hand with cracked, broken fingernails flailed wildly in the air. Then Al-Sekem shrieked as the piranha ripped into his flesh, ripped into his head, his face, his arms, his hands. A fine spray of blood drizzled from the pit.

''Help me!'' Al-Sekem's legs were entangled in the heavy, water-logged rug. ''Help me!''

The piranha squirmed into his shirt, into his trousers, nibbling, nuzzling, invading his clothing, invading his hair, invading his flesh, tearing his stomach, tearing his hands, tearing his lips, tearing his tongue with those deadly razor-sharp teeth.

''That's for Hisham, Fish-Bait!'' Ali yelled back.

Even from the top of the stairs, he could hear the ghastly gnashing of the thrashing fish and Al-Sekem knocking against the walls of the tank as he struggled under the weight of the piranha-pack. There was another gargled scream. More blood spattered the marble floor.

Horrifyingly, Al-Sekem rose from the bubbling cauldron. Several fish hung suspended from his face, dangling like tarnished silver jewellery, blood streaking their writhing bodies as they devoured his ears and cheeks. White bone gleamed through the ripped, ravaged skin. Al-Sekem gargled Ali's name, once, then the inky black stain of jugular blood flowered round his head, he turned his icy-blue eyes to the Rape of Proserpina and sank out of sight.

Another shattering explosion shook Ali to his feet. Breathing heavily through his nose, dripping water and blood, he circled the bubbling, bloody-frothed mouth that had become Al-Sekem's grave and hobbled painfully back through the house as another explosion tore through it. Somewhere overhead, a windmill screeched loudly as though in pain. The turbine started to topple, freeing itself almost joyfully from the restrictive strait-jacket of steel mooring-cables. These snapped like cotton threads.

Ali ran.

The turbine swooped down, a falling tree to smash through the villa's roof.

In his bedroom he seized the rucksack he had packed last night and the Babolat racket. Another thunderous explosion brought down the ceiling in a choking, smothering dust-fog. Blindly, he stumbled from the villa, groping his way to the fresh, open air, suddenly aware that yet again he was masked in blood, smoke and dust, wearing only briefs and the shredded remnants of a shirt. His life had come full circle. He almost laughed as he jumped through a burst window into the front garden, fire raging furiously behind him, and tumbled towards the Golf.

''Fine time for a game of tennis,'' grumbled Hamza Madani from the driving seat.

''Sorry.'' Ali tossed the faithful rucksack and the Babolat racket into the back. ''I had a pressing engagement with Al-Sekem. Don't worry.'' Ali smiled through the mask of blood and smoke. ''I left him feeding the fishes.''

Then he fainted.

#31. ROOM 1212, INTERCONTINENTAL HOTEL, AMMAN, JORDAN

Monday July 20, 13:31

IT WAS strange being back at the Intercontinental after all these weeks, Ali thought as, sitting in the sunshine on the balcony, he enjoyed a late breakfast of scrambled eggs, fruit and fuul, mint tea and mango juice. He had just finished a soothing, cleansing soak in the deep brown bathtub and was loosely wrapped in the complimentary yellow bath-robe.

Hamza Madani had delivered him back to his starting point at around two a.m. A doctor had set his fractured arm in a sling, put a brace on his knee, given him a shot for the pain then one to help him sleep. It had worked. He had slept for ten hours straight.

He still felt tired and his knee was sore. The cuts on his face were already healing but, when he looked at himself in the mirror, it was clear he had been in a pretty fierce fight.

Uthman had been cremated, his ashes scattered in the desert. Al-Sekem's bones, gnawed clean of meat, had been dredged from the piranha pool and also had been burned. Hisham had been buried in a military cemetery. Hamza had suggested the corpse be returned to the mother in Damascus but Ali had counselled otherwise. Hisham's mother would find the grief hard enough. Seeing the mess the body was in would be utterly unbearable. Reluctantly, Colonel Ibrahim had agreed and the ceremony had taken place on Saturday. Ali had cried, more from exhaustion than genuine grief, but it had caused him a momentary reflection on the misery and the madness he had encountered. What happened to turn boys like Anas and Hisham into men like Al-Sekem, Talal Hafez and Moussa Bashir? It was a sobering consideration.

And Ali himself?

A tiny voice in his mind told him that he too had become a killer, motivated mainly by revenge: Hamza Madani's strictures had echoed in his head.

Katya Kinkhladze had disappeared. Ali was initially disappointed. He had shed some of his childish squeamishness, overcome some adolescent fears in the aptly named pump-room, almost become a man but perhaps, in the end, it was for the best. Fatima would almost certainly disapprove of the buxom Georgian and, alongside the wonderful moments, there were still some painfully embarrassing ones he preferred not to revisit.

He mixed olive oil, cumin and some chopped raw onion and green pepper into the mashed fava beans. The mission was over. Operation Flashlight was finished. What was he to do now? Go back to Baghdad? How could he settle into an ordinary life now?

Hamza Madani had told him he would never be able to let it go, that adrenaline rush, that excitement, that living-on-the-edge that came with being a spy. The saturnine agent had hugged him close and wished him well before driving away to Damascus in the battered old Golf.

So what would he do?

The answer arrived with Colonel Ibrahim, dressed smartly in a charcoal grey suit and white shirt, a dark red tie secured by a golden pin. Ali started to get up but the Colonel waved him to sit still.

''Sleep well?'' He hovered between the bedroom and the balcony.

''Like a log.'' Ali drank some tea. ''I thought I'd hit the gym later.''

''Good,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''You have to keep your fitness up and develop your fighting skills. I want you a black-belt by the end of summer.''

''Oh,'' said Ali, wondering what it meant.

''Anyway,'' the Colonel continued, ''I have a surprise for you. Well, two, actually, but the first is here, waiting for you.'' He called back through the room. ''You can come in now.''

The door burst open and Fatima raced in, shouting his name over and over, bouncing across the carpet like an excited puppy. Now Ali did stand up.

Crying, she flung herself into his arms and he was crying too and they held each other for several minutes just crying and hugging and crying some more.

''Oh, Ali,'' she said, ''I thought I'd never see you again.'' Standing back, she looked him up and down. ''What happened to your arm? Why is your knee in a brace? And what are all those cuts on your face?'' She tutted disapprovingly. ''Ali Hassan! Have you been fighting?''

''Just a little,'' he grinned at the Colonel over the top of her head. ''But you, look at you. Last time I saw you you were in a hospital bed.''

''I'm great,'' she said. ''They gave me a plastic leg. It's not as good as my old one but at least I can stand up now and I'm learning to walk really well.''

One shoulder was higher than the other and, together with the prosthetic foot, made her a little lop-sided. Otherwise she looked well.

''Still the same poor taste in clothes,'' Ali remarked. She was wearing pink jeans and a My Little Pony T-shirt.

''And you still like eating,'' she returned, indicating the breakfast.

''Second surprise.'' Colonel Ibrahim held out a black suit. ''Put it on, and this nice yellow tie that Fatima chose and some decent shoes. You're off to a meeting.''

Half an hour later, they were cruising through the streets of Amman in the back of a limousine, past the King Hussein Mosque and the Roman amphitheatre, sweeping round the base of Citadel Hill and heading through the black and golden gates of Raghadan Palace.

Fatima squealed. ''Ali, we're going to meet the King and Queen!'' She punched his bad arm in her enthusiasm and made him cry out. Then she apologised and got tearful and Ali said it didn't matter and then the car was passing into the courtyard between two British cannons from the First World War and drawing up before the Palace.

Colonel Ibrahim led them up the stone steps, through the central of three arches, under the Jordanian Coat of Arms, through the wooden front doors and into a smart, plush corridor with red carpets and gilded mirrors and men in uniforms saluting as they passed.

Ali fiddled anxiously with the knot of his yellow silk tie. He wasn't used to wearing one and Colonel Ibrahim had tied it for him. The black suit was tailored to his slim build, the white shirt crisply new, the golden cufflinks gleaming, the black shoes highly polished but he still felt incredibly nervous and self-conscious with his left arm in a sling, especially when a small, white door opened and they were ushered forward into a breathtakingly beautiful room.

Everything was turquoise, green and gold, long, green, velvet curtains, twinkling gold-leaf edges, golden candelabras suspended from the ceiling, and what a ceiling. It was green, turquoise and gold with calligraphic inscriptions of verses by Saleem Hanafi dating from 1926 all around the inside of the dome.

''Sit,'' hissed Colonel Ibrahim.

Ali kept scratching his throat. Inside the sling, his arm itched. His knee ached. His stomach kept flipping, like a burger on a griddle. Fatima, on the other hand, bouncing on the edge of the beige leather sofa, seemed really excited. Ali tugged again at the knot of his tie.

A group of people came through a glass-and-wood door. Ali recognised the Minister of Culture, Dr Seif Hazem from the Arab League and, dressed in a light grey suit, King Abdullah himself. He was accompanied by Queen Rania, who wore a shimmering pale green dress and a sparkling diamond tiara. She was every bit as beautiful as Fatima had imagined. They were surrounded by advisors, soldiers in military uniform, servants in livery and white gloves, and accompanied by two teenagers, curly-haired Crown Prince Hussein and Princess Iman.

''Colonel Ibrahim Radwan,'' announced a servant.

The Colonel bowed as the King held his hand and murmured something which made the Colonel's pear-shaped head seem to swell.

The servant called again. ''Mr Ali Hassan Al-Amin. Miss Fatima Hassan Al-Amin.''

Ali bowed awkwardly. Fatima curtsied as she had done a million times back home in Baghdad when she had played Princes and Princesses with her Fulla dolls or her friends.

''Come closer, children,'' murmured the Queen, stroking Fatima's cheek. ''Oh, they're so young, so vulnerable.''

Fatima seemed about to burst.

''Young man.'' The King took Ali's hand. ''I believe we owe you a great debt.''

''It was nothing, sir,'' Ali stammered, unsure what to say.

The King laughed. ''Nothing, he says.'' Everyone in the room laughed. ''Breaking up a school for suicide-bombers, getting the evidence to close down a chain of terrorist cells, stopping Al-Sekem killing thousands of people in the most horrible fashion, saving my son…''

The Crown Prince, looking at the carpet, shuffled his feet in embarrassment.

Fatima's eyes were wide as saucers.

''You have acted with honour and courage beyond your years. We thank you on behalf of all the people whose lives you saved through your bravery, determination and resourcefulness.''

He addressed the room. ''When Doctor Seif and Colonel Radwan asked permission to form the Special Operations Section, I thought it an excellent idea and gave them my full support. When they asked permission to recruit a boy as a secret agent, I thought it a crazy idea. But they chose wisely and they proved me wrong. I have never been happier to be proven wrong.'' His advisors laughed indulgently. ''Doctor Seif, you are a credit to the League of Arab Nations. Colonel Radwan, you honour us by your work and tireless dedication to our security.''

It was the Colonel's turn to look embarrassed and he mumbled something as he accepted the accolade.

''As for you, young man,'' The King returned to Ali. ''I too am a soldier. I trained at Sandhurst, served as an officer in the British Army and commanded Jordan's Special Forces. I have read Colonel Radwan's report. You could be one of us. You are one of us.''

Ali blushed as the King removed from his pocket a small box covered in blue velvet.

''This is the Order of the Hashemite Star,'' he said. ''It is awarded for heroic acts in the face of the enemy.'' Opening the box, he showed Ali a beautiful medal, a six-pointed white star set on a gold laurel wreath and attached to a crimson ribbon. At the top of the star, just under the bar, was a golden crown.

''The Order of the Hashemite Star was created by my father in 1971 and it is our honour and privilege to admit you, Ali Hassan, to that Order.''

The King pinned it onto Ali's lapel. More applause rang round the room. The King shook his hand again. Fatima's mouth had now fallen open. Colonel Ibrahim was beaming broadly and brushing away what might have been a tear.

''I am…I…'' Ali stuttered. ''Thank you, sir.''

The Queen now shook his hand. Everyone seemed to shake his hand. People slapped his shoulder. He felt uncomfortable and out-of-place and did not know what to say. The Crown Prince was thanking him too and thumping his good arm.

''What did you do?'' hissed Fatima.

''Nothing really,'' said Ali modestly. ''Just stopped some maniacs wiping out Jordan.''

The King was speaking again. ''And now we need to reward you properly. We believe you are orphans.'' The Queen clucked sympathetically. ''Do you wish to return to Baghdad?''

''No, sir,'' said Ali. ''There's nothing for us there. We would like to return to school.''

''And you'll need somewhere to live,'' added the Queen, touching Fatima's cheek. Fatima looked ready to faint, especially when Princess Iman whispered something in her ear.

But everyone was looking at Colonel Ibrahim and Dr Seif who smiled and said ''Of course, sir,'' and the audience was over.

''It was like a dream,'' breathed his sister. ''They were so nice.''

''They had to be,'' said Ali, suddenly cocky. ''I saved their country.''

Fatima told him not to be ridiculous. How could he, a mere boy, save a country?

Ali smiled to himself. The medal bounced on his lapel. It really was the most beautiful thing he had ever been given. A soldier at the door saluted him. Saluted him, Ali Hassan!

''Wonder what mother and father would say,'' Fatima murmured.

''And Hussein and Mohamed,'' Ali added. ''Who's the 'ickle weed now, eh? 'Ickle weed got the Order of the Hashemite Star.'' He felt so proud. Was this really him? Had this really happened to him? To Weedy Ali, Hassan's scrawny runt of a son?

The medal gleamed confirmation.

Colonel Ibrahim rejoined them and they sped away to Surprise Number Three. He led them through a small garden crammed with roses and wild flowers and up the stairs of a five-storey building on top of a hill near Circle Two. Ali could see the tower of the Intercontinental Hotel a few streets away.

''This is Flat Nine.'' The Colonel handed Fatima a key. ''Open it up, little lady, and explore your new home.''

Ali did not know whether to laugh or cry. They had a flat, a home of their own, and it was awesome. It had a fully equipped kitchen with a washing machine and a cooker and pots and pans. It had a newly fitted bathroom with a bath and a shower and plastic wrap still on the taps. It had a living room with a sofa, a massive flat-screen Samsung television and DVD player. It had two bedrooms, one for Fatima with a nice wooden bed, a desk and some wooden shelves and one for Ali with a brand-new Dell PC on the desk, a comfortable double bed and a big wardrobe.

''Mrs Roushdie, the landlady, lives next door,'' said Colonel Ibrahim. ''She's a widow in her sixties. She has two grown-up sons and tons of grandkids. She will be your housekeeper and cook.'' He fixed Ali with a stare. ''Don't mess with her. She's a karate black-belt, seventh Dan, and a crack-shot with a pistol.''

Ali laughed. ''Maybe I can spar with her if her zimmer-frame doesn't get in the way.''

''She'd kick your bony behind,'' Colonel Ibrahim said dryly.

Fatima was bouncing on the sofa and squealing ''It's so soft, Ali, so soft!'' Then she bounced into her bedroom. ''I'm going to paint it all pink!'' she declared.

''Sisters, eh?'' Ali said to the Colonel.

''We'll get you some clothes, toys, books and things,'' said Colonel Ibrahim, ''And we'll send a decorator round. We'll take you both to the Iraqi Embassy and the Immigration Bureau to get your documents sorted out. You'll be classed as refugees with political asylum. We have found a nice school just around the corner for Fatima. You, Ali, have been enrolled in Al-Najdawi Boys' Preparatory School. It's just across the main road, opposite the Al-Haboob Supermarket. The uniform is grey trousers, blue and white striped shirt and navy sweater. We'll provide that for you too. The new year starts in September so you have a few weeks to get settled in, and of course Ramadan is coming. We've bought you membership of the Intercontinental Hotel Sports Club so you can keep swimming. You can use the gym and, although you're supposed to be eighteen to use the health spa, the manager will make an exception for you. You will have an allowance of five hundred dinars per month, payable until you are eighteen.'' Colonel Ibrahim paused then added ''Of course the allowance is on the understanding that we might call on your services again. Is that acceptable to you?''

Five hundred dinars per month was a small fortune.

''Well, you know where we are,'' said the Colonel. ''Wadi Insurance. Tell Hala you have come to discuss your home and contents policy if you need us.''

Ali suddenly felt overwhelmed. How his life had changed. He had a flat and an income. For the first time in his life he had a bed of his own. He was a hero. He had a medal. The King of Jordan knew his name. That bomb in Sadr City all those weeks ago really had changed things forever but in ways he had never foreseen. Wordlessly he turned and hugged the Colonel who awkwardly patted his shoulder, cleared his throat a little and muttered something inaudible.

''Thank you,'' said Ali simply.

''Here's fifty dinars.'' Colonel Ibrahim peeled some notes out of his wallet. ''My money, I might add, not the company's. Go get some groceries and treat yourselves to pizzas or something. You can phone for a delivery.'' He seemed reluctant to leave. Finally he forced it out. ''I am very proud of you, Ali. I'm proud of the way you conducted yourself.'' Was that a tear sparkling on the bushy moustache? ''I would be proud to call you my son.'' He kissed Ali on both cheeks. ''Enjoy your evening and I will see you tomorrow.''

''Ali, Ali,'' Fatima was calling from the balcony. ''Come see the view.''

The whole of West Amman spread out before them. They could see right across the higgledy-piggledy jumble of houses to the next hill with its little church, vineyards and low-roofed dwellings all the way to the large blue dome of the King Abdullah Mosque, the busy Bus Station with its busy market and, in the other direction, up the hill to the Second Circle roundabout. Across the street were a small shop, a residential block covered in ivy, several gardens, the Intercontinental tower and the Turkish flag flying over its Embassy. The sun was beginning to set, the Call to Prayer sounding ''Allahu Akhbar'', God is Great, ringing round the Amman streets.

''What did the Princess say to you?'' he asked.

''She said you were cute,'' Fatima said in a tone of disgust.

Ali looked down at his smart new suit, at the medal gleaming on his left lapel, at the sling that cradled his left arm, at his sister leaning her elbows on the balcony rail absorbing the view, and slipped his arm round her shoulders.

''I think we've found our home,'' he said.

She sighed contentedly and snuggled into her brother's chest.

Yes, he thought, I have found my home. But first, I have a letter to write.

THE END OF DEAD BOY WALKING

BUT

ALI SALAWA WILL RETURN

IN

RUNNING WITH SHADOWS

Here is a preview

Left alone, Ali rattled the chain half-heartedly. Of course it would not budge. If only he had the laser-cutter crucifix to cut through the links, but that lay in a corner of the boat-house. He hefted the sharpened stick in his left hand. Perhaps he could use it as a lever, jam it into the links. His knees were sore. The sun pounded his skin. He tugged at the chain again, instantly regretting the dull clanking that resounded mournfully in the still, early-evening air.

A few yards away, a pair of bulbous green eyes and two pitch-black holes rose slowly, agonizingly slowly through the murky grey-brown water, the nostrils sniffing the scent of sun-baked boy. Instinctively Ali shuffled backwards, still on his knees, and gripped the sharpened stick tightly. His throat contracted. His palms were wet and slippery. He was suddenly terrified.

A long, scaly, dark bronze head broke the surface. Ali swallowed hard. The green eyes never flickered. The nostrils, like gun-barrels, focused unwaveringly. Ali froze. Perhaps he could pretend he wasn't there, tethered and waiting like the sacrificial goat in Jurassic Park. He swallowed hard again, tugged at the chain.

The rest of the reptile rose inexorably out of the depths. Black bars marked its back.

The sun slid lower down the rose-pink sky over his shoulder.

The crocodile left the water. Ali was struck by how short its legs were, and how long its body was, some four metres of thick, scaly armour. The mouth, a long slit, looked as though it had been slashed into the beast with a razor-blade. The conical incisors protruding from the edges of its mouth made it look as though it were grinning. The flanks were a dark greenish-yellow and marked with long black bars. The belly was a sickly shade of purple. The reptile considered him, seeming to cock its head to one side. Ali felt his heart hammer against his ribs, and refreshed his grip on the stick. Instinctively again he shrank backwards. The crocodile scuttled forward.

Ali surged to his feet, kicking sand and yelling abuse at the creature. To his surprise, it retreated, backing into the river in a frothing flurry of sand and water. But Ali knew it would return. And he knew it would not be alone. It was simply a matter of time, and in a moment, a moment where his guard dropped because he was tired or hungry or feeling weak, it would pounce, in the blink of an eye, and he would die.

As the sun sank closer to the horizon, the crocodile's light green eyes peered from the rose-pink water. The creature smiled knowingly, almost lovingly.

Ali yelled as an idea struck him. He would dig out the post. If he had time.

Kneeling, he started scooping the sand from round the metal base with his right hand, scattering it behind him. He quickly passed through the warm surface to the colder, more closely packed layer beneath, stabbing and jabbing until he had loosened the sand so he was able to scrape it out in damp clumps.

A snort, almost of contempt, burst behind him. The crocodile was inching warily up the beach, grunting like a pig, flexing its jaws. Two others, hanging back in the lapping shallows, observed curiously.

Ali dug frantically, feeling the muscles of his right arm screaming, feeling lumps of grit digging into the flesh beneath his fingernails, feeling his heart thunder, feeling sweat break on his face, feeling faint and dizzy, feeling the ache in his tightly clenched jaw… suddenly the crocodile lunged towards him.

RUNNING WITH SHADOWS

Coming in 2015