Date: 2016-09-29 00:00:00+00:00
Description: Three British teenagers radicalised by Islamic State propaganda run away from home to serve on the Jihadi front line in Raqqa. Back in England their disbelieving families are caught up in a media storm and struggle to make sense of the inexplicable actions of their children. The British teenagers very quickly realise that life in The Caliphate isn't at all what they were led to expect. Terror and danger lurk in every corner and as the reality of their situation begins to sink in they find themselves facing choices they could never have imagined. Frustrated by the inaction of the British Govern
Publisher: Createspace

A Shot at Salvation

By

James Craig

Book One in the Daniel Hunter series

Fahrenheit Press 2016

For Catherine and Cate

CHAPTER 1

'Welcome to the Jihadi Hilton.'

On his knees, head bowed, Riccardo Breen flinched as the sickly sweet smell of aftershave reached his nostrils. All of his captors liked to soak themselves in eau de parfum to try and mask the stink of the cells, but only one wore Homme Sauvage. A 100ml bottle retailed for almost €100 from the duty free concession at Vienna airport. That was the equivalent of more than a month's wages for the average Islamic fighter, assuming they got paid at all. The other guards liked to joke about their boss's outrageous extravagance, but never to his face.

Conscious of movement behind him, Riccardo kept his eyes on the stained concrete floor.

'Finally. Today is the day.' The voice whispering in his ear was full of barely-suppressed excitement, like a five-year-old about to burst in on his not-so-secret secret birthday party. 'Do you know who I am?'

Breen gave a slight nod. 'Of course.'

'There are more than twenty-five thousand foreign fighters from a hundred different countries running around this desert but there's only one who people know by name. Only one has any kind of…' he hesitated, trying to summon up the word, 'whatchamacallit?'

'Brand recognition,' shouted a cheery voice from somewhere beyond the boundaries of Breen's vision.

'That's right. Brand recognition. I'm a brand now. I'm the only one that people are really scared of.'

'Yes.' Riccardo felt his gaze drawn to a curved blade hovering in front of his face. The weapon was almost a metre in length, with a silver handle. It looked like the kind of sword that Muslim fighters used during the Crusades. The edge of the blade looked cruelly sharp; the thought of it slicing off his head made his balls shrivel.

The man holding the sword stepped in front of Breen, a pair of laughing brown eyes staring out from underneath a moth-eaten black balaclava. 'Why did you come here? Why didn't you just stay at home?' His accent was the kind of harsh Estuary English favoured by Londoners, somewhere between posh and Cockney. 'You should have stayed at home, man.'

Kneeling on the concrete floor, hands tied tightly behind his back, Riccardo struggled to suppress a sob. Fighting back tears, he bit his lower lip, trying to will himself into another place; imagining he was back home, sitting outside the Cafe Bazar, reading the papers in the weak spring sunshine. If these were to be his final moments on this earth, he needed his last thoughts to be happy ones.

'I bet you wish you'd stayed at home now, eh?' Indulging in a bout of imaginary swordplay, the man grinned at his friends, two other youths who were placing a small video camera on a tripod. 'Bloody Germans, think they can go anywhere.'

'Nazis,' the others laughed.

'I'm Austrian,' Breen said quietly, almost to himself, 'not German. I come from Salzburg.'

'Whatever,' the youth giggled. 'It's all the same thing. We did Hitler at school. Crazy bastard.' He let the sword fall to his side as he looked towards his companions. 'We haven't done anyone from the Master Race before, have we boys?'

Two blank faces looked back at him.

'The Master Race, that's what the Germans thought they were. Before they got smashed, of course. That's just about the only thing I remember from our history lessons at school.'

'Whatcha on about, man?' The burly youth standing behind the camera spoke with a broad Manchester accent. The flattened vowels reminded Riccardo of a drug-addled rock star he had interviewed in the grim English town.

Giving up his job as an entertainment correspondent had, with the benefit of hindsight, been a bad move. The guy's band had been big in the 1990s; they were releasing a comeback album and heading off on a tour of Central and Eastern Europe. That had been what, six months ago? For all Riccardo knew, they could be playing the Rockhouse today. Their music didn't appeal to him very much but the singer had been surprisingly articulate on music and politics, including the latest events in the Middle East.

'It's all a mess, man,' he intoned sagely. 'I mean, what's the point? All these kids running away to make holy war, I mean, what's all that about? I mean, in my day, you might nick a car and go to Macclesfield or summat, but that was about it. We were just bored. There were no iPhones back then you know.'

Breen gave a nod of acknowledgement. He was just about old enough himself to recall the pre-digital era.

'I didn't even get a passport till we went on our first tour. We went to Hamburg, just like the Beatles. Did a two-week residency in a strip club. I got a monster dose of the clap and spent a couple of nights in jail after a fight with a bouncer.'

It was a well-worn anecdote. Breen stifled a yawn.

'But it was fun. We met characters. We didn't do any harm.'

'No.' Breen looked at his watch. All he wanted to do was head back to the airport, file his report and get home.

The singer shook his head sadly. 'Kids today – too many options.'

'Yes,' Breen agreed, 'too many options.'

He was brought back to the here and now with a tap on the head with the flat of the sword's blade. 'You didn't pay attention at school, did you Salford?'

Salford, Breen had deduced during his time in captivity, was the guy's nickname, based on the Manchester neighbourhood that he had grown up in.

'Like you did, you twat,' Salford shot back.

'I got two GCSEs,' the swordsman said, rather defensively.

'Yeah,' the Mancunian shot back, 'in, like, woodwork and PE.'

'I still got 'em,' the boy mumbled.

'Not history, then?' Salford smirked.

'I studied it,' the youth said proudly. 'We had Mrs Thomson for history.' He pushed his lips out, grinning stupidly. 'She was well fit. After I left, she got sacked for shagging a lad in the sixth form. Got caught giving him a handjob in the cleaning cupboard.'

Breen was struggling to keep up with the stream of consciousness. 'I'm Austrian,' he repeated, so quietly this time that he could hardly hear the words himself.

'You will have the honour of being the first member of the master race dispatched from this life by Militant Mick himself.' His executioner extended his arm, pointing the sword towards the camera. 'Lights!'

Salford reached over and switched on a small key light, instantly bathing the room in a harsh white glare. Closing his eyes, Breen dropped his head onto his chest.

'I want you to look at the camera.'

'No.'

'Open your eyes. Look right into the lens.' Breen felt a hand grab his hair and jerk his head back. 'Do as I say. And stay still or it will take longer.'

'Hold on a sec,' Salford muttered, 'we're not ready yet.'

'Get on with it.' Mick let go of the prisoner's hair and took a step towards the camera. 'I've got things to do today. Sal's got some new people coming over for dinner. She hates it if I'm late.'

Grinning, Salford made an under the thumb gesture.

'Fuck off,' Muck huffed. 'No woman tells me what to do.'

'Course not.'

'C'mon. Let's get going.'

'Hold on. The bloody camera–'

'It's not the camera,' Mick snorted, 'it's the operator.'

'Gimme a minute.'

'You don't know what you're doing. A bad workman always blames his tools.'

'I never said I was any good at this,' Salford grumbled. 'Why do I always have to work the camera? I didn't put bloody "camera operator" on my form, did I?'

'No,' Mick giggled, thinking back to the survey they had taken when first arriving in Syria. The "entrance interview" consisted of a series of twenty-five questions including nationality, blood type and level of understanding of Islamic law. It also asked for details of previous work experience, as well as the job that they intended to fulfill in the Caliphate. Of course, neither Mick nor Salford had previous experience of anything much beyond a bit of shoplifting and binge-viewing of Game of Thrones. Nor had either man given much thought to what role they might perform for their new employer. In the end it had taken almost half an hour for Salford to come up with something to put on the form. 'They were never going to let you work as a "virgin tester" though, were they?'

'It was a smarter thing to write than "suicide bomber",' Salford pointed out. 'You should be grateful to me for making you cross that out, not making me do another one of these.'

'That's exactly the point,' Mick smirked. 'How many videos have we made already? Loads. You should have got the hang of it by now.'

Salford straightened himself up and shot his comrade a look of utter exasperation. 'You wanna come over here and get the sodding pictures? I'll cut the guy's head off.'

'Just bloody get on with it.' Mick turned and smiled to his victim. 'Sorry about this but we've got to get it right.'

Breen tried to say something but all that emerged from his throat was a low groan.

'The last time, he didn't frame the shot right and almost chopped the guy's head off,' Mick chuckled. 'No joke intended. The video was almost unusable. We really need someone who's been to film school.'

'I've been to film school.' The words crawled from Breen's mouth. 'A diploma from Salzburg Film & Television School. I know how to operate different cameras. I can edit also.'

Tilting his head to one side, Mick appeared to give the matter some thought until he was interrupted by a succession of grunts, followed by a small whoop of triumph.

'Recording.'

Breen's eyes filled with tears as he contemplated the illuminated red light on the side of the camera.

'Right,' Mick smiled. 'We're on.'

CHAPTER 2

'What do you think?'

'You're not going to win any Oscars.' Mick stroked the downy growth on his chin as he stared at the monitor. 'Play it back again.'

Salford hit a button and the screen went black. 'Bollocks.'

'Fuck's sake,' Mick hissed, 'what've you done? We can't lose another one.' They had failed to save the video of their previous execution – the beheading of a Japanese aid worker – after Salford had somehow erased the recording.

'It's this equipment,' Salford complained, frantically pressing a succession of buttons. 'It's shit. Total shit. You'd be better off recording it on your phone.'

'This is not our holiday vids,' Mick reminded him. 'I want it done properly.' He gave the tripod a gentle kick. 'This is, like, proper TV man.'

'Well get a decent camera, then. You could get something better than this from Cash Converters.'

'We can't exactly nip out for one though, can we?'

'Tell me about it.' Salford gave the errant machine a smack. There was a burst of static on the screen and the picture miraculously reappeared.

'Thank fuck for that,' Mick muttered. 'Play it again.'

'Sure.'

Mick watched the recording a second time, his gaze flicking between the pictures and the headless corpse lying on the floor barely six feet away.

'Is it in focus?'

'It looks okay to me,' Salford said defensively.

'It's not very long.'

'Well you should have taken it more slowly, then,' Salford pointed out.

'The guy was wriggling and squealing like a pig, what do you want me to do?'

'We could do it in slow mo.'

'Why not? Let's give it a go. Let's get it uploaded to the website along with the usual press release and stuff. I'll have a think about the camera thing.'

'Good.'

'But we need to start evolving our style.'

'Eh?'

'We can't just keep making the same video over and over. People will get bored. We're getting fewer hits each time we do one of these.'

'What do you expect?' Salford shrugged. 'It's being blocked all over the place.'

'Even so, we got more than seventeen million hits for the first one; the last one has barely made it over a million.'

'That's still a big number.'

'Not for chopping a guy's head off,' Mick reasoned, 'for real. It should be more.'

'People get bored.'

'Exactly. They want new stuff all the time. It's like Fast & Furious, we need to keep evolving the franchise.'

Salford groaned at the mention of the movies; Mick's favourite films, he would go on and on about them. Sometimes it seemed like they were the only films that the silly sod had ever watched. That and porn.

'They didn't stand still,' Mick repeated.

'Jarvis–'

'Mick.' He glared at Salford. 'Don't call me that. My name is Mick. Mick, Mick, Mick.'

'Okay, okay.' Salford held up a hand by way of apology. If Jarvis was Militant Mick, what did that make him? Killer Keith? All this Jihadi Rolling Stones bollocks was doing his head in. Some French journalist had coined the phrase and it had caught on, spreading like wildfire. Jarvis loved it – the fame had gone straight to his head – but Salford was less than amused. After all, what were the Rolling Stones, other than a bunch of ancient blokes who had a few good songs forty-odd years ago and who never seemed to stop touring? They weren't exactly what you might call role models.

'Mick.'

'Sorry. I'll get this online and you see what you can do about getting us some better kit.'

'Good.' Mick bent down and retrieved the sword from the floor. The blade was covered in blood; he would wash it later. 'What about the German guy?'

Frowning, Salford looked at the corpse.

'Not him. He was Austrian,' Mick giggled, before adding: 'The old guy. The politician bloke. He brought the journalists that time. And the dope.'

'Alfons?' Salford grinned at the memory. 'That was good weed. He was quite a laugh – for an old guy.'

'Yeah.'

'Did he ever publish that interview you did?'

'Dunno. I suppose so. I can ask him. He said he was going to plan another trip out here. Have you got his email?'

'Nah, but I can DM him on Twitter.'

'Find out when he's coming back. Get him to bring a decent camera.'

'And some more weed.'

'Yeah. That too.'

'I'll find out. I don't think he was very well, though. He had heart problems. He was taking so many pills you expected him to rattle when he walked.'

'He only has to be well enough to get here,' Mick grinned. 'He doesn't have to worry about getting back.'

CHAPTER 3

'You're late.'

Head bowed, Mick kicked off his shoes and headed down the hall. 'Problems at work.'

Sally Zimbio muttered something that suggested a distinct lack of sympathy with her husband's travails. They had been married less than six months but, already, she was coming across like his mum. Mick had already taken a look on Wikipedia to find out about the possibility of a divorce. Unfortunately, as with everything to do with Islam, the rulings of Sharia law seemed to become more complicated the more you dug into them. Mick had been under the impression that he only had to say "I divorce you" to his wife, three times, and he was free. Unfortunately, the rules about how this should be done varied between different types of Muslims – Sunni and Shia. Which type were his comrades? Mick had no idea. After almost two years in the war zone, he was not about to admit his ignorance. Until he was able to clarify the situation, the marriage survived.

Thrusting her smartphone under his chin, Sally asked: 'Did you see this?'

'What?' Mick peered at the jerky video.

'Your mum did another interview with the BBC.' Sally scratched at her One Direction t-shirt with a carefully manicured nail. Out in the street she wore the niqab, the full face veil demanded of jihadi brides, but in the house, she still dressed like a Streatham teenager – in large part reflecting the fact that she was still a Streatham teenager.

Trying to ignore the angry-looking spot erupting on her chin, Mick focused on the screen. The video froze just as his mother was about to deliver one of her, by now familiar, finely-crafted soundbites.

'It keeps doing that,' Sally huffed, 'the coverage here is a joke. They don't even have 4G for fuck's sake.'

It was a familiar refrain. All that Mick could do by way of response was shrug.

'She reckons you should go back to Walthamstow Technical College,' Sally laughed mirthlessly. 'I didn't know that you were going to study retail logistics management.'

'That was her idea,' Mick admitted ruefully.

'What is it anyway?'

Shelf stacking, basically. 'Dunno. Doesn't matter. I was never going to do it.'

'Well you're certainly not going to do it now,' Sally said brightly. 'You're a celebrity. We're a celebrity couple.'

'Hm.' Mick wasn't sure how he felt about that.

Giving up on the video, Sally shoved the mobile into the back pocket of her jeans. 'You've got to tell her that. You couldn't go back to something like that, even if you wanted to. Carmen's got to realise that the game's changed.'

Mick flinched. It still seemed strange, Sally casually calling his mum by her first name when the two women had never even met. 'Yeah.' He looked down at his feet. He could do with a fresh pair of trainers. Proper ones, too, box fresh from JD Sports, not the knock-offs they sold in the local market.

'When did you last text her?'

Mick tried to recall. It wasn't in the last fortnight, at least. 'A while back.'

'She keeps calling you Jarvis.'

That is the name she gave me, Mick reflected.

'It's not good for your image.' Sally gestured down the hallway towards the dining room. 'The merchandising guy is here. He's not here to see Jarvis, he's here to see Militant Mick.'

Mick nodded meekly. The "merchandising guy" was a student from Istanbul who had come to pitch them the idea of branded t-shirts and other memorabilia. Personally, he wasn't sure that it was such a great idea but Sally seemed to be firmly of the opinion that it would make their fortune.

'Carmen's diluting your brand,' Sally continued, warming to her theme. 'She can call you what she likes at home but when she's doing interviews she has to stay on message. You told her that, didn't you?'

'Er, yeah,' he lied limply.

With her free hand, she pushed a strand of blonde hair away from her face. Mick realised that her roots needed touching up. Bleach had been hard to come by in recent weeks and her bob was slowly reverting to its natural mousey brown colour. Catching him daydreaming, she gave him a smack on the arm. 'Pay attention.'

'Yes, sorry.'

'I know what I'm talking about.'

'Yes,' Mick agreed dutifully, not sure how much expertise a GCSE in Public Relations and Modern Business Studies actually conferred on his spouse. 'I'll have a word with her. Make sure she gets it right next time.'

'You only have a limited window of opportunity and we have to make the most of it.'

A limited what?

Smiling, she gave him a peck on the cheek. 'I only want the best for you, babe, you know that, don't you.'

'Sure.' Mick felt a twitch in his trousers that pushed thoughts of divorce from his mind.

There was the sound of shuffling feet on the wooden floor. Mick looked down to see Russell, Sally's French bulldog, licking his trainers.

'Geroff.' Resisting the temptation to give the lapdog a kick, he glared at his wife. 'Haven't you got rid of that thing yet?'

'Whaddya mean?' Sally's face darkened as she reached down to scoop up her pet. She had found him wandering the street one day and brought him home before a member of the religious police could put a bullet in his head. 'Russ isn't going anywhere, are you sweetie?'

Clamped to his owner's less than substantial bosom, Russell panted his assent.

'Bovar won't like it,' Mick pointed out.

Bovar Fandi, known as Mullah Fandi, was a rising star of the jihadi political scene. He had recently banned dogs in the city on the grounds that they were "impure". Strays were shot on sight, while "short-legged" and "holdable" dogs were damned as supreme examples of Western decadence. Anyone buying or selling a pet dog faced up to 100 lashes.

'What kind of signal does it give? We're supposed to be role models.'

'You'll have to tell Bovar to lighten up. You would have thought that they had better to things to worry about.' Sally kissed the top of Russell's head, to the dog's obvious delight. 'I mean, what's the point of trying to ban dogs?'

'I wouldn't say that to Bovar,' Mick countered. 'It's his big initiative.'

'Well it's stupid.'

Mick pointed at the animal's guileless face. 'Stupid or not, he's living on borrowed time.'

'Don't say that.'

'You'd better wise up. I saw a couple of militia grab a poodle while it was having a dump in the park the other day. When its owner tried to protest, they gave her a beating.'

'That's not going to happen to us,' Sally said firmly. 'Russ stays in the house most of the time. I only take him out into the backyard to do his business.'

Mick seriously doubted whether that would save the animal in the long-term. One day, Russell would wander off and find himself looking down the barrel of an AK-47. That would be that. On the other hand, why should he care much either way? He watched as Sally stepped into their bedroom and dropped Russell onto the bed. Jumping back into the corridor, she pulled the door closed. 'He can stay in there for now.'

'Good.'

Taking Mick by the arm, Sally led him down the corridor. 'Let's go and say hello to Hamit.'

CHAPTER 4

As they entered the room, Hamit Koraltan struggled to his feet. 'Hey, hey. It's the main man!' A young man, prematurely balding, he wore a Fenerbahçe sweatshirt under an expensive-looking leather jacket. Arms outstretched he invited Mick into an embrace that belied the fact that this was only the second time they had ever met.

After air-kissing Sally on each cheek, Hamit gestured to the squat guy standing behind him, hands in pockets. 'This is Yasin.'

The guy gave an embarrassed nod. 'Yasin Payan.'

'Yasin's my chief designer,' Hamit said brightly. 'Show 'em what we've got, Yas.'

Reaching into a black bin liner at his feet, Payan began laying out a series of t-shirts and sweatshirts on the carpet. Some contained images of Mick, standing in a desert landscape, in his balaclava, waving his sword. Others were dominated by the large letters MM in a fancy script. All of them had a small logo over the left breast; a pair of glossy red lips, with a tongue sticking out. The tongue was coloured black and white in the image of the jihadi flag.

'What do you think?' Hamit asked. 'Top quality, ninety per cent cotton, ten per cent Lycra. These are just samples. I can order a hundred thousand of each design – all different colours – for a dollar a shirt.'

A hundred thousand of each? Mick counted the number of different designs coming up with … a lot of t-shirts. 'Will people buy this stuff?'

'Are you kidding?' Hamit squealed. 'People are crazy for this stuff. People have already been selling pirate t-shirts for months. Completely unauthorised items; they're ripping you off, man. It's criminal. We have to start protecting your image rights.'

'And you can afford to buy that many?'

'Credit, my friend, credit.' Hamit gave him a playful smack on the arm. 'My uncle owns one of the leading import-export companies in Uskudar. He will act as a guarantor for the manufacturers in the Philippines. We buy at a dollar and we sell at anywhere between fifteen and twenty. Amazing gross margins, man. Totally amazing. We've also got some iPhone covers and a range of Mick dolls coming. They're being made at the moment. I'll show you the samples when they turn up.'

'They look great,' Sally gushed. 'How many d'you think we'll sell?'

'Millions,' said Hamit cheerily. 'Your man here is the most famous freedom fighter since Osama Bin Laden. I'm going to put his face on more products than Che!'

Sally looked at him blankly. 'Che?'

'Yeah, you know, Che,' he struggled to come up with the guy's surname, 'something or other. The Cuban dude with the beard and the cigar. Every student had a poster of him on their wall back in the day.'

Mick looked around the blank walls. 'Posters would be good.'

'Not for us,' Hamit pointed out. 'Too old school. Kids can't be bothered putting them up anymore. Anyway, the margins aren't that great.'

'Not necessary,' Sally agreed.

Hamit gave her a high five. 'We're going to make a fortune. Guaranteed.'

Mick pointed at the lips logo on one of the t-shirts. 'What's that?'

'It's a riff on the actual Rolling Stones logo,' Yasin explained, his English heavily accented. 'Do you like it? I did it myself.'

'Don't you recognise it?' Hamit laughed. 'That's one of the most famous logos ever.'

Mick shook his head. The truth was, before his new nickname had taken off, he had barely heard of The Stones. Checking out Mick Jagger on Wikipedia, he was surprised to learn that the guy was in his 70s. How could you be a rock star at that age?

'What about copyright?' Sally frowned. 'Won't there be trademark issues?'

Yasin looked nervously at his boss.

'Don't worry about that,' Hamit said cheerily, 'what are they going to do? We will be doing them a favour – giving their brand a boost.' He adopted a cod-English accent. 'Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery and all that, old boy. They'll love it.'

'And if they don't?' Sally pressed.

'If they were to sue,' Hamit grinned, 'it would only boost sales further. Think of the publicity!'

Mick scratched his head. He had to admit that it sounded like money for old rope. After all that had happened in the last few months, nothing really surprised him anymore.

'If it all goes well,' Hamit burbled, keen to fill any gaps in the conversation, 'we'll branch out into a wider range of things: underwear, baseball caps … duvet covers. Anything you like, really.'

'Sounds good,' Mick said sheepishly.

'Alright.' Sally stepped between him and Hamit. 'Let's talk about a schedule for some advance royalties payments.'

CHAPTER 5

The loud hum in the background suggested that the call was being made from a party or, more likely, a bar. When she wasn't organising speaking engagements, Luciana Dreedle liked to hang around in dingy singles bars, tracking down married men from the suburbs for intoxicated one-night stands. Right now, however, she had been diverted from the hunt by the latest faux pas by her most important client. 'Elliot,' she screeched over the background noise, 'what the hell have you done?'

Loosening his tie, Elliot Vonkel stood on the balcony of his Fifth Avenue apartment, overlooking Central Park. An air pollution warning was in force; even on the fifth floor he could taste the vehicle exhaust fumes on the back of his throat. The heat of the day was only slowly receding and he felt vaguely dizzy.

'The whole thing has been blown out of all proportion,' he said wearily.

'You can say that again,' Luciana said acidly. 'The whole thing has blown up in your damn face.'

'I was misquoted.'

'Misquoted.' A honk of derision trumpeted down the phone. 'At least six people filmed you on their phone. The Times ran a transcript of what you said. You are totally busted.'

Reluctant to admit the truth, Vonkel tried to change tack. 'I was exhausted; trying to do too much. You got me that gig, remember?' He adopted a wheedling, high pitched tone. '"Just one more, Elliot. Do it for me. Think of the cash". You were pushing me too hard.'

'Don't try and blame me for getting you into this mess,' the agent snapped. 'It was the easiest job in the world, twenty minutes of anecdotes,' she stopped to take a slurp of her drink, a Tom Collins no doubt, 'climaxing with the story about the time your glamourous co-host Enya Quinn gave you a blowjob while you were doing that live report from the Wailing Wall. Everybody had a good time and you walk out fifteen thousand dollars the richer.'

More like $5,000, Vonkel thought grimly, once you've taken your cut and the IRS has had its share. His whole life put at risk for a measly $5,000! He stifled a sob.

'How hard could it be?' Luciana demanded. 'You've been using the same spiel for a decade. Why try and change it now?'

'I can't use the Enya story,' Vonkel whined, 'not after her lawsuit.'

'That,' Luciana's words were sounding increasingly slurred, 'was another disaster. You had video evidence of her on her knees, for God's sake, and you still manage to lose the case.'

'I didn't lose. We settled out of court.'

'The end result was the same.'

'There are limits,' Vonkel said primly. 'I couldn't put the footage into the public domain. She would never have worked with me again.'

'That would have been a bonus.'

'I've got a lot of time for Enya. We've become a bit of a double act.'

'You don't say.'

'Besides, there are some lines you don't cross.'

'Yeah, well what about crossing the line from fact into fantasy? You've got plenty of stories of things that actually happened. And it's not like the water buffalo are that demanding.'

'Water voles,' Vonkel corrected her. 'It was the Grand Lodge of Water Voles.'

'Whatever,' Luciana snorted. 'I book you to do the world's easiest talk – the Grand Lodge of Whatever Annual Dinner.'

'The Moreland Lodge Hotel in Oshkosh, Wisconsin.' Vonkel shivered at the memory of his Waterloo.

'You go to Oshkosh, Wisconsin,' Luciana parroted, 'and you manage to completely fuck it up. How is that remotely possible?'

I was off my face.

'Nobody could fuck that up.'

You sound quite drunk yourself. Vonkel looked at his watch. Doubtless Luciana would be on her third cocktail by now. Maybe her fourth.

'And not only did you manage to fuck that up, you managed to fuck your whole career as well.'

'Let's not overstate things,' Vonkel said testily. He liked a foul-mouthed woman as much as the next man but this rant was getting a bit tiresome. Already more than familiar with Luciana's angry drunk routine, he wasn't in the mood to hear it again. Didn't he pay her wages?

'I mean who has even heard of the Falklands War? If you were going to invent a fictitious backstory, why not go for something big – Iraq, Vietnam, whatever – something that people have heard of. America wasn't even in the Falklands War. That was the Brits and the Peruvians.'

'Argentinians.'

'I bet no one in that audience could find those damn islands on a map if their lives depended on it.'

'I didn't invent anything,' Vonkel protested. 'I just misremembered a few things, okay?'

'Elliot, how can you "misremember" being on a helicopter that was hit by a rocket-propelled grenade?' The weariness in her voice was infinite.

Looking out across the treetops Vonkel scratched his head, trying to come up with a remotely credible explanation for what he had done.

'Were you even born then?'

'Of course I was. It was, like, my second assignment out of university.'

'A long time ago.'

'Yeah. The details got hazy over the years.'

'That doesn't mean you can just go and make shit up.'

'I was trying to–'

'You were trying to big yourself up, is what you were trying to do. You were–'

'Alright, alright.' The disconcerting truth was that he didn't understand it himself. Even as the words were coming out of his mouth, his brain was screaming at him to shut up. Finishing his speech, he sat back down, aware that things had gone badly off the rails. Maybe it was some deep-seated internal desire to destroy himself. Who knew?

'It was a long time ago,' he said finally. 'A common psychological re-framing of events that is normal during any stressful adrenaline-fuelled experience.'

'So your defence is dementia?' Luciana snorted. 'Four different soldiers who were there have gone on Facebook to call you out on this. You never took a hit. You were never even at the battle of Turkey Green.'

'It was Goose Green.'

'You weren't there either.' The agent laughed harshly at her own joke.

'I was,' Vonkel replied lamely. 'Just not necessarily on the day in question.'

'People are going apeshit on social media.'

'The digital cesspit.'

'You can sneer but the hashtag #elliotvonkelmisremembers has been trending on Twitter for most of the day. People are putting up photos of you at the Kennedy assassination, the first moon landing and even the death of Princess Di.' Like many New York bluestockings, Luciana was addicted to the website of the trashy British paper, the Daily Mail, and a confirmed royalist. 'They're calling you the Forrest Gump of journalism. People are starting to question your accounts of other events: 9/11, Hurricane Katrina, Janet Jackson at the Super Bowl.'

'Okay, so it's a shitstorm,' Vonkel conceded. 'The question is how do I get myself out of it?'

There was a pause while Luciana ordered herself another drink. 'You don't,' she said finally. 'You're fucked. Bookings for your speaking engagements are being cancelled right, left and centre. The word on the street is that you're gonna be canned by the network.'

'Ha,' Vonkel scoffed. 'Never. They need me more than ever. I've been getting ten million viewers a night on the Evening Report. We've won market share in the twenty-five to fifty-four year-old demographic on half of the last fourteen broadcast days.'

'That doesn't matter anymore.'

'It always matters.'

'Not when you're toxic.'

'The numbers don't lie.' Vonkel tried to remember who had said that – some economist or other – but his mind was blank.

'The numbers don't matter,' Luciana said flatly, 'if the network decides to ignore them.' There was the sound of muffled voices in the background and then she continued: 'Look, we can talk about it more tomorrow. I've got to go right now, Bruce is waiting.'

Bruce? A sense of rage enveloped Vonkel as he realised that he had been abandoned by his agent in favour of her latest fuck buddy. Issuing a stream of half-hearted curses, he stalked back inside the flat in search of some hard liquor of his own.

CHAPTER 6

For the first time in a while, Middleton Terrace was deserted. Carmen Somerville stood on the doorstep of her tiny terraced house in Walthamstow, smoking a cigarette. A dog wandered down the middle of the road before disappearing between a couple of cars parked on the far side of the street. Off to her left, a refuse truck headed past the end of the road, on its way to the EcoPark – aka the rubbish dump – just off the A18.

Carmen groaned as her gaze fell on an empty juice carton lying on the pavement. Sometimes it seemed like the bin men left more crap on the street than they tossed into the back of their lorry. That, however, was the least of her worries. She looked up and down the street in a fruitless search for signs of life.

'Where have all the TV crews gone?'

The police constable standing guard by her door, an amiable fellow called Terry Chaplow, gestured in the direction of the High Road. 'They all upped sticks about an hour ago. Another kid who ran off to Syria blew himself up last night. Suicide bomber. Apparently he walked into a market wearing his Spurs shirt and a vest filled with explosives, shouted something unintelligible and … blam, thirteen dead, forty-odd injured.'

'Not very imaginative,' Carmen sniffed, irritated at being upstaged by a little Tottenham-supporting toerag. She had never been much interested in football but all of her family were Gooners; her dad had once been arrested for getting into a fight with a bunch of Spurs fans in the Shangri-La Bar & Grill up on the Swanson Road. To her mum's eternal shame, his mugshot made page seventeen of the Walthamstow Gazette. The memory still made her smile.

'His mum lives on the Broadwater Farm estate,' Chaplow continued. 'The vultures have all gone off to try and get some pictures of her.' He shot Carmen a look that said looks like your fifteen minutes of fame are over. 'I expect I'll get a call from the station soon, telling me to stand down here.'

'Those journalists, they don't hang around long do they?'

'That other kid did kill thirteen in one go.' Chaplow stifled a yawn.

'I suppose.'

'Bloody kids. They're doing it all the time, these days, aren't they?'

Carmen raised an eyebrow. 'What? Blowing themselves up?'

'No, no. Running away to bloody Syria. To fight with that Islamic mob. There was a couple from Birmingham not so long ago, and those three from Bristol.'

'Kids are always going to rebel,' Carmen mused. 'It's in their DNA.' She shot the young constable a sly grin. 'I bet you were quite a handful as a teenager, eh Terry?'

PC Chaplow blushed bright red. 'No, not really. There was a bit of rowdiness here and there, normal stuff, you know, nothing to write home about.'

'I knew it,' Carmen cackled. 'From the first time I saw you, I thought you looked a bit wild.'

'I wouldn't call shoplifting packets of johnnies from Boots all that wild.' The young policeman looked guiltily at his shoes, 'Certainly not compared with blowing up more than a dozen people.'

'Maybe not,' Carmen conceded.

'Anyway, I really hope the station doesn't send me over to The Farm. All of this standing around is a real pain.'

'Hm.'

Chaplow gestured at the deserted street. 'On the bright side, though, it looks like life will be getting back to normal around here.'

'Yeah.' What a total bummer. There were times when Carmen could have done without the hassle of not being able to get out of her front door unmolested, but, all in all, she had enjoyed the attention – it had been a bit of a laugh. Being the mother of the world's most famous terrorist was the most interesting thing that had happened to her in years. No, scratch that, it was the most interesting thing that had happened to her, full stop.

Who would have thought Jarvis would have turned out to be a celebrity? She had never expected the boy to amount to much; too lazy to finish school, the longest he had held down a job was a three-week stint at the local bakery. He hadn't even managed to fill in his application for the local technical college. As for politics, she wasn't even aware he knew what the word meant.

Taking her mobile from the pocket of her cardigan, Carmen pulled up the number for Steve Levene, her lawyer. Levene – North East London's Leading Legal Eagle! – was supposed to be finalising a deal to sell her exclusive story to a tabloid newspaper. There had been much talk of a six-figure fee. Carmen had already put down a deposit on a luxury holiday in Dubai and she didn't want to miss out because of delays in getting the contract signed.

'This is the phone of Steven B. Levene–'

'Bollocks.' Taking a final drag on her cig, Carmen flicked the stub into the gutter. 'Steve, Carmen. I just wanted check where we are on things. Gimme a call with some news. I'm on the mobile.'

Dropping the phone back in her pocket, she fished out a fresh smoke from the packet before offering it to Chaplow. 'Want one?'

The officer hesitated before shaking his head. 'Not on duty.'

'Suit yourself.'

'Anyway,' Chaplow admitted, 'I'm trying to give up. Apart from anything else, I didn't do too well in my last medical.'

Lighting up, Carmen made a face. 'There's no way I'm giving up. It's my only pleasure. And I need it for the stress, know what I mean? All this going on has got me wound up something rotten.'

'I can imagine.' Chaplow stared at the cracks in the pavement. 'It must have been quite a shock.'

'A hell of a shock,' Carmen agreed, pleased to still have an audience, even if it consisted of only a solitary plod. 'The first time I saw a picture, I knew it was Jarvis. I recognised his eyes, you know?' A voice inside her head was saying You should be saving this for the papers but she prattled on: 'And when the first video came out, well, all hell broke loose.' She gestured unhappily at the empty street. 'This is the first time in weeks the road hasn't been full of blokes with cameras.'

'And have you heard from him?' Chaplow made no attempt to hide his curiosity. 'Has Mick been in touch?'

'Jarvis,' Carmen corrected him. 'He'll always be Jarvis to me. I don't like all this Militant Mick stuff.'

'I can imagine.'

'I'm still his mum, after all.'

'Yes.'

'He was never very militant around here. Never said boo to a goose. And I haven't heard a dicky-bird from him since he went over there.'

'Did he tell you where he was going?'

'Course not. I thought he was off to Ibiza for a week with his mates. You lot should have stopped his passport.'

'It's not that easy,' Chaplow said defensively, 'he wasn't on any list at the time. And this was before people were really focused on the issue of kids running off to fight in Syria. It was a new phenomenon.'

'Syria,' Carmen shook her head in dismay. 'It was a big enough surprise that he was going to Spain. As far as I knew, he didn't have enough money for the tube fare into town. They stopped his benefits last year when he refused to go on some work programme up in Chigwell.' She pointed down the road. 'He was always scrounging money off me to play those fixed-odds machines in the bookies up the road. Always skint. How could he afford to get all the way over there?'

'Budget airlines,' Chaplow mused, 'everything's so cheap these days. We went to Turkey for a week at Easter – it was just about cheaper than going to Brighton.'

'Are you married then?' Carmen had noted the lack of a wedding ring on the boy's finger.

'Not yet.' Chaplow blushed slightly. 'Rose, my girlfriend, has plans. But there's nothing official yet.'

'Ah yes,' Carmen scoffed, 'plans. Best avoided if you ask me.'

'Yes.' Chaplow wondered how they had ended up talking about him. 'So you don't know what Jarvis is up to?'

I check his Twitter feed like anyone else, but he hasn't called me for ages.'

'Don't suppose there's good reception out there,' Chaplow mused.

'It was good enough for him to update his Facebook page,' Carmen pointed out, 'before they shut it down, anyway. But he doesn't think to call his old mum, does he? I suppose I should be grateful that he's too far away to turn up every week expecting me to do his dirty washing.'

'Have you tried calling him?'

'Can't get through. I don't think his mobile works out there. I just see his videos like everyone else.' She looked at the policeman. 'They don't seem that real when you look at them on the computer.'

A gust of wind caused Chaplow to shiver. 'How many are there now?'

'Six. Three Americans, two Japanese and that German bloke the other day.'

'Austrian.'

'Same thing.' Carmen shook her head in disgust. 'God knows why these people keep going there.'

'Adrenaline junkies,' Chaplow ventured.

'You would have thought they would have known the score by now.'

'It takes all sorts.'

'No Brits, though,' Carmen pointed out. 'At least that's something.'

'Mm.' Chaplow wondered if that made much of a difference. He might only have graduated from Police College seventy-sixth out of a class of eighty-three but he was fairly sure that the nationality of the victims didn't make of a difference in the eyes of the law.

'I don't think he'd do it to a Brit,' Carmen reflected, through a haze of cigarette smoke, 'not unless he had to.'

Chaplow lifted his eyes to the milky heavens. 'Always religious, was he?'

'No.' Taking a series of rapid puffs on her cigarette, Carmen's face scrunched up in confusion. 'Why do you say that?'

'Isn't that what this is all about,' Chaplow shrugged, 'Islam and all that?'

Carmen considered the question carefully. 'Jarvis isn't some religious loony,' she concluded, 'we never bothered with things like that at home. I was never interested. Neither was his dad. He was a Muslim but he didn't practice.' A rueful smile crossed her lips. 'He certainly liked a pint too much for one thing. Anyway, Jarvis was brought up with none of that stuff. He didn't get any of that kind of thing from us.'

Why does he go round slitting peoples' throats then? 'He must be doing it for a reason,' Chaplow persisted. 'To go all the way over there and do what he's doing, you wouldn't do that by accident.'

'I suppose,' Carmen blew a stream of smoke into the air, 'although God knows what it is. I gave up trying to understand what was going on his head a long time ago.'

'They found a lot of stuff in his bedroom,' Chaplow observed, 'materials of a suspicious nature.'

'I hadn't been in there in the last five years. You know what it's like with kids.'

'Yes.' Not being a parent himself, Chaplow had to admit that he didn't have a clue. Kids were another thing on Rose's agenda that he was in no hurry to embrace. 'There was a lot of nasty stuff on his laptop, apparently.'

'What's nasty these days? I mean really nasty?'

While they pondered this existential question, a door opened on the other side of the road. Edna Chisholm emerged from number forty-three, pulling her shopping trolley behind her. Heading off in the direction of Aldi, she didn't give Carmen and Chaplow a second glance. For the locals, the novelty of seeing a uniformed police officer on the street had quickly worn off.

Chaplow watched the pensioner slowly disappear round the corner. 'What does his dad think?'

'Mo?' Carmen tossed the second stub towards the gutter. 'He left when Jarvis was only eleven. Ran off to the United States. Last heard of, he was working as a taxi driver in Miami, living with a stripper.' Folding her arms, she tried to ignore the immediate craving to immediately light up another cigarette. 'An exotic dancer who performed with a python.'

Chaplow's eyebrows shot up. 'A real one?'

'Yeah, it was real. Doped it up to the eyeballs, though. She fed it tranquillizers to keep it from doing anything rash.'

'Wow.' The constable seemed genuinely impressed.

'This was all years ago. In the end, the RSPCA – or whatever it's called over there – rescued the damn thing. They stormed the stage in the middle of a performance and took it away to an animal sanctuary somewhere in some desert or other. Mo said Charlene took it very badly.'

'Charlene?'

'The stripper. Apparently, without the snake, her work dried up. She had some kind of a breakdown and they almost split up. Ended up in counselling.'

Chaplow felt his brain whirring into overdrive as he tried to keep up. 'So your ex is still in America.'

'As far I know. Then again, the stupid sod could be dead by now, for all I know. And all I care.' Carmen let her gaze drift off down the street. 'Bloody Mohammed Zamewi. What a total waste of space he was.'

There was a burst of static from the constable's radio. A hopeful expression crossed Chaplow's face but it fell silent. 'Do you think he'll come back?'

'Mo?'

'Mick, er, I mean Jarvis.'

'God only knows,' Carmen coughed. 'One thing's for certain – I certainly don't.'

CHAPTER 7

'We had to say something, so the PR guys came up with this: "The Beaver News Network is investigating the incident. We have a dedicated management team gathering the facts to help us make sense of all that has transpired. We're working on what the best next steps are". That's the official BNN statement. It crossed the wires an hour ago.'

Elliot Vonkel felt sick. 'What about me?'

'You've taken a leave of absence. We're not saying you've been suspended. We're not saying anything beyond the statement.'

'So what happens now?'

'It means that you take a couple of weeks off – maybe go to the Caribbean or Costa Rica, someplace like that. Somewhere you can lie low. Hopefully, by the time you get back, the whole thing will have been forgotten. Nothing more than a storm in a teacup. A small storm in a small teacup.'

Vonkel felt his sense of nausea begin to subside. 'Thank you Sir, I appreciate it.'

'It's nothing,' Monkseaton Chamberlain growled down the line. 'We all make mistakes.'

'Yes.'

'I remember one time in Damascus…' the old man let the thought fade. 'I would go easy on the war stories, though.'

'Don't worry about that,' Vonkel chuckled, 'my after dinner speaking days are over.' An image of a naked Luciana writhing on top of Bruce popped into his head. You are so fired. As soon as he made it back from holiday, he would hold a beauty parade for a new agent. This time he would go with one of the blue chip talent agencies, MQI or CWL; they were more expensive than sole traders like Luciana but they would do a much better job of screening his personal appearances and keeping him out of trouble.

'Glad to hear it,' the old man grunted. 'The amount I pay you, you shouldn't need to supplement your income.'

Tensing, Vonkel tried to steer the conversation away from his $1.5m annual salary. 'I was wondering about going back into the field. Maybe I need to get out of the studio for a while. I've been stuck in there for too long.'

'Let's think about that when you get back. Enjoy your vacation. If you get bored, start working up a few new feature ideas. I loved the one about porn addiction amongst the judiciary. Quite an eye opener.'

'Thank you, Sir.' Vonkel didn't have the heart to point out to the old man that the story in question had been put together by another colleague.

'We go back a long way.'

'Yes, we do.'

'I've always admired your stuff.' Chamberlain descended into a bout of loud coughing, followed by some rather disconcerting heavy breathing.

'Are you alright?' Vonkel was genuinely troubled. The last thing he needed was the old man keeling over while he was suspended. With the boss's patronage, there would always be a way back. Without it, things would be far less certain.

'Fine, fine.' There was the sound of a woman's voice in the background. 'I've got to go. Time for my colonic.'

Your what?

After Chamberlain ended the call, Vonkel suddenly burst into tears. For several moments, he stood, dripping onto the carpet, contemplating his brush with disaster.

'God bless you, Monkseaton,' he sniffed, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his shirt. 'Thank you for not siding with the lynch mob. Thank you for not losing sight of who I really am.'

The personal intervention of the octogenarian media mogul – the founder of Beaver News Network himself – had saved his skin. Feeling giddy at the thought of friends in high places, Vonkel skipped into the bathroom and washed his face as he contemplated how best to celebrate his assurance of professional resurrection.

CHAPTER 8

Sitting on a stool in the Hazelmere Rooms on Seventh Avenue, Elliot Vonkel watched his phone vibrate across the zinc-topped bar, bumping up against a shot glass three-quarters full of Jim Beam. Picking it up, he looked at the name on the screen – MCJ – and groaned.

Monkseaton Chamberlain Junior, the old man's eldest son – the only child from his first marriage – had been the nominal head of the network since his father had "retired" at the request of exasperated outside shareholders.

What do you want?

With the greatest of reluctance, he took the call.

'Editor-in-Chief. What can I do for you?'

Ignoring the sarcasm, Junior got straight to the point. 'Are you watching the bulletin tonight?'

Scratching his nose, Vonkel looked up at the small TV screen hanging from a bracket attached to the wall at the far end of the bar. The sound was muted but subtitles told him that Ms Quinn was reading a story about a man who was enjoying his fifteen minutes of fame for shooting his computer with a handgun. 'Enya's looking good,' he ventured, trying to sound at least a tiny bit generous, 'but she clearly lacks my gravitas.'

'That will come over time.'

'I don't know about that. I don't think that the facelift has done her any favours.'

'Maybe we'll get her a new co-presenter.'

Vonkel felt himself stiffen. 'No need. I spoke to your father, I'll be back in a couple of weeks.'

There was a pause, before Junior said: 'I don't think so, Elliot.'

'That's what he told me,' Vonkel tried to affect a relaxed air, 'speak to him yourself.'

'I can't.'

'Whaddya mean? Have you two fallen out again?'

'Not at all,' Junior chuckled, 'our relationship's better than it's ever been.'

'Oh?' Vonkel didn't like the sound of that at all.

'Yeah. The old bastard's dead.'

'Dead?'

'Yes, dead. Do you have to repeat everything I say?'

Please God no. Vonkel had to place a hand on the bar to stop himself falling from his stool. 'But I only spoke to him a couple of hours ago.'

'It only takes a second to die, Elliot.'

'Mm.' Don't you have better things to be doing at this time of sadness for your family than to be hassling a poor, depressed employee?

'He suffered a major coronary while watching the contents of his bowels being collected in a polythene bag. The nurse was massaging his stomach and realised that the light had gone out in his eyes.' Junior couldn't have sounded any happier if he had won the New York lottery. Then again, he hardly needed an extra ten million dollars. 'Imagine, dying with a vacuum hose up your ass.'

'There are worse ways to go, I suppose.'

'I can think of better alternatives.'

'Yes, well. Thank you for letting me know. And, of course, my deepest sympathies to you and your family. If there is anything that I can do to offer any assistance at this most difficult time I am your disposal. And, of course, I would be honored to offer one of the orations at Monkseaton's funeral.'

'We are going to show it live online,' Junior mused, 'but I don't think we could have a disgraced ex-employee hijacking the show.'

Ex-employee? Vonkel took a nervous gulp of his bourbon. 'But I'll be back in a couple of weeks. Your father promised me. We talked about it this evening.'

'Elliot,' Junior sighed, 'get real. That was a promise that the old man couldn't have kept even if he was still alive. I've looked at all the material compiled by the investigation. You stepped out of the real world and disappeared into the realms of fantasy. A journalist can't do that. Certainly not a BNN journalist. It is beyond doubt that you've brought the network into disrepute. It's the clearest case of aggravated gross misconduct I've ever seen.'

And this from a man who had spent more than three million dollars of company money over the past five years to buy off various female members of staff who had complained of sexual harassment!

Stunned into silence, Vonkel downed the remainder of his drink and signalled to the bartender that he needed a refill.

'The lawyers will sort out the formalities but I wanted to do you the courtesy of calling you in person.'

So that you could gloat.

'It saves you the embarrassment of turning up at the studio and being denied entry.'

His brain in full-on meltdown, Vonkel muttered 'Thank you.'

'Courier your staff ID and your electronic key pass back to the HR Department. As of this conversation, you are no longer an employee of BNN. Your health coverage and other benefits will continue for the duration of your notice period – all of the details will be explained in a letter which will be sent to your home address.'

'Yes.'

There was pause. For a moment, Vonkel wondered if his boss had hung up but finally, Junior let out a patrician sigh. 'I'm sorry it's come to this, Elliot. But I know we'll be able to move on. Oh, and one final thing – don't even consider litigation. If you try and sue us, you will be laughed out of court and we will rip you a new asshole in the process. Several new assholes, actually. We will suck up every last penny you have in legal costs and damages. You'll end up a homeless man, living in a cardboard box in the street or, worse, in one of those roach-infested shelters that the city runs. Did you see the piece we did on that last week? Absolutely disgusting. You wouldn't want to end up in one of those.'

'No.' The barman placed a fresh glass of Jim Beam on the bar in front of him. Tuning out Junior, Vonkel looked at the Breaking News logo flashing at the top of the screen. Adopting her most solemn expression, Enya Quinn spoke into the camera. Stifling a sob, Vonkel watched as the subtitles popped up on the screen: BNN anchor Eliot Vonkel has left the network following an investigation into what had become known as Falklandsgate. BNN owner Monkseaton Chamberlain Junior said that the network was committed to the highest standards of editorial integrity and factual accuracy. A replacement for Mr Vonkel will be announced in due course.

Without missing a beat, the newsreader moved on to a story about the never-ending Middle East conflict.

'Did you see that?'

Vonkel realised he was still holding the phone to his ear.

'Elliot?'

'I saw it,' he mumbled, struggling to get the words out.

'Goodbye Elliot. Good luck.'

The line went dead.

It's over. Vonkel struggled to process what had just happened. For the first time in his life, he found himself completely alone. Never married, he had no family to fall back on at this time of existential crisis. A twenty-four-year career in network television had been totally destroyed. He was fit for nothing. Downing his bourbon in one go, he considered his future through the bottom of an empty shot glass.

'Unbelievable.'

'Huh?'

Signalling to the bartender for another refill, Vonkel contemplated the middle-aged man in the crumpled suit sitting on the stool next to him. A lawyer, he decided, or perhaps a guy working in financial services. Either way, he was the kind of working stiff that the heroic hack – ex-hack – disdained immensely.

'That.' The suit lifted his beer glass as if in a salute. It took Vonkel a couple of seconds to bring himself to return his gaze to the TV.

'I can't believe that they show that kind of thing.'

Vonkel contemplated the, by now, familiar image of a shaven-headed man wearing an orange jumpsuit. On his knees in an empty room, the man was staring directly into the camera from a distance of maybe ten feet. Behind him stood a tall figure, dressed completely in black, his face hidden behind a balaclava, a large knife gleaming malevolently in his hand.

Such a cliché already. Vonkel tried to recall who the poor sod was. Some German journalist who had gone to Syria to do a piece about orphans affected by war? Or was it the Spanish guy who was married to some famous European actress? Or someone else entirely? It was hard to keep up with the relentless diet of horror.

Groaning inwardly, Vonkel watched as a fresh glass of Jim Beam was placed in front of him. His head was already fuzzy; his desire to drink himself into oblivion already on the wane.

'Poor bastard,' his neighbour mumbled.

Taking a sip of the bourbon, Vonkel looked back up at the screen. As the knife headed towards the victim's throat, the story cut to a close-up of his grinning executioner. 'They killed him?'

'The German? Looks like it.'

'He was Austrian,' the bartender pointed out, 'if you believe what they're saying on the TV.'

'Doesn't really matter much one way or another now, does it? The suit drained his beer and slipped off his stool. 'Poor bastard. What a way to go. And that Militant Mick guy? What's with all that? Turning him into a celebrity. Named after the Rolling Stones. It's a joke, that's what it is. A total joke.'

'I was always more of a Beatles man myself,' Vonkel mused. 'I interviewed Ringo Starr not so long ago. Nice guy.'

'Before my time,' the suit observed. If he knew who Vonkel was, he wasn't letting on. 'But how does that work? How does a jerk like that end up becoming a rock star?'

'That's the media, for you.'

'Well, someone should do something about that guy. And, like, yesterday.'

'Yeah.' Tipping back his head, Vonkel downed the rest of his drink. Feeling the alcohol resting uneasily in his stomach, he watched as the report ended and they returned to Enya Quinn in the studio.

'My nemesis,' Vonkel muttered, 'backstabbing bitch.'

Dropping some money on the bar, the suit pointed up at the screen. 'She's hot.'

Vonkel grunted something non-committal. As Quinn moved on to a story about people who should be banned from the subway, the bartender appeared in front of him with the bottle of Jim Beam in his hand. 'Want another?' He considered the offer for a moment, before offering up his empty glass.

'Yeah, sure. Why not?'

CHAPTER 9

'And I would like to thank the committee, for awarding me this Pulitzer Prize. At this time, I am reminded of the timeless words of William Faulkner in his Nobel Prize Speech of 1950: "I feel that this award was not made to me as a man, but to my work--a life's work in the agony and sweat of the human spirit. I decline to accept the end of man. I believe that man will not merely endure: he will prevail."'

The audience, rising as one to give him a rousing ovation, caused Vonkel to jerk awake. Slowly opening his eyes, the hopelessly hungover hack realised that he was lying on top of his bed, still fully dressed. His mouth felt like it was the last resting place of a dead rodent. The brutal pain jackhammering at the base of his skull reminded him that he hadn't been so drunk for at least thirty years. Not since the time that Hunter S Thomson had drunk him under the table at the Republican National Convention in San Diego in the late 1980s.

Momentarily distracted from the pain in his skull by his aching bladder he kicked off his shoes and slid off the bed, staggering towards the bathroom. Fumbling with his flies, he enjoyed the partial relief of an extended piss. At least there's nothing wrong with my prostate, he reflected, before stepping into the shower stall.

Five minutes under a lukewarm spray, followed by a glass of water and four Percosets, left him with the sense that his hangover was under control, if not exactly on the run. Running a hand across his jaw, he considered a shave.

'Why bother?' was the considered verdict.

Recalling his Pulitzer dream, he smiled ruefully at the mirror. Ten years ago, he had actually been nominated for the prize, part of a BNN team that had reported on the shooting deaths of three police officers in a coffee house and the four-day manhunt for the suspects. In the end, they had lost out to the Idaho Statesman's coverage of a local political scandal, a run-of-the-mill story of a congressman caught with his trousers down and half a gram of cocaine stuck up each nostril. The guy wasn't exactly Marion Barry; as Vonkel had joked at the time, it would have been more of a story if the Statesman had uncovered a politician who didn't party with hookers or snort coke.

Even now, the decision still rankled.

Now, however, he was going to do something about that. He had found the man who was going to rehabilitate his reputation and stick it to Monkseaton Chamberlain Junior, Enya Quinn and everyone at BNN.

Militant Mick was going to be his salvation.

Changing his mind, he had a careful shave. Splashing on a liberal amount of his favourite aftershave, Masculine by Dolce & Gabbana, Vonkel was pleasantly surprised at how presentable he looked. Staring at the mirror, he saw a reasonably alert, middle-aged man looking back at him. A bit jowly, perhaps, the eyes rather obviously bloodshot, but still credible. If not someone in his prime, then, at least, a man with plenty of miles still left on the clock.

'No more drinking,' he murmured to himself, 'not a drop until the story is in the can.'

Throwing on a polo shirt and a pair of jeans, he padded into the kitchen and made himself a cup of Java blend. Taking a seat at the kitchen table he swallowed another couple of painkillers and began tapping on his iPhone.

'What time is it in Berlin?'

Satisfied that it was within normal business hours, he pulled up a number and hit call. There was a delay of several seconds before the familiar foreign ring tone kicked in.

'Berghofer.'

'Alfons, this is Elliot Vonkel.'

There was a pause while the German tried to place the name.

'I interviewed you for the Beaver News Network when you were in New York earlier in the year. You were promoting your book.'

20 Days Alone in the Islamic State. The story of one Western politician's trip behind enemy lines. Vonkel had checked its ranking on Amazon before picking up the call. It was currently 176,219 in the bestseller rankings.

'Yes, yes, of course,' Berghofer said cheerily, 'how are you?'

'I am good thanks,' Vonkel lied. He suddenly wondered if news of his disgrace had made it as far as Europe. Too late to worry about that. 'What about yourself?'

'Busy. You know what it's like.' The German paused. 'This isn't an interview, is it?'

'No, no,' Vonkel reassured him. 'I'm not recording anything.'

'But you do want an interview?' Berghofer asked hopefully.

'Indeed. I read about your plans to make another visit to Syria and I was wondering how things are going?'

'Trying to organise this latest trip,' Berghofer grunted, 'is proving rather tiresome. I want to meet people high up in Hizbut Tahrir, the political wing of the global jihad movement, but they are proving elusive. Meanwhile, back home, people are already becoming bored with all this jihadi business. At my age, everything is hard work. I'm just going to have to go over there and see what I can get.'

'I think I may be able to help,' Vonkel jumped in. 'When are you due to leave?'

CHAPTER 10

Lights flashing, a police car silently rolled down the street. From the gloom inside the waiting room of Bayrampaşa Bus Station, three pairs of eyes tracked its progress past the window. There was a collective discharge of breath once it was clear that the vehicle was not stopping.

Drama over, Amir Rasool went back to picking his nose. 'Do you think anyone out there's actually looking for us?'

'Probably.' Damien Wilson tried to sound ultra-casual about it, but the tension in his voice was clear.

'Will they catch us?'

'Dunno.'

'Pack it in you two.' Sandra Baig closed her well-thumbed copy of Islam for Dummies and placed it carefully in her bag. Amir was surprised that Sandra had brought the book with her, surely she understood the basics by now. At least he hoped so, he was relying on her to explain it to him. Amir wasn't sure that the book's title would go down too well where they were going. Sandra had enough sense to rip off the cover and tear out the title page, dropping them in a waste bin before they had left the airport. Even so, he was still worried that they might get in trouble for being in possession of something that sounded blasphemous.

The waiting room of the bus station was a depressingly-functional concrete box filled with rows of dirty orange plastic seats. There were a grand total of 672 seats, 680 if you included the eight broken ones. When she had become bored with her book, Sandra had spent the best part of an hour counting and recounting them. When the recount had confirmed her initial calculation, the rush of satisfaction that she felt had been tangible. If nothing else, it reassured her that prolonged exposure to the mindless chatter of her two travelling companions had not turned her mind to mush. Not yet, anyway.

This is the hard part, Sandra told herself. Once we get there, all the effort will have been worth it. Lifting a two-litre bottle of water from the floor, she unscrewed the cap and took a cautious swig. She didn't want to get dehydrated; on the other hand, she didn't want to drink too much either. The toilets here were nothing to write home about.

Of the waiting room's seats, only around 150 were currently occupied. It was early in the day, however, and the place was slowly beginning to fill up. Taking another cautious sip of water, Sandra watched a family of six – mother, father and four kids of different ages – appear at the entrance, carefully scanning the scene before taking up residence in the far corner.

Are you going to the same place as us? Sandra wondered. Given that they were sitting at the embarkation point for journeys all over the country, she knew that it was highly unlikely.

Shifting in his seat, Amir looked glumly at his feet. 'How long have we got to wait in this dump?'

Putting the cap back on the bottle, Sandra looked at her watch. 'Seven hours, I think.' She pointed at the electronic departures board on a screen off to the right. 'We just have to keep an eye out for the bus going from gate eleven at two thirty.' Shoving the water into her bag, she resisted the temptation to check for messages on her mobile phone. Already the battery was half gone. Without an adapter for Turkish sockets, she wouldn't be able to charge it any time soon. When they got to the border, she would need the phone to reach the guide who was going to get them over the border and into Syria. After that, she could toss the thing away.

'Gate eleven?'

'I think so.'

'Let's hope so,' Amir huffed. 'I don't want to end up on the wrong bloody bus.'

'You can always go back and talk to the guy at the ticket office,' Sandra pointed out, 'if you're that worried about it.'

'What's the point?' Amir snorted. 'The stupid sod could hardly speak any English.'

'Well, why should he?' Restlessly marching up and down between the rows of chairs, Damien shoved handfuls of potato snacks into his mouth from an outsized packet of Lay's Dill Pickle chips. 'We're in Turkey, not St Paul's.'

'The bloke should at least be able to speak the language,' Amir muttered.

'What language?' Damien laughed. 'This is his country.'

Amir tried to change tack. 'This place smells like a total toilet. It's even worse than Marlborough Street Bus Station back home.'

'If you don't like it, you can always go back,' Damien sneered. 'We haven't even started yet and already you're whining.'

'I'm not complaining,' Amir said unconvincingly.

'Not complaining?' Damien spat a small shower of crumbs into the air. 'You haven't stopped crying since we left home.' He waved an arm in the direction of the street outside. 'What are you going to be like when we finally get there? This isn't a holiday, you know. It's not for wimps.'

'I'm not a wimp,' Amir sniffled.

'Stop squabbling the pair of you,' Sandra snapped. 'We didn't come all this way to fight amongst ourselves.'

'They won't let him fight,' Damien scoffed.

'They will,' Amir cried.

A fat man dozing in the next row along let out a rasping fart, jerking himself awake in the process.

Laughing, Damien finished his crisps. Scrunching up the packet, he tossed it on the concrete floor. Sandra scowled at him but said nothing.

'I need a piss.' Getting to his feet, Amir wearily trooped off in the direction of the toilets.

'I told you we shouldn't have brought him,' Damien hissed. 'He's not going to be able to hack it.'

'Stop it, Damien.'

'You sound like my mum,' the boy scoffed. 'There'll be none of this nagging where we're going.'

We'll see about that, Sandra thought. She wondered if the police would be back; seven hours was a long time to be sitting here, waiting, like sitting ducks. 'Have you got the tickets?'

'Yes, I told you.' Damien made no effort to hide his irritation at the question.

'And the passports?' Sandra continued; once she started running through her mental checklist it was almost impossible to stop.

'Ye-es.'

'And the cash?'

Damien frowned. 'I thought you had the cash.'

'Don't mess about,' Sandra said wearily.

'Seriously.'

'Damien, I gave you our money before we left Gatwick.'

'Um.'

Sandra felt her stomach take a downwards lurch. 'I got some lira at the bureau de change and gave the rest to you to put in your rucksack.'

They both looked at the bag, sitting on a nearby chair.

'Er.' The boy gave her a sheepish grin.

CHAPTER 11

'Would you like to comment?'

Belatedly realising that she shouldn't have answered the door, Ann Wilson stood blinking at the cheery-looking blonde girl standing on her doorstep.

'I would really like to get your side of the story. This must be a terrible shock. Every parent's worst nightmare.'

'Mm.' Five minutes ago she thought that her son was on an Interrailing holiday around Europe. Then a cub reporter from the Bristol Post rang the doorbell and informed her that Damien and two other students from Felix Salmon Secondary School were on their way to Syria, taking the "Gateway to Jihad", hoping to join up with a group of fighters operating under the black flag of the revolution.

Would she like to comment?

The woman glanced over her shoulder, as if she was expecting company. 'Maybe it would be better if I came inside?'

Ann was distracted by a mangy-looking dog having a crap on the pavement while its owner looked the other way. The Resident's Association, which was fighting a long, losing battle against dog's mess on Osbourne Avenue, would not be happy.

'Mrs Wilson?'

'Ms.'

'Yes.' The woman gave her a pitying smile.

'Sorry, I was just going out myself. I don't really have anything to say.'

'I need a quote,' the girl persisted. 'This is going to be on page one of the Post tomorrow.' The thought of the first scoop of her career brought a smile to her face. 'And there'll be follow-ups as the story develops.' Taking a business card from her pocket, she thrust it into Ann's hand. 'All my details are on there – for when you need to call me.'

Need to call you? Ann squinted at the card.

Melanie Lambert, Multimedia Reporter & News Aggregator.

'You can call me Mel.'

'Er–' Ann was suddenly conscious of her accelerated heart rate. According to the schedule he had given her, Damien and his mates were supposed to be Interrailing around Europe. If, instead, he really had run off to a war zone – a war zone, the words almost made her knees buckle – she would kill the little bugger when she got her hands on him.

'This story is gonna run and run,' Mel explained. 'Another group of kids from Clifton ran off two days ago. No one seems to be able to do anything about it.'

'No.' Gripping the door frame, Ann contemplated the journalist's pimply face, largely hidden under a mop of dishwater blonde hair.

'My boss says that IS are winning the PR war, hands down.'

'Well, Mel, when you say IS–'

'Islamic State,' the girl explained solemnly. 'You know, the people that chop people's heads off on YouTube.' A look of dismay spread across her face. 'I thought you would understand all of that, you being a history teacher at the university.'

How do you know what I do? 'I teach medieval history,' Ann pointed out. 'Nothing after the fifteenth century.'

'Well,' Mel observed brightly, 'these guys are like something out of the Middle Ages.'

'Well–'

'Hold on.' The young hackette whipped out a mobile phone and stuck it under Ann's chin. 'I need to record this for the online edition.'

'First things first,' Ann looked nervously at the phone, 'we don't actually know that Damien or his friends have joined any, er, group.'

A smug look descended on Melanie's face. 'According to his Twitter feed, he joined Hizbut Tahrir, the political wing of the global jihad movement. Haven't you checked all this out?'

Ann realised that this wasn't the time to admit that she didn't have a computer, or even a smartphone. She took a step backwards. 'All I can say is that we're not jumping to any conclusions and hope – no, we expect – to have Damien home soon.'

Happy that the woman had at last offered up a quote of sorts, Mel nodded vigorously. 'Amir Rasool and Sandra Baig.'

Ann looked at her blankly.

'They're the ones that have run off with Damien. Nice kids?'

'Pfff.' Ann didn't want to admit that she didn't really know any of her son's friends at all. 'Just normal.'

'Damien and Sandra weren't–'

'Weren't what?'

Mel grinned sheepishly. 'She wasn't his girlfriend?'

No idea. 'Not as far as I know.'

On a roll now, the hack nodded vigorously. 'Is it true that Damien's dad comes from Pakistan?'

What? Nonplussed, Ann wondered if the journalist had somehow managed to get hold of Rashid. It would have been a bloody miracle if she had. Ann herself hadn't exchanged words with her ex-husband for over a year. With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she edged away from the phone. 'He's from Southampton.'

'Oh.' A look of genuine disappointment crossed the journalist's face but she ploughed on. 'But he is Pakistani, isn't he? I mean, his parents were from there, weren't they?'

'What is your point? His mum is from Ealing.'

Mel didn't want to let it go. The family tree was important if she was going to fill out the background feature that her editor wanted for the online edition. 'And his father, Damien's granddad?'

Ann coughed nervously. 'I think I've said enough.' Stepping back inside, she managed to get the door shut before Mel could try and stop her. Her hands were shaking and she was gasping for a cigarette.

'The little sod,' she muttered angrily, ' when I get my bloody hands on him–'

'Mrs Zubair! I have a few more questions.'

Looking round, Ann could make out a spotty face at the letter box. I'm not Mrs Zubair, she thought, I told you, I'm Ms Wilson.

'Have you spoken to the police?' Mel demanded. 'What are they doing to get him back?'

Good questions, Ann thought. Bloody good questions.

Walking down the hallway, she headed into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.

CHAPTER 12

'Why can't they have proper toilets? It smells like something's died in there.' Wiping his hands on the backside of his jeans, Amir contemplated the contents of Damien's rucksack, strewn across the floor. 'What's going on?'

'Damien's lost our money.' Sandra's eyes glistened with tears.

'I didn't,' Damien protested.

'So where is it then?'

'I dunno. Someone must have nicked it.'

'Our money?' Amir slumped into a seat. 'We had almost a grand. We're fucked.'

'No, we're not.' Sandra dried her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket. 'Check your pockets.'

After some fussing, the boys did as they were told, pooling a selection of coins and notes in the seat of a neighbouring chair. Once they had finished, Sandra sifted through the collection, weeding out old receipts and other detritus.

'What have we got?' Damien asked.

Sandra shifted the different currencies into different piles. 'Thirty pounds and just over 150 Turkish lira.'

'How much is that?'

'About another forty pounds.'

'I've got another hundred euros in the bottom of my bag,' Amir offered.

'Euros?' Sandra scooped up the cash from the chair and placed it in the front pocket of her jeans. There was no way that she was entrusting the last of their cash to either boy.

'They were left over from when we went to Lanzarote last year,' Amir explained.

'Okay, so, including his holiday money,' Damien sneered, 'how much do we have, in total?

Sandra added it all up in her head. 'About £150. Maybe a bit more.'

'That's not going to get us very far, is it.?' Placing his hands on his hips. Damien adopted his standard pissed-off expression.

'It's not enough,' Amir chipped in.

It's certainly not enough to get back home. Sandra looked at each of the boys in turn. They would moan all day but she knew that they expected her to take control. If she was firm, they would do what they were told. 'It's enough,' she said firmly. 'We have our tickets to the border. We just have to keep going.'

CHAPTER 13

Sitting at a table in the massive fifteenth floor bar of the Peker Hotel, Alfons Berghofer allowed himself a broad smile as he sipped at his beer.

'Istanbul is such a great city.'

Elliot Vonkel, who had seen nothing of the place, other than the view from the back of the cab on the journey from the airport to the hotel, mumbled something anodyne in response.

'And this is the best hotel, bar none.'

It's doubtless the most expensive, Vonkel reflected. Conscious that he was travelling without the safety net of an expense account – for the first time in his entire career – he gritted his teeth. Bankrolling the politician's latest Arabian adventure was going to be expensive, but if it allowed him to scoop an exclusive interview with Militant Mick and salvage his reputation, it would be more than worth it.

Scanning the array of small plastic bottles sitting on the table, he hoped that Berghofer had the necessary stamina for their trip. Despite his advancing years, the German liked to make a virtue of his robust good health. It seemed, however, that he was unable to travel without his own mini-pharmacy, containing pills for blood pressure, arthritis and an unspecified but "non-serious" heart condition.

'I always appreciate a little luxury before we head off into dangerous territory,' Berghofer explained. Reaching for one of the bottles, he unscrewed the cap and shook three small pills, which reminded Vonkel of yellow M&Ms, into his palm. Placing the pills on his tongue, he washed them down with the last of his beer. 'When we get back it is also essential to stay in a good hotel for a few days. Absolutely essential.'

If we get back, Vonkel thought dolefully.

'It helps you ease your way into normal society.'

'I can imagine.'

'Like the divers, you know.' Berghofer waved a hand in the air. 'When they come back from working deep distances under the surface of the sea.'

'Decompression.'

'Decompression, ya.' A loopy grin descended on the German's face. 'We are like divers heading into the deep. We have to go in carefully and we have to come out carefully.'

'Hm.' The reporter belatedly wondered about the wisdom of diving headlong into such a speculative mission with only a cod-philosopher for support. Without a producer to sort everything out for him, organising the trip had already been a royal pain in the ass. He hadn't even had any jabs before leaving New York. And placing his security in the hands of a German pensioner was insanely risky.

On the other hand, he didn't have anything left to lose.

You're an outlaw, he told himself, as a Bon Jovi soundtrack started playing in his head.

Looking out over the Bosporus Strait, Berghofer lifted his empty glass and signalled to a passing waiter that he wanted another drink. He turned to the journalist. 'Are you sure you don't want a beer?'

Vonkel shook his head as he cast a thoughtful look at the bottle of Jim Beam which was sitting on a shelf behind the bar. 'I'm on the wagon.'

The German looked at him quizzically.

'I'm not going to have a drink,' the American explained, 'until the assignment is completed.'

Berghofer made a face. 'What does that mean? "On the wagon"?'

Vonkel scratched his head. 'No idea.'

'You might be on the wagon for quite a while,' Berghofer pointed out. 'Getting into Syria is one thing. Getting out is quite another. My last trip was supposed to last a week. In the end, I was stuck there for almost a month.' He let out a throaty chuckle. 'By the end, I was dreaming of pilsner, I can tell you.'

Vonkel took a sip of his carbonated water. 'You were never in any danger, though?'

'No, no.' The German waved away the suggestion. Tanned and lean, with sallow cheeks and a pure white beard, he looked in excellent shape – for his age, which he claimed to be seventy-one, but others put as rather closer to eighty. 'My contacts and my local bodyguards are totally reliable. But I am still cautious. You have to be careful at all times.'

'Of course.'

'You will have to stick close to me at all times. I am the only Westerner to be allowed extensive access to jihadi territories in Syria and Iraq. These people are much stronger and much more dangerous than anyone in the West realises.'

'Yes.' Vonkel had heard Berghofer's shtick several times before. He glanced at the camera bag and tripod sitting at his feet. 'Maybe we should get a quick scene-setting interview in the can before we get started. Your hopes and fears for the trip. What you think of Militant Mick. That sort of thing.'

'Sure.' Never one to shy away from the cameras, Berghofer perked up as he looked around the room. 'Where is your crew?'

'No crew,' Vonkel tapped the tripod with the toe of his desert boot. 'I'm doing this on my own.'

Berghofer's eyes narrowed.

'It was deemed too dangerous to send more than one person.' The carefully rehearsed lie slipped easily from his tongue. 'And, the insurance cover would have crippled the network. Anyway, with the camera technology these days, even a child could shoot and edit a broadcast quality piece.'

Berghofer looked less than convinced. 'And you're sure you can get this on the network?'

'Yeah,' Vonkel swallowed. 'They've signed up for four three-minute packages and a twenty-five-minute documentary.'

Berghofer pursed his lips. 'I suppose after the last time, I should be grateful for any media interest at all.'

Vonkel gave a sympathetic grunt. 'How is Andre doing?' Andre Lingholm, star reporter of the ZDF channel, was now missing half of a foot after stepping on a piece of unexploded ordinance just outside Kobane during Berghofer's previous trip to the war zone.

'He had to cancel his appearance on Dancing with the Stars,' Berghofer announced dolefully. The waiter appeared with his beer and he took a healthy mouthful.

'I can imagine.' Vonkel reached for his camera. Time to get something recorded before the old man got pissed. 'Why don't you sit over there?' He pointed towards a chair away from the window. 'Give me a moment and I'll set up a nice wide shot.'

CHAPTER 14

'We're ready to go.'

'Pah.' Tapping the screen of his iPhone, Berghofer did not look up. 'I get locked out of the damn thing all the time.' Taking a deep breath, he wiggled in his fingers before carefully typing in the security code. '1-2-3-4. It's the only thing I can ever remember.' The phone obediently sprang to life. Switching it to silent mode, he placed it on the table before taking a final swig of his beer as he looked directly into the camera lens. 'Are you sure that thing is on?'

'Er, yes.' Vonkel tentatively jabbed at a series of buttons. He had made an effort to read the camera manual on the flight over but it had sent him to sleep. The machine looked too small for the tripod it sat on but the deputy manager in Nineteeth Street Photo & Video had assured him that it would do the job.

'Wearable, gear-mountable and waterproof to thirty metres, it captures professional-quality video at resolutions up to 1240p60 and 13MP photos at up to sixteen frames per second.' The salesman paused for emphasis, scratching at his t-shirt as he waited for Vonkel to pretend to catch up with the techno-gibberish. A name tag above his left breast proclaimed that his name was Brian. 'With seven times faster Wi-Fi, enhanced low-light performance, forty per cent longer battery life and compatibility with all standard mounts and a broad range of accessories.'

Vonkel nodded, as if he had the remotest clue as to what any of the sales pitch actually meant. 'Broadcast quality?'

'Man,' Brian smiled, revealing a rather poor set of teeth, 'half the stuff on TV is shot on this type of equipment these days. Editing, audio, it's all a piece of cake. My eight-year-old daughter could put together a three-minute story in less than an hour.'

Maybe I should hire her, Vonkel thought.

'And the price tag is ridiculous. Five years ago, something with this kind of specification, you could just about add a zero.'

Vonkel gave the salesman his best approximation of a relaxed smile. 'I'll take it.'

Berghofer settled himself in his chair. 'I can't see any light.'

'Hold on.' Vonkel held down a green button and was relieved to see a small red light appear. 'We're good,' he grinned, 'why don't you just give me a few words so that I can check the volume level?'

Berghofer nodded. 'So I am Alfons Berghofer, from Germany, and I am here with my friend and ally, the leading journalist Elliot Vonkel. We are sitting here in Istanbul, ahead of my latest trip to the Caliphate where we are going to find out what is going on with the Islamic revolution in Syria.'

'Good.' Vonkel had no idea if the camera was recording but he didn't dare try and check. 'That's great. Tell me about the Caliphate and its attraction for Westerners.'

'Well,' Berghofer cleared his throat, before launching into a well-rehearsed narrative. 'The Caliphate state is working to create life in the style of the Rightly Guided Caliphs who lived after the Prophet–'

Christ. In English, please. 'So, a kind of heaven on earth?'

Not happy at being interrupted, Berghofer made a face. 'Well, yes and no.'

'So what is the attraction to foreigners?' Vonkel persisted.

'The Caliphate draws supporters from all over the world. I have seen it for myself, as the only Western politician allowed to travel freely within the rebel-controlled area. Each day, dozens if not hundreds of willing fighters arrive from all over the world. From every country you can imagine. Women as well as men, although God knows what the attraction is for them. Some of them have military training but many do not. They sleep in the shells of bombed-out houses. And they have an unshakeable belief in their cause. All religions which are deemed to support what they see as decadent democracy have to be destroyed. Their dream is to prosecute the largest religious cleansing in human history. They are very determined. They will not be beaten by Western proxies or by air strikes.'

Vonkel nodded sagely. 'And tell me about Militant Mick. He has become the poster boy for this movement, if you like. What kind of a man is he?'

Berghofer stroked his beard thoughtfully. 'Of course, you cannot distil a movement like this down to one person. But Militant Mick – Jarvis Somerville as we now know him to be – has certainly achieved a level of notoriety that is quite remarkable for someone who was, by all accounts, a most unremarkable young boy from London, England. Contrary to what most people might want to believe, that is not just because he posts videos on the internet of himself slitting the throats of journalists,' he paused to give the camera a sickly smile, 'although that is clearly a part of it. But the journey is universal. Jarvis was a boy. Mick is a man. A modern bogeyman, if you will. The type of demon who inhabits our darkest nightmares.'

What the hell are you burbling on about? Vonkel wondered how he could get the conversation back on track. 'This is going to be your second trip into the Caliphate–'

'The third,' Berghofer corrected him. 'The first two formed the basis of my book, 20 Days Alone in the Islamic State.'

Enough with the plugs, already. 'And why are you going back? What do you hope to achieve this time around?'

'Other than helping you make your film?' The smile reappeared. 'Well, I think you have to know what you're dealing with and the only way you can do that is by getting off your backside and going to have a look.'

Was any of this usable? Vonkel had no idea. Was it even being recorded? 'Back to Mick. I am hoping he will grant me an interview. What's he like?'

Berghofer stroked his chin. 'A very interesting individual. Someone who has been transformed by his surroundings. He has caught a wave.'

'A wave?'

'He is surfing a wave of history. He knows he will fall off his board at some point but he is trying to keep going as long as he can.'

'And how long can he keep going?'

Who knows?' Berghofer shrugged. 'For all we know, he could be dead already.'

The thought left Vonkel slightly dazed. It had not crossed his mind that the man who was going to save his career might have already met his maker.'

'The Americans are sending drones up all the time. It only takes one lucky strike.'

'We have no reason to think–'

'No, no. But there are known unknowns as one of your more wretched politicians once said.'

'Assuming he is alive, will we get to meet him?'

'Inshallah, as they say in these parts, God willing.' Looking away from the camera, he stared at Vonkel. 'If we do, however, manage to gain an audience with this most remarkable young man, just remember one thing.'

'What's that?' Vonkel asked, realising that the interview was over.

'Just don't call him Jarvis,' the old man smiled. 'He doesn't like that.'

CHAPTER 15

The special of the day was shepherd's pie, with a choice of either carrots or peas on the side. Ann Wilson, however, wasn't feeling hungry. Since her visit from Melanie Lambert, Ann had been forced to endure an omnipresent gnawing nervousness in her stomach that had reduced her appetite to the point of non-existence. In the last twenty-four hours, all she had managed to eat was half a banana and a packet of crisps.

About an hour after the spotty journalist had finally given up on shouting through the letter box, a TV crew turned up. It was quickly followed by another, along with a car from a local radio station. Refusing to answer the door, Ann had finally called Rashid who told her to stop being so wet and ring 999. After being left on hold for twenty minutes, a distinctly unimpressed despatcher told her that they would send someone round to take a look "if they could manage it". Three hours later – long after the journalists had packed up and left – two young constables appeared at Ann's door, handed her a Victims of Crime leaflet and informed her that she would be required to attend Valley Road Police Station the following day.

Doing as instructed, Ann now found herself sitting nervously in the sixth floor canteen of Avon & Somerset Police Headquarters, fiddling with her mobile phone as she watched Inspector Marion Costa approach her table, a paper cup in each hand.

'Here you go.' Costa handed over one of the cups and placed the other on the table. 'Green tea.' Pulling up a nearby chair, she sat down.

'Thanks.' Ann removed the tea bag and placed it on a napkin that had been left by the table's previous incumbent.

'Thanks again for coming in.' Costa looked very young – almost as young as the reporter who had turned up at her door the day before – but, apparently, she was the most senior officer in the South West dealing with the issue of runaway would-be jihadists. 'I know it can be hard, with work and so on.'

'It's fine.' Ann gestured towards the window and the weak sunshine outside. It was the first time in a week they hadn't had any rain. What she wouldn't give right now for a couple of weeks in the sun. 'The university's on summer holidays at the moment.'

'Yes, of course. What do you do there?'

'I teach the undergraduate course on medieval history.'

'Aha.' An almost pitying look crossed Costa's face. 'A bit removed from all this.'

Not as much as you might think. 'One of the modules is about the Crusades,' Ann sighed, 'it focuses on religious orthodoxy, intolerance and the violent battles for control of the Holy Land.' Realising that she was spouting the module catalogue, she told herself to reign it in.

'I didn't go to university,' Costa admitted cheerfully. 'Joined the police straight from school. I thought about it but, you know, all that debt and stuff. Seemed more important to get a job, start on a career.'

It was a familiar refrain. Even Ann – who had gone straight to university from school and had never managed to leave academia, never managed to get a "proper job", whatever that was – could see the sense in it. After all, three years studying about apocalyptic violence and religious hatred didn't exactly set you up for the job market – unless, perhaps, you wanted to make computer games about holy war.

'Anyway, the point is that there really is nothing new under the sun.'

'No,' Costa said doubtfully.

'All this kind of thing has been going on for centuries. People never really change.'

Taking a sip of her coffee, Costa tapped the newspaper sitting on the table between them. The front page was dominated by a picture of a grinning Damien, sitting on a tank, waving an AK-47 in the air. 'This must have been a hell of a shock.'

'I still can't really believe it.' Slipping back into worried parent mode, Ann scratched behind her ear. 'He's supposed to be on holiday. His A level results are out in a few weeks. If his grades were good enough, he was hoping to go to Oxford.' Seeing her son's future collapsing before her eyes, she stifled a sob. 'How could he be so stupid?'

The policewoman tried to look sympathetic as Ann took a moment to compose herself. 'Have you spoken to Damien's dad?'

'Yes, I spoke to Rashid.' Ann dropped her gaze to the table. 'I finally managed to track him down this morning. He's in Portugal with his girlfriend. He couldn't believe it either. He is ready to do anything he can to help.'

That wasn't exactly an entirely accurate reprise of their conversation. What Rashid had said actually was: "Tell that stupid little sod I'm going to give him hell when he gets back". With some additional swearing thrown in, the better to highlight his extreme displeasure at this turn of events.

'Presumably Mr Zubair knew nothing about Damien's radicalisation and his plans to go to Syria.'

'No. Damien hadn't seen his dad for, oh, I don't know, a couple of years at least.'

'And you didn't notice anything?' The question was put as gently as possible but it stung nonetheless.

'No.' Ann choked off a sniffle. 'Damien was – is – just a normal boy. There's nothing weird about him,' she let out a hollow laugh. 'The most radical thing he ever did was getting out of bed in time for school. And he only managed that once or twice a week. He was always late.'

Costa's face was expressionless. 'And his friends? What about them?'

'I didn't know his friends,' Ann said flatly. 'You know what it's like.' Or maybe not. 'Everyone's busy doing their own thing.'

'Sandra Baig,' Costa continued with her gentle probing, 'is she his girlfriend?'

Ann recalled the skinny girl with dark circles under her eyes who had been to the house a few times but never seemed to say anything.

'Not as far as I know.' Ann winced at how limp that sounded. 'There wasn't much evidence of, you know, that kind of thing. To be honest, compared to how things were when I was that age, the boy seemed to live like a monk. I always assumed that was a good thing.'

'What about Amir Rasool, did he ever visit the house?'

'Maybe. I wasn't around all the time, with work and stuff.'

'Okay.' Costa placed her hands on the table. 'From what we know, when the three of them left Bristol, they took a train to Heathrow and caught a plane to Istanbul. From Istanbul, they took a bus to Adana.'

'Yes.' Ann had already read all this in the newspaper. Adana was Turkey's fourth largest city, only sixty miles from the Syrian border. So many Western kids were making that same journey that the locals had dubbed the service the Jihadi Express. 'And after that?'

'Pfff. Our best guess is that they took another bus to a town on the border.'

'But we don't know?'

'We don't know,' Costa admitted. 'The most likely explanation appears to be that they met up with a local guide who took them across the border. As far as we know, they are somewhere in Syria.'

Syria. Ann stifled a sob. Biting her lower lip, she vowed not to make a scene in front of the police officer.

'Possibly a city called Raqqa,' Costa continued. 'That's where most of these,' she checked herself, 'where most people seem to head for.'

'And that's all we know?'

'It's not much,' Costa admitted, 'but details are sketchy.'

That's police-speak for non-existent, Ann thought.

'They always are in cases like this.'

'So what happens now?'

'Well, we're in touch with the Foreign Office and all the other relevant agencies.'

'And?'

'And,' Costa shifted uneasily in her seat, 'all Damien's social media activity is being monitored in real time.'

'Is that it? My son's got himself into trouble. That doesn't sound like much.'

The inspector stiffened. 'The bottom line is that we'll have to wait and see how things develop. We will do what we can.'

Ann looked out across the city. The sun had disappeared behind a black cloud and the first raindrops of the afternoon were starting to fall. 'So what you're telling me,' she said quietly, 'is that I'm on my own.'

CHAPTER 16

The novelty of being back out on the road had already started to pall. After travelling for more than eight hours, Elliot Vonkel wanted nothing more than a shower and a clean bed. Sadly, the Adana Ezo Hotel seemed very unlikely to offer him either comfort. The luxury of their previous lodgings in Istanbul only served to highlight the grubby nature of the Ezo, a zero-star establishment which didn't feature in any guide book.

Their journey to the Dark Side had begun in earnest.

After checking in, Vonkel had spent an hour dozing in his room before Berghofer knocked on his door.

'We need to go and meet our contact,' the German had explained.

'Contact?'

'The man who will help us get across the border into Syria.'

'Okay.' Vonkel had the uncomfortable feeling that he had disappeared into the pages of a bad spy novel. He looked at the pristine-looking camera bag lying on the bed. 'Shall I bring the kit? Maybe I could get some background shots.' As feared, he had completely failed to record the interview with Berghofer in Istanbul. Happily, however, the old German would do another one. After forcing himself to read the manual from cover to cover, the journalist was reasonably confident that he would now be able to operate the machine properly. If his film was ever going to get made, Vonkel knew he needed to start getting some material in the can.

'Leave it,' Berghofer said dismissively. 'That can wait.'

After ten minutes walking through dusty streets, they came to the Bilge Internet Café, occupying almost an entire block next to a busy intersection. Stepping inside the brightly lit bar, Vonkel was surprised to see that it was humming with life. Although they were less than ten kilometres from Syria, there was no sense of being anywhere near a war zone. A large-screen TV high on the far wall was showing a soccer game; the patrons, although largely male, included a number of women and also at least two family groups. To Vonkel's relief, no one seemed particularly interested in the arrival of two grubby-looking white men. On the other hand, no one showed any sign of expecting them either.

As they made their way towards the bar, a shout went up, followed by a series of curses from the mouths of different young men. Looking up at the TV, Vonkel saw one of the soccer players rolling around on the pitch, as if he had been shot. Another player was protesting his innocence to the umpire, who fumbled in his pocket before brandishing a red card at the offender. Cue hoots of derision from the assembled onlookers.

'I don't think they like that decision.'

'It's a game of opinions,' Berghofer ventured. Pointing at a poster for Efes Pilsner taped behind the bar, he added: 'Get me a beer. I'll find us a seat. And see if they've got any food.'

Returning from the bar, he found Berghofer perched on the end of a table that was occupied by a trio of sullen-looking teenagers, a girl and two boys. Each of the hollow-eyed youngsters had a bottle of Coke with a green plastic straw poking out the top. They looked as exhausted as Vonkel felt. Giving them a brief nod, he handed Berghofer his beer, placing his own glass of tea on the table before cautiously sitting down on a three-legged stool.

'Any food?'

Vonkel was conscious of three pairs of ears pricking up at mention of the f-word. 'They're going to bring some pizza.'

'Good, good.' Berghofer attacked the beer with gusto, downing two-thirds of its contents in one go.

A spell in the Caliphate might do you some good, Vonkel reflected, put the brakes on your drinking a little bit. On the TV, the players were trooping off the pitch to various catcalls from the café crowd. The American wasn't sure if the game had finished or it was just a time out. Dropping a cube of sugar into his tea he looked at a small booklet lying on the table. The black and white photocopied document, stapled together along the spine, looked like it had been well-thumbed. On the front was a rudimentary map of the border, under the legend HIJRAH TO THE ISLAMIC STATE.

'It's a travel guide.' Berghofer polished off his beer and let out a satisfied sigh.

Vonkel took a spoon from the table and stirred his tea. 'What's Hijrah?'

'It means holy emigration.' The young woman sitting next to Berghofer spoke with a regional English accent of some sort. Ignoring the glares of her companions, she adjusted the scarf on her head before adding. 'It's travel advice for young people trying to get to the Caliphate.'

'The Australian suicide bomber, Alan Benson, wrote a blog about it,' Berghofer interjected casually, apparently unsurprised by the woman's contribution to their conversation. 'Before he blew himself up, obviously.'

'Obviously.' Addressing the girl, Vonkel asked: 'Is it okay if I take a look?'

'Feel free,' she shrugged. 'It's our only copy though, so you can't keep it.'

'Sandra,' one of the boys started to complain.

'Calm down, Damien,' she scolded him. 'Where's the harm?'

Damien? Vonkel smiled at the boy, whose frown deepened.

'He's an American,' the other boy pointed out, keeping his eyes lowered. 'How do we know that he's not a spy?'

Berghofer started to chuckle. 'You kids have been watching too much TV.'

'Spies get killed,' said Damien, with more than a hint of relish.

'He's a journalist,' the German explained.

'Spies often use that as a cover.'

'Amir, for God's sake,' the girl's exasperation was genuine, 'stop going on about spies. It's all you ever talk about.'

'But they're everywhere,' the boy said limply.

'Well I can vouch for this guy.' Berghofer tipped his glass towards Vonkel. 'He is a big shot American reporter. You can tell him your story.'

Vonkel felt himself blush. 'Elliot Vonkel, BNN.'

The three blank faces staring back at him gave no indication that they recognised the name. That's the problem with the younger generation right there, Vonkel reflected ruefully, no engagement. They just don't want to get involved in anything.

'Were you looking for us?' Sandra asked.

'Yeah, we're big news back home,' Amir added. 'We've been trending on Twitter. My mum was interviewed on the news.'

'Er,' Vonkel glanced at Berghofer, 'I'm sure we could do something. Where are you from?'

'Bristol,' Amir explained.

Vonkel frowned, 'Bristol … that's near London, right?'

'It's not a big country,' Berghofer chuckled, 'everywhere's near London.'

'Well,' Vonkel flashed his famous newscaster smile, the result of more than four years of dental work, costing in excess of $250,000, 'I think we could do something. It would be interesting to talk to you guys about what brought you here and what you make of your adventure so far.'

Looking less than impressed by the newsman's spiel, Damien stroked his chin. 'How much?'

'Sorry?'

The boy rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. 'How much will you pay us for an interview?'

'Well, I'm sure that we could come to some kind of arrangement.'

A waitress arrived and placed two massive plates in the middle of the table. The kids struggled to keep their tongues from hanging out as they stared at the pepperoni pizzas.

'Help yourself,' Berghofer said cheerily, before signalling to the waitress for a replacement beer and another round of Cokes. 'And maybe another two pizzas.' Thinking about it, he held up three fingers with one hand, while pointing at the plates with the other. 'In fact, better make it three.'

The woman gave a curt nod and headed back towards the bar.

After a moment's hesitation, Damien grabbed a slice of pizza and began shovelling it into his mouth. Taking that as their cue, the other two followed suit.

Berghofer smiled at Vonkel. 'You can put it on expenses, right?'

'Right.' As the kids demolished the food, Vonkel picked up the travel guide and began flicking through its pages. Under a list of "essentials" was included: long-johns, solar chargers, binoculars, knee and elbow pads, climbing gear and a "spork", a spoon-fork. I could have done with a copy of this before I left the US, he mused.

'The guide includes a list of jihadi Twitter accounts to private Direct Message,' Berghofer explained. 'And it has a section on evading security checks at airports and border crossings. Ironically, that bit seems to be based on a CIA manual published by WikiLeaks.'

'It's great what you can get off the internet,' Amir observed through a mouthful of pizza.

'How did you guys get here?' Vonkel asked.

Amir started to say something until Damien smacked him in the ribs with a bony elbow.

'No money, no interview.'

Vonkel was about to try another tack when Berghofer put a hand on his shoulder. 'Our guy,' he muttered, 'he's here.'

CHAPTER 17

Vonkel followed his German companion outside. Starting down the empty street, Berghofer ducked into the doorway of a pet shop which had clearly gone bust. Gezer Pet Plaza had obviously seen better days. The window was bare apart from an aquarium containing what looked like the skeleton of a dead fish. Taped to the door was a faded poster advertising dog food. On the floor inside a small mountain of junk mail and flyers had piled up underneath the mail box.

'Mr Elliot Vonkel, this is Ferhat.'

'Ferhat.' Vonkel contemplated the youth standing in the shadows in an AC-DC t-shirt. With an open face and long dark hair which reached almost to his shoulders, he looked like he was yet to escape his teens.

'We only use first names,' Berghofer explained, 'for obvious reasons.'

'Quite.'

'And he mustn't be filmed. If the police were ever to find out his identity he would be in big trouble.'

'I understand.' Vonkel shook the young man's hand. 'Pleased to meet you.'

'Pleased to meet you,' Ferhat parroted back.

With the pleasantries out of the way, Berghofer quickly got down to business. 'You have to pay him now.'

'What?' Vonkel looked around nervously, half-expecting a mugger to jump from the shadows. 'All of it?'

Berghofer nodded solemnly. 'The full two and a half thousand dollars is payable in advance. That's the way it works. We pay Ferhat now and he will take us over the border sometime in the next couple of days.'

The young man said something and Berghofer replied in German.

'Doesn't he speak English?' Vonkel asked. A sense of exasperation mingled with a fear of being scammed.

Berghofer shook his head. 'Only Turkish, German and Arabic. His German is better than my Arabic, so that is our common language.'

'You speak Arabic?' Vonkel, who had never shown any facility for languages, was genuinely impressed.

'A little. Enough to make myself understood. It will be helpful when we get into Syria. English is fairly widely spoken but you need to be able to get by when it's not.'

Vonkel thought guiltily about the untouched phrase book lying in his suitcase upstairs. 'So what about this guy?' he asked, pointing at Ferhat.

'Don't worry,' Berghofer smiled. 'He is totally reliable. I have worked with him before. No one knows this stretch of the border better than he does. We could not be in better hands.' He gave the boy a pat on the back. 'He will get us across, one hundred per cent guaranteed.'

'When will we go?'

'Ferhat will decide that. It could be any time. The Turkish Army patrols the border more frequently these days but they are still rather erratic. If one was to intercept us trying to enter Syria we would be arrested and deported. That wouldn't make for a good story. And I don't suppose that BNN would be too pleased about your wasted trip.'

'No, they certainly wouldn't.' Vonkel stared at his designer desert boots – a mere $329 from Shelley & Jensen Outfitters in Manhattan – trying not to look sheepish. Was Berghofer making fun of him? The German had given no indication that he knew about Vonkel's fall from grace; on the other hand, he could easily just be stringing him along. If Vonkel bankrolled the trip, why should the German care whether there was a film at the end of it or not?

Ferhat stepped back into the shadows and there was another short burst of conversation in German.

Once it was finished, Berghofer turned to Vonkel. 'So, if we want to go, we have to pay.'

'Alright, alright.' The wily old German had him over a barrel and there was nothing that he could do about it now. Having come all this way, there was no going back. Keeping his back to the street, Vonkel pulled up his shirt and unzipped his money belt. Counting out twenty-five crisp $100 bills, he handed them to Berghofer.

'I don't suppose I get a receipt?'

'I'm afraid not.' Lifting one of the bills to the streetlight, Berghofer pronounced himself satisfied with its authenticity, before handling the small bundle on to Ferhat. The two exchanged a few final words before the guide slipped out of the doorway and disappeared down the street.

I wonder if I'll ever see him again, Vonkel wondered.

Already shuffling back towards the café, Berghofer signalled for him to follow. 'C'mon. I could do with another drink.'

The soccer match appeared to be over and many of the café's patrons had drifted away. Returning to their table, Vonkel was disappointed to see that the English kids had gone. He gestured towards the Coke bottles, neatly lined up behind the two empty plates.

'I would have liked to have interviewed them.'

'Don't worry, we'll probably bump into them later on.' Berghofer looked round for the waitress. Spying her behind the bar, he signalled for more beer and extra pizza. 'Once you get into this, you realise that it's the same as everything else.' He slipped into his seat. 'It's really quite a small world. Everyone knows everyone else. I bet you that we will end up meeting them on the other side.'

CHAPTER 18

'Yuto Minowa was a founding member of the Japanese Mono-ha and Korean Dansaekhwa groups of the late 1960s and early 70s. This is only his second major show in the West. Although his practice is widely regarded as minimalist, Yuto believed in utilising an economy of gesture or representation in search of the maximum possible effect or resonance.'

What the hell was the woman talking about? Scratching his chin, Rashid Zubair peered at the painting in front of him, trying to look like it all made sense. Out of the corner of his eye, he was relieved to see the gallery owner, Dominic Silver, emerge from his office and head over.

Taking her cue from the boss, the salesgirl slipped away. 'Rashid. Sorry, I was stuck on a call. How are you?' Approaching his client, Silver extended a hand.

'Good, good.'

The two men shook hands.

'I hope that Lena has been looking after you.'

Rashid watched the girl slip behind her desk and begin tapping at the keys of her keyboard.

'She certainly knows her stuff. Very impressive.'

'Yes, indeed. We're very lucky to have her. I hope she'll stay around for a while.'

'Mm.' Rashid doubted that. Every time he visited the Molby-Nicol gallery the receptionist seemed to have changed. That was the problem with hiring people who didn't need to work for a living, they rarely displayed much in the way of stamina. Not that he cared much one way or the other. Rashid always felt uncomfortable being pitched to by pretty girls. Dealing with Mr Silver was far simpler. They had known each other for the best part of a decade now, after Rashid had walked in off the street one day and bought a ridiculously expensive Peter Blake print on a whim. Since then he had been a regular if not spectacular customer of the gallery. He would describe Mr Silver as a business associate, rather than a friend. The man was good company but gave little away. Rashid had heard a few rumours of a colourful history – possibly involving some sort of criminality – but he had never felt the need to enquire too deeply. Molby-Nicol's prices were not out of step with the rest of Cork Street and Silver wasn't one for the hard sell. As a man who often felt that he was being sold to the whole time Rashid appreciated that a great deal.

'How's business?'

'Business is good,' Silver said cheerily. 'We've had a very good start to the year and the Minowa show has drawn a lot of attention. He gestured at the painting Rashid had been inspecting. 'What do you think?'

Rashid scratched his ear, trying to come up with something vaguely sensible to say. A small card on the wall beside it gave the title as The Art of Disappointment. Crucially, there was no little red dot on the card. The work had yet to be sold. By now, he knew better than to ask the price; past experience suggested that it would be somewhere around £50,000, plus VAT and the gallery's various handling charges. That was well within his budget but still, fifty grand for what looked like little more than a few smears of red and orange paint on a blank canvas went against the grain. It was money he had to earn, and he took it all very personally.

Time to play his get out of jail free card.

'I'll have to get Nicola to take a look. She's refurbishing a town house that we've just bought in Notting Hill. I think something like this would work well in the dining room, but she'll have her own view.'

He gave a sheepish smile that said You know how these things work.

Silver's smile didn't waver. 'Of course, of course. Tell her to give me a call. I can open up any time that's convenient.'

'That's great. Thank you.'

'Let me get you a catalogue.'

As Silver wandered over to the front desk, Rashid felt his mobile start to vibrate. Pulling it from his pocket, he hit receive and lifted it to his ear.

'Hello.'

'Rashid? It's Ann.'

The voice stopped him in his tracks. Seeing Dom approaching with the catalogue, he waved him away, retreating to the back of the gallery.

'How did you get this number?' he hissed.

'Your secretary gave it to me.'

Rashid cursed. Sandra Cross had worked for him for more than ten years and was getting a bit ahead of herself when it came to acting on her own initiative. Maybe it was a time for him to consider a change of staff.

'Don't you want to speak to me?' Ann asked, already irked by her ex-husband's tone.

'No, no, it's not that. Sandra just irritates me sometimes.'

'She seems quite upset about what's happened.'

'She would be,' Rashid huffed. 'She's a middle-aged woman with no other excitement in her life, addicted to the drama of it all.'

'And what about you?'

'What about me?'

'You seem to be taking it all in your stride,' Ann observed. 'Our son goes missing in a war zone and you are off looking at paintings.'

WTF? Why did Sandra have to tell everyone his business? 'I'm not–' He stopped in mid-sentence. Why bother to lie? 'What do you expect me to do? Moaning and wailing won't do any good.'

'You could have called me.'

'I knew you would call soon enough.'

'Aren't you worried about Damien?'

'The boy's old enough to look after himself. He's a man now, nineteen.'

'His birthday's still more than two months away,' Ann corrected him. 'He's just a boy.'

'He's a bloody idiot is what he is.'

'Look, I didn't call to argue.' The background noise made it sound like she was in a shopping mall or something.

Why did you call, exactly? Conscious that he had an audience, Rashid made an effort to soften his tone. 'I know,' he said gently, 'it must have been a hell of a shock.'

Ann stifled a sob. 'I thought he was in Europe.'

Thank God the little bugger didn't run off on my watch, Rashid thought. I'd never hear the bloody end of it. 'Did you speak to the press?'

'Not really.'

Not really? Rashid shook his head. He hadn't spoken to his ex-wife in what, it had to be more than two years, easily. Yet within less than a minute they were back having one of their usual, disconnected conversations. 'Did they ask about me?'

'For God's sake, Rashid this is not about you.'

'I'm one of the leading Asian businessmen in the country. I could do with this kind of publicity like a hole in the head.'

'The journalist I spoke to was just some girl from the local paper. She didn't ask me about you.'

'Well if any reporters hassle you again say nothing. Give them Sandra's number. She can put them on to my PR agency. Those buggers can earn their money for once.'

'I spoke to the police.'

'Oh yeah? I bet that was illuminating. They're a useless bunch as well.'

'To be fair, what can they do?'

'They can stop being useless,' Rashid shot back, 'The guy I spoke to looked like he couldn't care less. What do I pay my bloody taxes for?'

'I don't think they'll be able to help much.'

Duh? 'Those comedians couldn't find their own–' he let the thought drop. 'I'm thinking about suing them – and the bloody Border Agency – for letting Damien leave the country without either of his parents being present. It should have been obvious what he was up to.'

'What good would that do?'

'Well–'

'I'm going to get him back.'

'What?' Rashid found himself standing in front of another painting. This one was a selection of green and yellow smears across a distressed canvas. The title was The Art of Reinvention. The art of bollocks, Rashid thought. The little red dot told him it was sold. 'What are you talking about?'

'I'm going over there to find him and bring him home.'

Rashid was unable to stifle a laugh. 'Are you serious?'

'I'm at Gatwick. My flight to Turkey leaves in an hour.'

'Shit. This is crazy. What do you think you can do? You're a history teacher from Bristol.'

'I'm a lecturer in medieval history, as you well know. Don't try and belittle me.'

'Alright, alright.' He said hastily, not wanting to replay an old conversation.

'And, more to the point, I'm the boy's mother.'

'You're wasting your time,' he muttered, knowing that he was wasting his breath. Ann had made up her mind and that was it. Anyway, why should he care?

'I have to try.'

'Okay, okay. Just don't expect me to come running to save you when things go tits up.'

'As if,' she said scornfully.

'Okay. So what do you want me to do?'

There was a pause.

'I need some money.'

CHAPTER 19

'Is everything alright?'

Rashid dropped the phone back into his pocket and took the catalogue from Dominic Silver. 'Yeah, just problems with the wife.'

The slightest look of dismay passed across the dealer's face as he imagined the prospects of a sale begin to fade. 'Nicola?'

'No, no.' Rashid waved the concern away. 'My first wife.' He scratched his head with his free hand. 'Well, technically my only wife. After that experience, I vowed I'd never get married again. Nicola's not too happy about it but there you are.'

Dom gave a sympathetic nod.

'Anyway, it looks like my boy, my eldest, has gotten himself into a bit of trouble. It's difficult.'

'Tell me about it,' Silver smiled. 'My kids are always getting into scrapes.'

'Not like this,' Rashid said wearily. 'Damien's really gone and done it this time.'

Sensing the chance for some client bonding, Silver gestured towards the door at the back of the gallery. 'Fancy a drink? We can have a chat in my office. I've got a very nice single whisky if that's your thing.'

A drink sounded very good right now but Rashid hesitated. 'I've got a meeting.' He glanced at his watch. 'Maybe a quick one.'

The tiny room had the air of a confessional. Rashid sat in an armchair surrounded by piles of catalogues and art books. In his hands, he cradled a heavy crystal tumbler containing an inch of a twenty-four-year-old single malt from the Fettercairn distillery. He hadn't intended to unburden himself to his art dealer but, once he sat down, the words just spilled out.

After he had finished, Silver took a contemplative sip of his whisky and stared at a spot on the wall above Rashid's head.

'So what do you think?' Rashid asked finally.

'Difficult.' Sitting behind his cluttered desk, Silver made a face. 'I have to admit, my lot have never done anything so … spectacular.'

'And now his mum's running after him.' Rashid took a sip of his drink. 'Nicola will have a fit too. She doesn't like me talking to Ann.'

Silver waved his glass in the air. 'Under the circumstances, what else can you do?'

'I'm not sure she sees it like that. Nicola has self-confidence issues. Not that she's got anything to worry about; two wives, long-term partners, whatever, is my limit. I spend my whole life working. I can't remember the last time I even looked at another woman.'

Silver gave a sympathetic moue.

'Buying the house in Notting Hill was supposed to reassure her but it doesn't seem to be working.'

Silver lifted his glass and gestured towards the gallery. 'Buy her another painting or two,' he grinned. 'That'll do the trick.'

'I think she might be heading for an early menopause or something.' Why was he rambling like this? Embarrassed, Rashid took another sip of the Scotch.

'These things tend to sort themselves out,' Silver said blandly.

Rashid looked up. 'Maybe I should go over there myself. After all, Damien is my boy.'

'What? To Syria?' Silver raised an eyebrow.

'Turkey. Ann's going to sit at the border and try and talk him back. At least that's the current plan. She wouldn't be crazy enough to try and go all the way after him. At least, I don't think she would.'

We're getting a rather long way from Yuto Minowa, here. Hopefully the menopausal Nicola would repay his investment of time and sympathy in her partner by getting down to Cork Street and flashing her Black Amex in due course. Slipping into full-on father confessor mode, Silver invited the client to think things through. 'What would you do if you did go over there? What could you do?'

'Good question,' Rashid grunted. 'Sit around and pray for a miracle.' He looked up from his glass. 'I mean, Damien's not coming back, is he? Not alive, anyway.'

'That's impossible to know.' Silver tried to recall whether he'd read anything about returning jihadis. When nothing sprang to mind, he blithely started making it up: 'I think quite a few of these kids go over there, take a look around for a month or two, and then come back. It's a bit like a gap year for them.'

'He can't just wander back through Heathrow like he's been to … I don't know … Spain for a fortnight. They'll throw him in jail for the rest of his life.'

'I don't think so. There's some kind of debriefing. You admit you made a mistake, promise not to do it again and you can get on with your life. Get him a good lawyer and he'll be fine.'

'Maybe.' Rashid sounded less than convinced.

'He'll get it out of his system and come back and become an accountant or something.' Silver finished his drink and reached for the bottle. 'Fancy a top-up?'

Rashid shook his head. 'One is enough.'

Unscrewing the cap on the bottle, Silver poured a small further measure of whisky into his own glass. 'Mark my words, this will be the making of him. I think you should sit tight and wait for him to come home. He'll probably feel a bit embarrassed about it all – all the trouble he's caused – you can step in and be supportive and things will sort themselves out. They usually do.'

'I hope so. In the meantime, however, I have to stop my ex doing anything silly. I'm not sure she'll be able to cope on her own. She's not very worldly-wise. I mean, she teaches medieval history for God's sake!'

That seems quite appropriate for where she's going, Silver mused

'How will she cope out there? The next thing you know, she'll go missing too.'

Silver placed the cap back on the whisky bottle. 'Look, Rashid, you've got a business to run.' And paintings to buy. 'A lot of people depend on you. The business won't run itself. You can't just up and leave. This whole thing might take months to sort itself out. Longer.'

'I know, but–'

'So, I think I might be able to help you deal with this problem; bring it to a speedy conclusion.'

'Yeah?' Rashid's initial scepticism was tempered as he recalled one of the stories about Silver's past. One of the senior police officers he had met at his masonic lodge had told him how Silver was a legend in the Metropolitan Police, an ex-copper who had left the force and built up a formidable business empire over more than three decades.

'Just don't ask him how he made his money in the first place. Dom Silver is as bent as a nine bob note.'

Rashid didn't know what a nine bob note was, but he got the gist.

'The guy is a canny operator, though. He knows how to get things done. And he knows people.'

What kind of people? Sitting up in his chair, Rashid looked Silver in the eye. 'How?'

CHAPTER 20

A squat veiled woman accelerated as she walked past the line of decapitated corpses chained to the railings of the small municipal park. A young boy, maybe four or five, holding her hand found himself being dragged along the sidewalk as he stopped to gawp at the heads impaled on the rusting railings. After a short exchange of words, the woman scooped up the child and scuttled across the road.

Elliot Vonkel frowned. Something just didn't seem to add up. It took him several seconds to realise what it was. He gestured at the corpses. 'Why are their trousers around their knees?'

'No idea,' Alfons Berghofer glanced towards their government-appointed "bodyguard" a skinny man in his sixties called Amro. 'Probably best not to ask.'

'No, I suppose not.' There were five bodies, all displaying five identical pairs of grubby white underpants. It looked like Calvin Klein hadn't made it to this part of the world. Vonkel ran through a list of obvious questions in his head: Who were the men? What had they done? How long had they been here? When would they be taken away?

None of them seemed appropriate to ask.

Amro did not appear to see anything unusual in the tableau in front of them. Resplendent in a blue and white Afghan shirt and a pair of combat trousers, he gave off an eye-watering odor which suggested that the revolution did not allow any time for bathing. On his hip was a German Luger pistol that looked like an antique from the Second World War. According to Berghofer, he had been a road sweeper before joining the revolution.

'Welcome to Raqqa,' Berghofer said quietly, 'centre of the known jihadist universe.'

The pair of them had made it across the border with a minimum of fuss. Vonkel suspected that it was the easiest $2,500 that their guide had ever made. At least Ferhat had turned up as promised and done his job, however straightforward. Once they were safely inside Syria the boy had, for another $200, laid on transport into town, an ageing Dodge pick-up which had provided a relatively swift and comfortable ride. On arrival, they were deposited outside the Office for Registration for Aliens. After an interview with a bored bureaucrat, and the payment of a $500 registration fee, they were placed in the care of Amro and taken off to lodgings in the Shakosh Guest House. After seeing their rooms, Berghofer had persuaded Amro to take them on a tour of the neighbourhood.

Amro muttered something.

Berghofer looked at Vonkel and nodded.

'What did he say?'

'Don't try and film any of this, or there will be trouble.'

'But these will make good pictures,' Vonkel protested. He stared at the camera bag at his feet. He was still less than confident about using the machine but, equally, he would need to start shooting at some point.

'We are the guests of these people,' Berghofer said firmly. 'We film what they want us to film. If there are any problems, you can wave goodbye to your interview with Mick.'

Vonkel started to protest but was drowned out by a loud wailing noise rolling round the square.

Placing a hand on Berghofer's arm, Amro signalled that they needed to go.

'The imam's started the call to prayer,' Berghofer pointed at a speaker tied to a lamp post. 'It's time for the locals to get closer to God.' Right on cue, a boy emerged from a nearby shoe shop and laid a small carpet on the sidewalk. 'Even those who can't get to the mosque have to pray.' Berghofer waited for Vonkel to pick up his bag. 'We can go back and get some rest.'

CHAPTER 21

Luciana picked up his call on the third ring. He was impressed by the quality of the line. 'Where the hell are you?' She sounded sober. Sober yet very pissed.

'I'm in Syria.' Vonkel paused to let that little gem sink in.

'Elliot,' his agent said coolly, 'if you want to commit suicide, jumping off the Brooklyn Bridge would have been the easier option. What the hell are you playing at?

'Trying to revive my career.'

'Good luck,' Luciana snorted. 'As things stand, you couldn't get a job stacking shelves in Walmart.'

'I don't want a job stacking shelves.'

'Just as well. Where exactly are you?'

'I don't want to go into that right now.' Standing on the roof of his guesthouse, Vonkel watched a group of young men strolling through the courtyard of the Circassians Mosque, situated on the far side of the street. With AK-47s casually hanging from their shoulders, they were chatting and joking as if they didn't have a care in the world. 'How are things in New York?'

'If you mean are people still talking about you, sorry, you're old news. Gone and forgotten.'

Elliot felt a sharp stab of disappointment underneath his rib cage. Better than anyone, he knew just how quickly the news agenda moved on. At the same time, he would have hoped to linger in the public consciousness for a little longer than most celebrities who crashed and burned. Couldn't people dwell on the good times?

'Enya is anchoring the bulletin solo,' Luciana continued, happy to twist the knife, 'and she's making a decent fist of it.'

Vonkel groaned. That was feedback he didn't want to hear.

'Her ratings are up nought point two per cent. Junior gave an interview to the Times saying that it showed that sacking you was the right decision commercially as well as ethically.'

'It's time to move on.' Vonkel took a deep breath. 'So I need your help to find a home for my story.' He quickly explained about his plans to interview with Militant Mick.

'And you can deliver this?' Luciana asked, clearly less than convinced.

'It's all set up,' Vonkel said, not missing a beat. 'I'm just waiting for a time. I've already got some great footage.'

'You've got a crew out there?'

'Nope. I'm doing it all on my own.'

'Mm.' Luciana thought it over for a few moments. 'Let me make a few calls. I don't think BNN would touch it, but PBS might.'

'Great.'

'If nothing else,' Luciana cackled, 'they'll appreciate the heads up. Elliot Vonkel in an orange jumpsuit getting his head chopped off will be a great story.'

'Your faith is touching.'

'Like I said, it would be easier to have jumped in the Hudson.'

'Just find a home for the interview.'

'Don't worry. If you do get an exclusive, we can sell it all round the world.'

'Great. I'll call you later.'

'You do that, Elliot. In the meantime, try to be careful.'

'Don't worry. I know what I'm doing.'

'I doubt that very much. But good luck.'

'Thanks.' Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Vonkel watched the militiamen stop in front of a small cart on the street selling various fruit and vegetables. One of the men began haggling with the vendor over the price of a bunch of bananas. Keeping himself hidden from view, Vonkel set up his camera on its tripod. As he fiddled with the lens, trying to get the shot, Berghofer appeared at his shoulder.

'Be careful.'

'I have to get some pictures. The interview with Militant Mick on its own isn't going to be enough.'

'Enough for what?'

'Enough for my story. I want people to be able to see what life is like here.'

'I'm not sure you can capture that on video.'

'You can give the viewer a sense of what is going on here,' Vonkel said stiffly.

'A sense of what? Of the smell of decapitated bodies left to rot in the street?'

Vonkel thought back to the headless corpses in their grubby underpants and shuddered.

Point made, Berghofer gestured towards the far side of the road. 'The number of people going to the mosque these days is rather high.'

'That's not much of a surprise,' Vonkel grunted. Hitting the play button, he said a silent prayer of his own that the damn thing would work. 'But I thought that prayers were over?'

'For now. They have prayers here five times a day.'

'Five times a day? How the hell do they find the time for anything else?'

'That's a very good question.'

'It's hard to really understand what's going on here.'

'What's to understand?' Berghofer shrugged. 'If you put the stupidest men in the village in charge for three thousand years this is what you end up with.' He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. 'Or something very much like it.'

In the street below, the fighters agreed a price for their purchase and sauntered off. Even from this distance, Vonkel could see that the fruit vendor was less than happy. He turned away to see Berghofer take a couple of white pills from his trouser pocket. Dropping them into his mouth, the German swallowed them dry.

'It's never over.'

You look exhausted, Vonkel thought. I hope you're going to be able to last the distance. Not that he felt so great himself. Tired and dirty, he had been less than impressed to arrive at their billet to find that there was no running water. A US bombing raid the week before had taken out a local pumping station and the pension's water had to be collected from a standpipe three blocks away by the owner, Kadiza, and her two daughters.

'Why you come?' Kadiza had asked quietly – her English basic but surprisingly understandable – when he had signed in. 'There is nothing here but trouble.'

It was a fair point. They had only just arrived but already Vonkel's thoughts were turning to their return to Istanbul. He had already started daydreaming about his suite in the Peker Hotel. When they made it back to Istanbul, he was definitely going to do some proper sightseeing but not before having a long, hot bath.

'I need a beer,' Berghofer said wistfully.

You always need a beer. Vonkel gestured at the door which led to the stairs inside. 'Make sure Amro doesn't come up here, will you? I don't want him spying on us.'

'Don't worry about that,' Berghofer smiled wanly. 'I gave him two packets of cigarettes and told him to go away for a couple of hours. He seemed perfectly happy to oblige.'

'Not much of a bribe,' Vonkel observed. Shifting the tripod, he panned across the rooftops with the camera, recording some general views of Raqqa rooftops, background wallpaper with which he could fill out his piece.

'Oh, I don't know,' Berghofer countered. 'Cigarettes have become very valuable since smoking was banned. Kadiza says that they are exchanging hands for a dollar each.'

Vonkel looked at his companion, incredulous. 'They banned smoking? How the hell can you ban smoking?'

'Yes,' Berghofer nodded. 'After the Syrian Army was kicked out, stores selling cigarettes and hookah pipes were shut down. One or two people tried to defy the ban, but their businesses were burnt down. Anyone caught selling cigarettes on the sidewalk faces a flogging. It's the same for anyone caught smoking in the street.'

'Wow,' Vonkel chuckled, 'these guys really are health freaks. They should be living in California.'

'For them, I don't think it's really a health issue. There's one story doing the rounds of a man caught smoking on the street. Jihadi soldiers broke three of his fingers with a hammer.'

'Ouch.'

'People still smoke at home, of course. Amro will get a very good price for my little gift.'

Switching off the camera, Vonkel looked up. 'So we've got some free time?'

'Yes,' Berghofer suddenly appeared more energised. 'And there's someone I want you to meet.'

CHAPTER 22

Sally Zimbio opened the magazine and placed it on the coffee table. 'This is the spread we did for Dabiq. It's kind of like the equivalent of Hello magazine here.'

'Paris Match might be a more familiar comparison for an American audience.' Sitting in an over-stuffed armchair, Alfons Berghofer sipped from a small glass of steaming tea. At his feet were two plastic shopping bags stuffed full of different foodstuffs which he had brought from Germany, a selection of carefully chosen gifts for their hostess. 'The name Dabiq comes from a key site in Muslim apocalypse mythology. I don't know if it's meant to be ironic.'

'I'm so glad you've come back. We've missed you.' Sally eyed the bags eagerly. 'What did you manage to bring us this time, Alfons?'

Placing his glass carefully on the arm of the chair, the old man got to his feet and picked up the bags. Handing them over, he watched as the girl tipped the contents out onto the sofa. 'Did you get any baked beans? Mick has been going mad about the lack of proper food over here.'

'Ja, ja,' the old man smiled. 'They are not so easy to find in Germany but I managed to locate a specialist shop in Berlin.' He lowered himself back into the chair. 'Interesting idea.'

'Mick loves his beans on toast.' Clearing a space, the girl sat down and began sorting through her bounty. 'Any DVDs?'

'Sorry, I had a couple of movies, but they got confiscated when we crossed the border. I was worried that they were going to take everything. Your people can be very … acquisitive.'

Sally started to say something but thought better of it.

'We had to pay four hundred dollars in entry tax.'

I had to pay four hundred dollars, Vonkel thought dolefully.

'I don't remember that last time.'

'Things are changing all the time.' Sally contemplated a large plastic bottle of shampoo. 'You know what it's like. This is a war, after all.'

'Of course,' Berghofer agreed. 'Things are difficult.

Sally placed the shampoo back in its bag. 'And how is poor Andre?'

'He's fine. Back at work. He sends you his love.'

'He was such a sweetie,' Sally swooned.

'All in all, he's holding up well,' Berghofer continued. 'Doctors are looking at the possibility of a foot transplant but I think that's a bit of a long shot. He didn't make Dancing with the Stars, though. That was the thing that upset him the most about the whole episode.'

'I can imagine.' Sally's face darkened.

'I feel terrible about it,' Berghofer shook his head. 'Truly terrible.'

'You can't blame yourself.'

'I know, I know. It was a terrible shame though. The programme-makers were going to pair him with a woman who was world champion ballroom dancer six times. He would have had a chance of winning. He had all his costumes picked out.'

Not wishing to be reminded of the unfortunate Andre Lingholm, Vonkel wiggled his toes nervously. He had decided that the only way to deal with the threat of landmines was to ignore them and hope that if he did actually step on one it would take him out quickly and completely. In principle, a swift and clean end was preferable to mutilation and disfigurement.

'That's a shame.' Sally's dismay seemed genuine.

'In the end, they gave his place to one of his colleagues.'

That's the thing about television, Vonkel reflected. It's full of backstabbers who would walk over your bleeding body to gain the slightest advantage. His brain momentarily flashed up an image of Enya Quinn reading out the news of his sacking. Fuck you, he thought. This is a story you'll never get.

'Not that we'd have got to see it here anyway,' Sally pointed out. 'Apart from the local TV station, all we get is Russia Today and Al Jazeera. It's sooo boring. There's nothing worth watching at all. I don't think I've watched more than ten minutes' television in the whole time I've been here.'

'Can't you watch it on your laptop?' Vonkel asked.

The girl shook her head. 'The connection is crap. Anyway, they block it.'

'A surprising number of the young men who come over here are computer nerds of one sort or another,' Berghofer explained. 'It means that the revolution has been able to maintain a remarkably high degree of control over the internet.'

A philosophy from the Dark Ages, allied with twenty-first century technology. It was a good line; Vonkel made a mental note to work it into his script. Quickly followed by a mental note to get started on a script. While his hostess returned to her bounty, he leant forward and scanned the series of photographs in the magazine. They showed a woman in the full veil – presumably Sally herself – standing next to the familiar figure of Militant Mick as they strolled through different locations in Raqqa. Underneath each picture was an Arabic text.

'They're calling us the Posh and Becks of the jihad,' Sally said proudly. Tearing open a bar of chocolate, she popped a couple of squares in her mouth and began chewing.

'Mm.' Peering at an image of the pair strolling through a park, Vonkel was relieved not to see any headless corpses in the background. 'You two are married?'

The girl's smile grew even wider. 'Almost seven months now. We had a traditional ceremony with almost two hundred guests.'

Seven months? Vonkel was surprised that they had lasted that long. 'And what are your long-term plans?'

The smile began to fade. Sally looked at Berghofer as if the German might help her fashion an answer.

'Are you thinking about having kids?' Vonkel pressed, conscious that Militant Mick becoming a father could be quite a scoop.

Frowning, Berghofer signalled that the question was inappropriate with a slight shake of the head. 'They're still kids,' he pointed out, 'just setting out on the adventure of married life together. They still have plenty of time for that kind of thing later on.'

'Yes, of course,' Vonkel smiled.

Relieved to be off that particular hook, Sally popped another piece of chocolate into her mouth.

Conscious that he could still possibly get some kind of additional news hook from the girl, Vonkel took a change of tack. 'How did you two meet?'

'We had an online relationship for a while.'

'You met him on the internet?'

Sally waved an arm at her surroundings. 'I was introduced to all this by a guy in Leicester called Jordan.'

'That's a city in England,' Berghofer explained.

'Jordan doesn't sound a very … Islamic name,' Vonkel mused.

'He's a white guy. Lives with his mum on the New Parks estate. Or, at least, he used to live with his mum. He's banged up in Strangeways nick at the moment.'

'Prison,' Berghofer translated for the benefit of his American comrade.

'What did they send him to prison for?' Vonkel asked. 'Grooming terrorist wannabees?'

'Eh?' Sally scowled.

Vonkel coughed. 'I mean, for radicalising people like you?'

'Oh,' her face softened, 'no. He got done for nicking trainers from his local Sports Direct when they had a riot. The berk managed to grab three left foot Nike Air Safari's – what good is that? He also managed to smack a copper. They gave him three years. Anyway, this was all after Jordan and me had been talking about politics and stuff online. He was the one who introduced me to Mick.'

'And how did Mick and Jordan meet?'

'Dunno. You'd have to ask Mick that.' Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Vonkel. 'Is this the actual interview?'

'No. Just background.'

'Mm. I wondered where the camera was.'

'It's at the hotel. When we do the interview, I'll set it up and we'll maybe record some questions with you and Mick together and then some of each of you on your own. That will help us with different shots when it comes to the edit.' Vonkel wasn't sure if he wanted the girl but he knew that he would have to keep her sweet. Plus, the more material he shot, the more chance there was that he ended up with something that was usable. 'And we'll need to find a nice location. Somewhere that looks good.'

'Okay.' The girl seemed happy enough with the story. 'Anyway, we first met about eighteen months ago. Something like that. Mick and I started talking online and, I dunno, romance kind of blossomed.'

'And he was already over here?'

'Yeah. He's been here for something like three years.' Sally shoved the remainder of the chocolate bar into her mouth and dropped the wrapper into one of the plastic bags. 'He wasn't an overnight success, you know.'

'No.' Suppressing a smirk, Vonkel glanced at Berghofer. The German was staring into space, apparently tuned out of their conversation.

'He's had to do a lot of hard work to get to where he is now. And I've had to help him out. When I first came here, he barely had five hundred Twitter followers. His social media strategy was non-existent.'

'And you sorted that out?'

'Me and Salford.'

'Salford?'

'Pete White. He's from Salford. It's his nickname.'

'That's in England, right?'

'Yeah. Near Newcastle.'

'Manchester,' Berghofer corrected her. The old man was clearly paying more attention than he was letting on. Neither of them seemed surprised that his grasp of English geography was better than hers.

Vonkel tried to conjure up a mental image of a map of the British Isles, something that looked like a drunken triangle. 'That's near London, right?'

Sally gave him a funny look. 'Kind of.'

'Everywhere's near London,' Berghofer mumbled, 'didn't I mention that already?'

I think you might have done.

'It's a small country, not like America. Small and, to be honest, rather boring.'

'Anyway,' Vonkel tried to get the conversation back on some sort of track, 'Mr Salford and you are running Mick's PR?'

'We're running a digital engagement programme,' Sally explained. 'Salford ran an online music business before he came here and I've got a GCSE in Digital Entrepreneurship.'

Vonkel had no idea what a GCSE was but the girl was clearly very proud of it.

'We put a team together. It's up to twenty people now.'

'Team Mick.' Arms folded, Berghofer let his eyes close. It was clear that he had heard this story before.

'So you're like the manager of Team Mick,' Vonkel smiled.

Sally thought about that for a moment. 'You could say that but, basically, I'm his wife.'

It all sounded so simple. 'So when you came over here, was it a romantic thing, or were you interested in all the political stuff as well?'

'The political stuff?'

'Islam.'

'Yeah, of course. After all, that was what brought us together in the first place.'

'And what interests you about it?'

Sally pushed out her lips. 'I dunno. It's different, I suppose. When you think about all the bad stuff that's going on in the world. It's terrible. Things are getting worse all the time. You've got to do something about it, right? Otherwise nothing will ever change.'

Ah, the idealism of youth. 'What about your parents?'

'What about them?'

The girl's obtuseness was beginning to grate but Vonkel, pleased at finally getting into his journalistic groove, maintained his gentle probing. 'They must be worried about you. What do they think of you coming here?'

'You'd have to ask them. We didn't talk that much.'

No, I suppose not.

'I didn't tell them I was coming. I've sent my mum a few texts since I've been here but she hasn't replied. They don't know I've got married.'

'What do you think they would make of Mick?'

The girl pushed out her lips. 'They never liked any of my boyfriends. I don't think it would be much different with Mick. You know what it's like with parents; nothing's ever good enough.'

CHAPTER 23

'And what first attracted you to Mick?'

'I dunno,' Sally shrugged. 'He seemed different. Strong. He knew what he wanted to do. He was in control of things.'

'He had charisma.'

'Yeah. Charisma. He's a leader.'

Charisma. Vonkel was reminded of a story he had done around the turn of the decade on women who marry men on death row. As part of the piece, he had interviewed a child rapist in Florida. The man had locked his daughter in a basement for nine years and fathered two children by her. His horrendous crimes didn't stop him from receiving dozens of marriage proposals from women around the world. After little more than a year in prison he married a woman from Texas who claimed that her new husband was the reincarnation of Paul the Apostle. There was even a medical term for women falling for dangerous criminals: hybristophilia. According to doctors, if your husband is locked up in a maximum security facility, it can feed your sense of worth, particularly if you decided to launch a "My husband is innocent" campaign.

'It's an easy way to get your fifteen minutes of fame,' one shrink pointed out. 'You don't have to have sex with the guy. And you know he's not going to cheat on you – not with another woman, anyway.'

Vonkel, never married himself, struggled to make much sense of it.

'Women who marry men on death row,' the psychiatrist explained, 'say that their marriages are not so different from those of "normal" people. Some joke that most marriages are sexless and couples do not spend much quality time together anyway.'

'It doesn't matter what anyone back home thinks,' Sally's voice contained more than a hint of defiance. 'We're going to be together forever. He is my man and no one is going to take him away from me.'

Mouth open, Berghofer had started gently snoring.

What's going on here? Vonkel wondered. Surely Mick would be either dead or behind bars within a couple of years. Even if she had a kid, it would grow up not knowing its father; quite possibly its mother, too. Sally's survival prospects were better than her beau's, but that was hardly saying much. How could she think that happily ever after was in any way a realistic prospect?

Sensing his doubts, Sally gave him a big smile. 'Alfons says your story is going to appear on American TV.'

'That's right.'

'BNN?'

Surprised that the girl had heard of his former employers, Vonkel stifled a cough. 'That's the plan. My, er, bosses are very keen about the idea of getting the first, proper, sit-down interview with Mick, to understand the man behind the myth. And, from your point of view, BNN is the ideal platform for–'

'We used to get it when I first came here. Then they starting blocking it. We don't get any American channels here anymore.'

Thank goodness for that. The American gave a silent prayer of thanks to the gods of censorship for bringing him to a place where Elliot Vonkel was still a titan of the journalist world and not a disgraced fantasist.

'You'll send us a file though, won't you?'

Vonkel looked at her blankly.

'A copy of the video.'

'Yes, of course.'

'Good. When's it going out?'

'When we return to Turkey, I'll do the edit and then we'll get a transmission date.' Vonkel wondered how Luciana was getting on back in New York. If his agent wasn't able to sell his exclusive, the whole trip would turn into a complete fiasco.

A dog started to bark from somewhere down the hallway. Jerking awake, Berghofer started muttering to himself in German.

'Shut up, Russell,' Sally shouted over her shoulder. 'Be quiet or you'll get us all into trouble.'

The animal obediently fell silent.

'They don't like dogs here.' She turned her attention back to Vonkel. 'Do you have a dog?'

'Er, no. My co-op doesn't allow animals in the building.'

'People can be so horrible to animals.'

'Yes.'

For a moment, they sat in silence, reflecting on man's boundless inhumanity towards his fellow creatures. Finally, Sally asked. 'You're American?'

'Yes.' Vonkel stiffened slightly. 'I'm originally from Wisconsin but I've lived in New York for more than thirty years now.'

Not interested in his backstory, Sally's eyes narrowed. 'You're taking a big risk, coming here. The only Americans that usually come are people who want to fight against America.'

'Mm.' Vonkel contemplated the prospect of more potential interviewees. 'Are there any Americans around at the moment?'

'Dead.'

'Ah.'

'The last two were killed a couple of weeks ago in a drone strike.' She scratched at a large pimple on her chin. 'They were trying to get Mick. But they always miss.'

'Yes.'

'The drone strikes are becoming more common,' Sally pointed out. 'People here hate the Americans more than ever. There are plenty of people who won't be happy that you are here.'

'This was all sorted out before we arrived,' Berghofer yawned. 'He's just a journalist. You should be happy that he wants to speak to you. He's not trying to score any political points. He just wants you to have a chance to tell your story. The exposure he gives you around the world will take the Militant Mick phenomenon to a whole new level.'

Vonkel shifted uneasily in his seat, discomfited by Berghofer's puffery, which the American feared made him sound alarmingly like a fellow traveller. He had no doubts that he wanted to make a piece that showed these people up for the deluded children that they were. The film was going to be no damn hagiography.

'Oh, we want to do it,' Sally pointed out, 'both me and Mick. I know he is really up for it.' Sitting forward, she reached under the sofa and pulled out a grey t-shirt, holding it up by the shoulders so that Vonkel could inspect the life-sized image of a grinning Mick stenciled on the front. 'We've even got the clothes for it.'

Vonkel looked at Berghofer. The German just shrugged.

'It's the start of his merchandising range,' Sally explained. 'We're both going to wear one.'

'I see.'

'We have an agreement with a Turkish company. It is currently producing a range of Militant Mick merchandising under licence. It will all be available online. We were wondering if you would put the website address up on screen during the interview?'

'Of course,' Vonkel said smoothly. He was well used to promising interviewees anything before a taping. Afterwards, it would be quietly forgotten. If he was called on it, he could always blame the network.

'Great.' Sally carefully folded the t-shirt and placed it on top of the magazine, on the coffee table. 'Of course, we'll give you some samples to take back with you.'

'Lovely.'

'The other thing is, do you have any contacts with the Shopping Channel?'

Berghofer half-stifled a chuckle.

'I think something like this would be great for them. Help them connect with a younger demographic. Kids are going to go absolutely crazy for all of this stuff. We would be open to some kind of exclusive partnership.'

Sally had clearly given her pitch some considerable thought. Vonkel scratched his head. She looked at him expectantly, before adding: 'We would pay you a commission for the introduction, of course. Assuming we do a deal.'

'Well, it's certainly an interesting idea.' Vonkel was conscious of Berghofer watching him, an amused grin on his face. 'My agent definitely has good contacts with the people there. I will get on the case. She will certainly be able to get you the best possible deal.'

'Excellent,' Sally squealed with delight.

'Of course, like Alfons said, if we do a good interview with Mick, that will help to strengthen your negotiating position considerably.'

'Yes, yes.'

'So, you want to think carefully about what you want to say, so that you get your message across.'

'We talked about it the other day. Mick is very passionate about his work, his mission. He can talk about his radicalisation, how he came to Syria and how he came to be the face of the revolution.'

'That all sounds good.'

'He's already got some TV experience.'

I'm not sure that making pseudo political snuff movies for the internet counts, Vonkel thought, but he nodded vigorously.

'But nothing really like this, where he can outline his overall vision. He knows that if he can explain his strategy, he can use the platform of an extended BNN interview to reach out to his global stakeholders.'

Sweet Jesus, Vonkel thought. Even the goddamn terrorists are spouting MBA crap these days.

'He'll talk about the killings, obviously. But that can't be the whole interview.'

'No, of course not. Like you say, it's not something we can ignore, but I see it as part of setting the scene. I want to quickly get past that, to get to the real Mick. And the real Sally. The life that has blossomed amidst all the violence.'

'Mick doesn't enjoy the killing.'

'No.'

'It's not something he enjoys but it is not something that he feels he can delegate. It is an act of leadership. Mick believes in leading from the front. The executions are a last resort, undertaken only after the due legal process has run its course. These people come here to undermine the revolution. They are spies pretending to be journalists.' She shot the American a curious look, 'Not like you, I hope.'

'Not like me,' Vonkel agreed hastily, vigorously scratching his neck.

A crooked smile spread across Sally's face. 'Because if you were to be here under false pretenses–'

'Why all this negative talk?' Berghofer snapped. 'This man is one of the most famous journalists in the world. In the world! And we have full permission to be here.' Pulling a folded sheet of paper from the pocket of his jacket, he opened it out and waved it at the girl. 'We are guests of Mullah Fandi and the revolutionary government.'

Sally's face darkened at the mention of the Mullah but she said nothing.

'Our safety has been vouched for,' Berghofer refolded the paper and put it back in his pocket, 'during the entire time of our stay in Syria. We have been offered every hospitality.'

'Andre's safety was vouched for,' Sally pointed out.

'That was an accident. He was just unlucky. We have no idea who put that landmine there. Apart from that, the trip went very well.'

Apart from that.

'I can't say that I support the killing of journalists.' Vonkel took a deep breath, trying to remain calm. 'I can't say I support the killing of anyone. But I was happy to accept Alfons' invitation to come here. I am independent and will tell the truth. I wanted to see what was going on here and talk to you and Mick. As Alfons says, you certainly have a story to tell. And the world wants to hear what you have to say. I'm sure not everyone will agree with all of it, but they will listen.'

A solemn expression descended on Sally's face. 'What Mick is doing, it's necessary. It's a necessary part of the cleansing process. It's not a nice thing to do but there's a war on, isn't there? You do things at wartime that you wouldn't necessarily do at other times.'

'When do you think we can meet with Mick?' Vonkel asked.

'Soon. He's gone out to buy some trainers at the moment.'

Berghofer looked at his watch. 'We need to get back to the guesthouse before our bodyguard gets back.' He pushed himself out of his chair. 'We don't want to be seen abusing the trust of our hosts.'

'No.' Vonkel reluctantly got to his feet.

'Don't worry, we've got plenty of time.'

'Sure.' Shuffling towards the door, he turned to Sally. 'We heard that there are some other British kids staying nearby.'

'There are lots of Brits around here.' The girl returned her attention to the shopping bags brought by Berghofer. Pulling out a tin of baked beans, she began inspecting it as if it was some ancient artefact.

'These are new,' Berghofer explained. 'They came through the same border crossing as us, probably the night before. Two boys and a girl. They're from Bristol.'

'I thought I might interview them as well,' Vonkel added.

Sally looked up from her beans and pouted. 'They won't be as good as me and Mick.'

'I know,' Vonkel said hastily. 'But they can add a little additional colour. This is going to be a big piece. You and Mick will be the stars; they'll be the extras.'

Sally thought about it for a moment. 'Okay. Let me track them down for you. I don't know everyone who comes here but they won't be too difficult to find.'

'Thanks.' Vonkel was about to duck through the door when she added.

'And you can do me a favour too.'

'Oh?'

'Yes,' Sally said briskly. 'Have you met Mullah Fandi yet?'

'Not yet,' said Berghofer, 'but we will. He wants to be part of your movie as well.'

This was news to Vonkel but he took it in his stride. The more the merrier.

The German scratched his jaw. 'That was part of the deal.'

What deal?

'When you speak to him,' Sally said firmly, 'tell him he has to spare Russell.'

Vonkel looked at Berghofer. 'Russell?'

'My French boxer,' Sally explained. 'Fandi wants to ban all dogs. But no one's going to put Russell to sleep. That's part of the deal too.'

'What deal?' the two men asked in unison.

'The deal that means that I'll get Mick to give you your interview.'

CHAPTER 24

Standing in the main gallery of the municipal museum, a cryptic smile spread across Bovar Fandi's lips. In front of him, a series of life-sized statues on plinths were being destroyed by two men with sledgehammers. A third man was videoing the destruction on his mobile phone, while a small group of others stood around smoking and joking.

Standing next to the Mullah, Mick kicked listlessly at a piece of plaster on the floor. 'What are they doing?'

'What does it look like? They're destroying this filth.' Fandi stroked his beard.

He looks like a villain in a Bond movie, Mick thought. 'But why bother? They're only statues.'

'Because they are worthless idols. There is no place for degenerate art in our Islamic state. And, besides, it gives them something to do. Otherwise, they would be out on the streets causing trouble.'

'No one's going to come if there's nothing to see.' Mick wasn't much of a museum man himself – a school trip to see the mummies at the British Museum was about the limit of his cultural experience – but he knew that that the whole purpose of them was that you had old stuff to look at.

'Who needs a museum when you have the Koran?' Fandi mused. 'The living, breathing Koran!'

'Hm.' Mick winced as he watched the head of one of the statues explode under a meaty blow from a sweaty man in a grubby white vest. 'It just seems, I dunno, so destructive.'

And this from a boy who slits men's throats for cheap entertainment. Touched by the boy's concern, Fandi gave him a pat on the shoulder. 'Don't think of it as vandalism, think of it as content creation.'

'Eh?' Mick looked down on the Mullah, a genuinely confused expression on his face.

Fandi gestured at the man with the mobile phone. 'Once we put this online, it will be on every TV station in the world. They've stopped showing your stuff – too violent – but this still keeps us at the top of the news agenda.'

'My stuff's not too violent,' Mick protested.

'It is for the effete liberal media elite,' Fandi retorted.

E-feet? Mick made a mental note to ask Sally what it meant. Fandi's habit of dropping posh words into the conversation irritated him. The man had spent three years studying religious history at Oxford Brookes University – Mick hadn't realised that the town had two universities – and felt compelled to show off on a regular basis.

'We have to continue to evolve the way in which we communicate with the outside world,' Fandi continued. 'The message, however, remains the same: we are coming and we are relentless.' He watched as another of the statues was unceremoniously kneecapped. 'In some ways, this kind of thing scares people more than the stuff that you do. People are strange.'

'So we are going to destroy everything? Everything in every museum in the world?'

'If it is God's will,' Fandi said blithely.

Mick gestured towards the growing pile of rubble on the floor. 'But aren't they worth a lot of money? I mean, weren't they worth a lot of money?'

'About three hundred and fifty thousand US dollars,' Fandi chuckled.

Mick let out a low whistle.

'At least,' the Mullah continued, keeping his voice low, 'that's what the Malmo Museum of Antiquities paid for them. The ones that the boys are smashing up here are only fakes.' Lifting an arm, he pointed at a selection of clay pots lined up at the back of the room. 'Adil!' he shouted, slipping effortlessly back into Arabic. 'Make sure you get some nice shots of the pots being smashed. Maybe we can do some nice slow motion effects for the video.'

Nodding, Adil began setting up the shot as his companions took a breather.

Mick laughed nervously. 'So all this stuff is fake?'

'Keep your voice down,' Fandi hissed. 'And keep it to yourself. The boys don't need to know, but, yes, these are replicas of the real so-called masterpieces of antiquity. Copies.' He pointed towards the remains of the statues. 'They crumble so easily because they're made of plaster. You can see the iron bars inside.' Fandi ran his shoe through the fine layer of dust covering the marble floor. 'The originals were shipped out months ago. Sold to the museum.' Seeing the confusion on the boy's face, he added: 'When we get to Sweden we can destroy them for real. In the meantime, we need the money, no?'

'I suppose.' Trying to keep up with what Fandi was telling him was making Mick's head hurt.

'There's no suppose about it. We have to fund the revolution in innovative ways. We have to pay our soldiers. We have to provide alms to their widows. Where we can trade, we will trade. Oil, guns, statues, does it make any difference?'

'No, I suppose not.' Mick watched the men with the sledgehammers start on the pots.

'Have you got any more executions planned?' Fandi asked casually.

'Huh?'

'Were you planning on making any more of your videos?'

'Well–' Mick hadn't given the matter much thought.

'I wouldn't bother for the next few days. This stuff will be all over the internet for a while. You won't get much of a look in. Like I said, people in the West get more worked up about pieces of marble than they do about their fellow human beings. It just goes to show how far they have lost sight of basic morality.'

'I haven't got anything planned.'

'Good.'

The men finished smashing the pots and set off in search of more artefacts to destroy.

'Adil, make sure you get it all recorded. This is great stuff.'

Giving the Mullah a thumbs up, Adil followed after his colleagues, taking the knot of gawkers with him.

Fandi turned back to Mick. 'And how are things with you?'

'Fine.'

'How is your wife?'

'She's fine.'

'And Russell?'

'He's fine too.'

'You know that the dog has to go. I gave my ruling on dogs more than a week ago now. They are unclean. They cannot be tolerated. I can't have you, one of my trusted lieutenants, flouting the law on a serious issue such as this.'

'Come on, Bovar. It's not my dog.'

'Don't call me that.'

'No, sorry.' Not wishing to meet the gaze of his inquisitor, Mick looked down at the purple plastic bag sitting on the floor by his feet.

'I am Mullah Fandi. When we are in public, you must address me by my proper title.'

Mick gestured around the now empty gallery. 'But there is no one here. No one's listening.'

'We are in public,' Fandi insisted.

'Okay, okay. I understand.'

'Good. You have to deal with the dog. It is an unclean animal. There should be no place for it in your home.'

'But it's not my dog, Mullah Fandi,' Mick said meekly. 'Sally will–'

An arm shot out from beneath the cleric's elegant cream robes, made to measure by a refugee from Aleppo. Mick tried not to flinch as a set of stubby fingers tightened round his bicep. 'It might not be your dog, but it's your problem.'

Mick finally looked up. 'Sally will not be happy.'

'You have to control your woman.'

Easy for you to say. Bovar Fandi was well-known for preferring boys. 'You have to wonder,' Salford had quipped one time, 'whether, deep down, the guy's not really a Catholic.' Mick hadn't understood the joke but had laughed anyway. Sally had later explained to him that priests were notorious kiddie fiddlers and that Salford should keep such jokes to himself.

'She loves that dog.'

'Dogs are unclean,' the Mullah repeated. 'Give her something else to love. It is time she bore you a child.'

'Mm.' Mick had no interest in becoming a father; happily, despite the lack of available contraception in Raqqa, Sally showed no sign of conceiving.

'That will take her mind off the damn dog.'

'I suppose.'

'Trust me.' Releasing his grip, Fandi gave Mick a pat on the back. 'The dog has to go. You, of all people, cannot flout my will.'

Mick felt a spasm in his stomach. 'I will deal with it,' he mumbled.

'Good, good.' Fandi tapped the plastic bag with the toe of his shoe. 'Been shopping?'

Mick nodded. 'I needed a new set of trainers. I got a nice pair of Nikes in the market. They were really cheap. Probably knock offs, but still–'

'You idiot,' Fandi hissed. 'They've gone on the forbidden list.'

'They have?' Mick groaned. It was hard to keep up. Skinny jeans, mobile phones, t-shirts with rude words, cigarettes, dogs; there was an ever-growing list of banned items. 'When did that happen?'

'The Islamic State banned the use of Nike products with immediate effect the day before yesterday.'

'But why?' Mick struggled to hide his frustration.

'The name in Arabic has a sexual innuendo. It is haram.'

Mick suddenly wondered about his own range of merchandising. Now probably wasn't the best time to bring it up. The longer Fandi remained unaware of his plans the better; if the Mullah declared the items unlawful it would be deeply embarrassing, not to mention extremely harmful to sales.

'We told all the shop owners that they couldn't sell Nike products. Where did you buy them from?'

'The big stall at the back of the market.'

'Moataz.' Fandi, shook his head. 'I know him.'

'The cheeky sod.' Mick kicked out at the plastic bag, missing by a good eight inches. 'He should have told me that they were unwearable.'

The holy man raised his eyes to the heavens. 'Caveat emptor.'

Mick frowned. 'He deserves a good slap.'

'You cannot take the law into your own hands,' Fandi intoned somberly, 'not in this case.'

'I'll go and demand my money back.'

'The shoes will have to be destroyed.'

'I want my money,' Mick whined.

'Leave it to me,' Fandi counselled. 'A refund is going to be the least of the speculator's worries.' He pointed at the bag. 'He sold you these today?'

'An hour ago.'

'Then he's facing forty lashes, ten days in jail, a large fine and,' running his tongue along his lower lip, Fandi tried to keep the glee from his voice, 'compulsory attendance at a religious re-education course.'

That still leaves me without any trainers.

Fandi read his thoughts. 'We will confiscate his entire stock. You can have the pick of what you want. As many pairs as you like. Excluding the Nikes, obviously.'

Mick considered the offer. 'Are Adidas okay?'

'Adidas are fine. It's only Nike that's banned.'

For now. 'Nothing else planned?'

'Nothing else planned,' Fandi confirmed. 'But you know what it's like. Things change.'

'Things change,' Mick agreed, 'but I can live with that.'

They were interrupted by the sound of a loud crash from the next gallery.

'Looks like the boys are doing a bit of overtime,' Fandi mused. Looking round the mess, he kicked a piece of plaster in the direction of a decapitated head which was staring up at the ceiling. 'Maybe this would be a good backdrop for my interview.'

I thought it was supposed to be my interview, Mick thought sourly. Sally had warned him that his whole BNN exclusive could be hijacked by the ambitious cleric and it looked like she could be right.

'Have you met the American journalist yet?'

'Not yet. He's only just arrived.'

Fandi scanned the gallery, as if seeing it for the first time. 'Let's do it here,' he said softly, talking more to himself than to his companion.

'If you say so,' Mick said huffily.

The boy's tone snapped Fandi out of his trance. 'Remember,' he said sternly, 'this interview is important. We have to treat Mr Vonkel well. Don't get any ideas about chopping his head off.'

CHAPTER 25

'Fuck's sake!' On the brink of tears, Amir Rasool smacked the wall in frustration, leaving a dirty palm print at around head height.

'What's wrong now?' Sprawled on a tatty sofa, Damien Wilson looked up from his magazine. He wasn't a great reader, but, sitting around in the abandoned house that had been allocated to them on their arrival, there wasn't much else to do. He found the mag in one of the bedrooms upstairs. The feature on Militant Mick and some bird in a burqa looked like a parody of Hello or something. All of the text was in Arabic but at least he could look at the pictures.

'This house is shit.' Amir pointed to the games console sitting on the dusty floor, plugged into an electric socket. 'There's no bloody power again. I can't get it charged. I was just about to get to the next level.'

'First world problems,' Sandra Baig smirked, the lack of sympathy in her voice obvious. 'Lots of people living here have been bombed out of their homes by the Americans. You should be grateful to have a roof over your head.'

Amir muttered something that didn't sound much like gratitude.

'Anyway,' Damien added, 'you didn't come here to play games.'

Not in the mood for a lecture, Amir stormed out of the room and stomped up the stairs.

'He's going stir crazy,' Sandra observed.

'He needs a slap.' Damien tossed the magazine on the floor.

'He needs something to occupy his time.'

'What d'ya want me to do about it?' Damien shrugged. 'They say we're going to start our military training next week. Until then, there's not a lot to do but hang out.'

'I've got a job.'

'Yeah,' Damien smirked, 'in the Sisters of Mercy.' He gestured at the shapeless black garment she was wearing. 'Nice uniform!'

'The Sisters of Righteousness,' Sandra corrected him. She had signed up for the all-female militia on their first day in city. 'And you know that everyone has to dress the same way.'

Damien made a face. 'I would have thought that the religious police would have something a bit more, I dunno, different.'

'We have to set an example,' Sandra said stiffly.

'Are they going to give you a gun?'

Sandra made a face. 'I would expect so. Most of the others have them. It will just be for show, though. I wouldn't know how to use it.'

'I like a woman with an Uzi,' Damien chuckled.

'Not an Uzi, that's an Israeli weapon. Most likely, I'll get an AK-47. Or maybe a pistol.'

'What's wrong with an Israeli weapon?'

'God, you are such an idiot.'

'Don't call me an idiot, woman.' Springing from the sofa, Damien lunged towards Sandra, arm raised. Taking a step backwards, she ducked out of the way, giving him a gentle backhander in the process.

'Ow!'

'Behave, Damien.'

The boy rubbed the back of his head as he flopped back onto the sofa. 'That hurt.'

'Wait till I get my AK-47,' Sandra laughed. 'Then you should start to worry.'

'Wait till they marry you off.'

'I'll marry myself off.'

'You should be married already,' Damien jeered. 'Nineteen is past it.'

'It's not past it. Anyway, I've only just got here.'

Lifting his feet onto the sofa, Damien farted loudly. 'Albu is looking for a bride.'

'Bloody hell, Damien. That's gross.' Sandra wrinkled her nose at the smell. The boy was disgusting.

'It's the food they give us. The beans are giving me terrible wind. It's not like the stuff we get at home.'

'Well it wouldn't be, would it?'

'Albu says he's had the same stuff every day for months. I'm going to email my mum, see if she can send us some proper stuff.'

Good luck with that. 'Who is this Albu?'

'Albu Kamal, a jihadist from Sweden. We met him yesterday.'

Sandra tried to put a face to the name but her mind was blank. They had met so many new people in the last few days, it was impossible to keep up.

'He asked me about you.' Trying to play matchmaker, Damien giggled like an eight-year-old in the school yard. 'Whether you were available.'

'Did he now?' Blushing, Sandra didn't know whether she felt flattered or outraged.

'You could do a lot worse,' Damien reasoned. 'He might be Swedish but at least he's not one of the locals.'

'I wouldn't worry about me,' said Sandra firmly. 'I can look after myself.'

'That's not the way it's supposed to work.'

'Don't tell me how it's supposed to work,' Sandra snapped. 'Anyway, you should be getting married yourself.'

'Fine by me.' The boy scratched at his t-shirt.

'You want to get married then?' Sandra's voice softened as the conversation moved away from her own possible nuptials.

'Sure.' The boy's enthusiasm seemed genuine.

It's probably the only way he's ever going to get laid. Sandra chuckled at the thought.

'What's so funny?'

'Nothing.' Taking a deep breath, she composed herself. 'So, what kind of bride are you looking for?'

'One that does what she's told.'

Sandra rolled her eyes. 'Obviously.'

'And fit too. I want a good-looking bride.'

'How very superficial,' she observed archly.

'It's hard to know what you're getting,' Damien continued, seemingly oblivious to her sarcasm, 'what with the veil and stuff.'

'Mm.'

'It's like a bit of a lucky dip.'

'I would have thought you might have considered that before.'

'It's definitely a problem,' Damien sighed. 'I'll have to ask Mick about it.'

'You do that.' Sandra shook her head. The only time the boys had stopped moaning since they had arrived in Raqqa was when they had been invited round to Militant Mick's house. The visit had been primarily a photo opportunity for a local newspaper but once the photographer had been ushered out the three of them had taken tea with Mick while Sally had filled them in on some of the basic dos and don'ts in their new home.

'Mick's missus,' Damien ventured enthusiastically, 'now she's quite fit.'

She looked a bit skanky to me. Sandra kept the thought to herself.

'He got lucky there.'

'He saw her before they got married, you nit. They met online.'

Damien pondered the situation for a moment. 'Maybe they'll get divorced.'

'You never know.'

Lifting his hips, Damien tried to push out another fart, but, mercifully, the tank was empty. 'Or, maybe, I'll decide to take you.'

'In your dreams.'

'As wife number four,' Damien cackled.

Sandra shuddered at the thought. Maybe I'll shoot you in the head. 'I have to get going, we're leafleting the market today.' Grabbing her headscarf from the table in the middle of the room, she gestured towards a stack of flyers sitting nearby. 'We're telling good Muslim women to stay away from beauty salons and fashion boutiques.'

'Not that there's much in the way of fashion here,' Damien said drily

'Still, it's part of the bigger issue.' Sandra carefully wrapped the scarf around her head. 'Muslim women need to know how they are expected to behave.'

'You can say that again.' Damien extended an arm. 'Show me.'

Sandra handed him one of the badly Xeroxed leaflets.

'It's written in Arabic.' With a groan, Damien let it fall to the floor.

'What did you expect? Chinese?'

'Do you even know what it says?'

'I put it through Google Translate.'

'Can you even speak to any of these people?'

Sandra made a face. 'I don't have to be able to speak to them to hand out leaflets.'

'No, but still.' Damien ostentatiously scratched his crotch.

'We share a great unspoken bond.'

'Hm.'

'And, anyway, most of the girls in the militia speak English.'

'Eh?'

'Most of the militia are foreign jihadis,' Sandra explained, 'they've come from all over the place – Germany, Spain. There's even one from America.'

'America? Is she married?'

'I dunno,' Sandra laughed.

'When are you off to the market?'

'I've gotta go now.' Sorting out her scarf, Sandra pointed at the ceiling. 'See if you can sort Amir out.'

Damien grunted something non-committal.

'We're here now. He needs to get his head right.'

'Yeah, yeah.'

'And don't forget to get to prayers on time.'

'Yes, Mum.'

'See you later.'

'Later.' Damien saluted Sandra's back. Once she had left, he sat motionless, listening to the sounds from the street outside, wondering just how he had ended up here.

CHAPTER 26

Oblivious to the afternoon heat, a line of people snaked round the block – the majority of them women dressed from head to toe in black – waiting in silence for a small convenience store to open.

Standing in a merciful patch of shade on the opposite side of the road, Elliot Vonkel swatted at a fly as he tried to pick out interesting faces in the queue.

'Don't stare at people, Elliot. We have to keep a low profile. We don't want to cause any offence.'

'I'll need to get some shots,' Vonkel countered. 'And maybe some vox pops. The people in the line would make a good sequence.'

'I don't think so.' Alfons Berghofer gently ushered the American in the direction of their guesthouse which was little more than twenty yards further down the street. 'This isn't New York. You can't just go up to people and stick a camera in their face.'

'I know that,' Vonkel lied. As a star presenter, he had never had to debase himself by standing on the street and trying to coax vaguely coherent soundbites from members of the general public. That was what assistant producers were for.

'Our hosts are not going to take kindly to you trying to film food queues.'

'But I need pictures,' Vonkel pointed out reasonably. 'My report has to consist of more than just a couple of talking heads.'

'Mullah Fandi will give us plenty of stock footage of fighters in action.'

'I still have to shoot my own stuff. I am trying to restore my reputation here; I'm not going to do that with propaganda wallpaper shots.'

'Restore your reputation?' Berghofer raised an eyebrow 'What do you mean?'

'Nothing, nothing.'

'Well, I'll speak to Fandi. Maybe we can go and film a hospital or something. Victims of American bombing. But not these kind of pictures.' Berghofer gestured with his chin towards a trio of black Lexus sedans parked further down the street. Each had a complement of masked gunmen keeping a close eye on comings and goings. 'We need to get back inside. When the call to prayer comes, things will start to get nasty. Once these people realise they have waited hours for nothing, there will be a mini-riot.'

'Mm. Right.' Trying not to stare at the cars, Vonkel upped his pace. 'Let's get off the street.'

Back in the welcome cool of the guesthouse, Kadiza served them with tea and dates. Promising lamb stew for dinner, she scuttled off in the direction of the kitchen, leaving the two Westerners sitting in a small lounge area next to the reception.

'I need to go and take my pills.' Draining his glass, Berghofer bit into a large date, chewing carefully. 'I think I'll have a rest before dinner.'

'Okay.'

'Amro should be back soon. I'll ask him to go and see about getting a time for the interviews. He can also find out where we might be allowed to film.'

Yawning, Vonkel considered the possibility of taking a nap himself. The travelling was catching up with him and he would need to be fresh for his date with Militant Mick. 'Sounds like a plan.'

'See you later, then.' As Berghofer slipped from the room, Vonkel sipped at his tea as he contemplated the events of the last few days. It was little more than a week since he had been sacked by Monkseaton Chamberlain Junior. Already, his time on the BNN seemed like a lifetime ago. Despite everything, he felt rather pleased with himself. To have dusted himself down and set out on a new assignment spoke volumes about his character, did it not? And to get this far was a considerable achievement.

On the far wall of the room hung a small mirror. His reflection showed a face that was only vaguely familiar: tanned, unshaven and tired. Tired but undefeated. Vonkel started to laugh. For the first time since he left New York, it seemed like he might actually pull this thing off.

His reverie was interrupted by the chirp of his mobile. Pulling the handset from his pocket, he squinted at the screen. Seeing Luciana Dreedle's number flashing up in front of him, he hit receive.

'Hey.'

'Elliot? Is that you? Where are you?'

'I'm in Syria,' he smiled at the sound of the familiar voice of his agent, 'in Raqqa.'

'You made it okay then?'

'Yeah. It all went according to plan, more or less.'

'And they haven't fitted you up for your own orange jumpsuit yet? I keep going online, expecting to see you starring in your own snuff movie on the internet.'

'I'm fine. Everyone has been cool. No one's threatened to cut my head off,' he giggled nervously, 'not yet anyway.'

'So, what's it like?'

'Well–' Vonkel suddenly wondered if the call might be being monitored. Did these guys have that kind of capability? 'Let's just say it's different. I'm going to get some good stuff.'

'Have you met the main man yet?'

'No. But I went to see his wife. She's a Brit too. Young girl but very supportive of the project. We're hoping to do the interview in the next couple of days. I'll get some nice pictures and I reckon we should be back in Istanbul and ready to edit in about a week.'

'Good, good,' Luciana said briskly over the hubbub of voices in the background. Maybe she was at breakfast, or perhaps lunch. Glancing at his watch, Vonkel had to admit that he had no idea what time it was back in New York.

'I spoke to Junior,' Luciana continued. 'He's not happy about the idea of you being back on the network but he's even less happy about the idea of you popping up with a world exclusive on one of their rival's. He knows that BNN would look really stupid if that happened.'

'Really stupid,' Vonkel agreed.

'So … he's going to take it. We've agreed a deal where they get first refusal on the piece.' She mentioned a dollar figure that meant nothing to her client. 'For that they get twenty-four hours from sight of the rough edit to buy it.'

'Yay!' Vonkel punched the air in triumph. 'That's a good deal, right?'

'Elliot, I always get you a good deal. Anyway, this is not just about the money, is it?'

'No.'

'BNN will also want to do a "making of" piece with you. Junior was coy, but I think if this all goes well, they will end up taking you back, full-time.'

'If I want to go back.'

'Don't get cute, Elliot. If you manage to pull this off, it will be a miracle up there with the loaves and the fishes. Come to think about it, you should be worshipping my feet right now.'

'I am,' he laughed, 'don't you doubt it.' Slipping from his chair, he lowered himself onto the carpet. 'I'm on my knees as we speak.'

'Shame this isn't a Skype call.'

'I'll send you some pictures.'

'You do that,' Luciana laughed.

Kadiza walked past the door, giving him a funny look.

'Kadiza! Come here.'

The hotel owner cautiously complied.

'Here.' Vonkel handed her the phone. 'Take a couple of photographs.' He showed her the button to press and began bowing on the carpet. 'I'm praying in the direction of New York,' he shouted towards the handset as Kadiza snapped away.

'Elliot?'

After a final bow, Vonkel stood up. Thanking his host, he retrieved the phone and clamped it to his ear. Shaking her head, Kadiza continued about her business. 'We've got some pictures of me bowing to your greatness. I'll send over a couple of the best ones.'

'You do that.'

'Elliot Vonkel is back!'

'Let's not get ahead of ourself. One step at a time.'

'Okay, okay.' Outside, the call to prayer started up from a series of loudspeakers.

'What's that?'

'Prayer time.'

'Okay, well, good luck.'

'Thanks.'

'Gimme a call when you've got the interview in the can.'

'Will do.'

'And Elliot?'

'Yes?'

'This is your big chance to save yourself. Don't fuck it up.'

CHAPTER 27

Despite the fact that it was barely eight in the morning, the heat was already closing in, enveloping her like a shroud that would make it progressively harder to breathe as the day wore on. In a couple of hours, she would have to retreat to her small room, lying still on the bed, hoping that the ancient AC unit perched under the window somehow managed to rattle and wheeze its way through another day.

Ann Wilson had never been good in the heat; neither had Damien for that matter. Swatting at a fly buzzing in front of her face, she recalled a summer holiday in Cornwall. Her son had just turned six. Ann remembered reading at the time that it had been the hottest summer in England for more than seventy years. When they went to the beach she had tried to keep the boy covered up as much as possible but the brutal heat had caused a bright red rash to break out all across his arms and his stomach. At the time, Ann had been mortified, whisking him off to a local GP, worried that it was measles or something worse. The doctor, a small Indian man, had been dismissive of her concerns, telling her that it was nothing to worry about. Ann had been less than impressed with his manner but the diagnosis had proved correct. Much to her relief, the rash had disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, leaving Ann able to focus on her other concerns.

Cornwall was memorable for several reasons. Apart from anything else, it had been the last family holiday before she had divorced Rashid. That had been what, nine years ago? No, more like ten now. Either way, it was far enough in the past to make it feel like it had happened to someone else.

An image of the hotel room that the three of them had shared popped into her head. The sharpness of the image, right down to the tatty carpet and the stained wallpaper, was quite remarkable. She remembered Damien unable to sleep; Rashid storming out in a huff, going to the pub, or so he said, coming back at two in the morning smelling of fried food and sex. Not even bothering to wash before slipping under the covers beside her.

Even now, the memory made her recoil. Within seconds of joining her in the bed he had fallen fast asleep. Ann remembered staring at the ceiling, listening to his loud snoring, realising that the marriage was over. Even then, the thought provoked no real emotion. It was just one of those things.

In the event, the divorce process took longer than the marriage itself. Rashid seemed equally relaxed about what was happening. He stayed in the family home for a couple of months longer and then left one day, never to return. Ann only realised what had happened when she noticed that he had taken all of his underwear with him. Pulling open the empty drawer, she had burst out laughing. There would be less washing to worry about from now on.

Out of the corner of her eye, Ann caught a passing waitress looking at her, bemused. 'Focus,' she whispered to herself, 'you're here for Damien. Think about him. This is not about the mess you've made of your own life.'

Wherever the boy was right now, it would be even hotter than the Firewall Café. The thought made her fret. Damien might technically be approaching adulthood but, to all intents and purposes, he was still a child. She looked up at the stationary fan hanging from the ceiling. Why didn't someone switch it on? Or maybe it was broken. In which case, why didn't someone fix it? The weather seemed to be targeting her with a relentless, ruthless efficiency that every other aspect of her quest lacked. Back home, it was fifteen degrees cooler, with guaranteed rain. She never imagined that she would miss the rain. She never imagined she would miss Lockleaze, the humdrum neighbourhood where she had lived with Damien for the last five years.

Until he had run away.

What kind of mother would let her only child run away to a war zone?

The question caused her to tingle with shame. At least cigarettes were cheap here. Ann took the final Marlboro from the packet and lit it with her disposable plastic lighter. Taking a deep drag, she looked around the dingy room as the rush hour traffic rumbled past outside. Holding the smoke deep in her lungs, she contemplated the poster for an upcoming local film festival that had been taped to the wall. The star attraction was an American TV actress who had been famous for appearing in some flavour of the month soap opera fifteen years earlier.

Good to know that she's still alive, Ann thought sourly. Finally letting the smoke escape, she blew a stream towards the ceiling. But what the hell is she doing here?

For that matter, what the hell am I doing here?

The café had been her home from home for the last week now. She had even received a small nod of recognition from the guy behind the counter this morning, along with her coffee and croissant. Sitting at what had become her "usual" table, Ann flicked some ash into the Coke can which had been cut in half, in order to serve as an ashtray. Taking another puff on the smoke, she looked at the mobile sitting on the table next to a baseball cap bearing the logo of the local football team. Both items had been purchased at the minimart round the corner, close to the Merkez Camii. The Nokia was a cheap, pay-as-you-go model that just made calls, the kind you couldn't buy back home anymore. It would need a top-up later today; she couldn't afford to let it run out.

Grimacing, Ann went through a quick list of the various things she needed to buy: phone credits, Marlboros, water, toiletries. In total, it would all cost another fifty dollars, at least. Her financial situation was well on the way to desperate. She had been running out of cash ever since she arrived. After three days, she had moved out of the Hilton to a tiny pension run by a crazy woman with a dog called Osama. Even there, the cheapest room was still costing 200 lira, more than fifty pounds a night. For the umpteenth time that morning, Ann did an audit in her head: maxed out on both her credit cards, she had little more than $200 left in her money belt, along with a twenty-pound note and around 500 lira. It wasn't enough to get her through the week.

Taking a final drag on her cigarette, Ann dropped the stub into the can, eyeing the phone suspiciously. She would have to make the call sooner or later, so she might as well get on with it.

There were only two numbers programmed into the phone. Picking up the handset, she chose one and hit call.

'Any news?' At least Rashid was taking her calls. The anxiety in his voice was strangely gratifying. Ann knew that it was to do with concern about his business, rather than his son, but, still, at least there was something.

'I'm still waiting.'

'I told you, he's not going to turn up.' Rashid let out a yelp of frustration. 'You don't know he's even checking his phone.'

'He sent me a text–'

'That was a week ago,' snapped her ex-husband. 'For all you know, they've taken it off him.'

Whoever "they" were. Almost a month after Damien's disappearance, they still knew next to nothing about who the boy was with and what he was doing, beyond what had been reported in the Post's front page splash.

'Why would they do that? It's not like he's their prisoner or anything.'

'We don't know that. We don't know anything. He could be–' Rashid stopped himself before the word dead slithered from his mouth. Taking a deep breath, he tried again: 'The Foreign Office is still trying to provide a situation update.'

'The Foreign Office,' Ann let out a snort of derision, 'a lot of help they are.' Melanie Lambert, the spotty news aggregator sitting at her desk in Bristol, was a better source of information than the chinless wonders of King Charles Street.

'Yes, well.'

'The bottom line is we have no idea what his situation is.'

'That is correct,' Rashid conceded.

'So,' Ann took a deep breath, 'I need more money.'

'Bloody hell,' Rashid's veneer of cool had lasted precisely ten seconds, 'since when did I become a walking ATM for you?'

Since your son went missing, idiot. Ann kept her jaw clamped firmly shut.

'I've got a family to look after.'

'Rashid,' she said, trying to remain calm in the face of the man's grotesque selective amnesias, 'you've got two families to look after.'

'And I've always paid the maintenance,' he shot back, 'not like a lot of other guys.'

You can afford it, Ann thought sourly. The success of Rashid's post-divorce business career was a source of considerable irritation. These days, the man probably spent more on lunching business contacts than he did on looking after his first-born son. In fact, there was no probably about it.

'Always on time. Always the right amount.' Rashid was on a roll now, in full self-justification mode. 'You've never had to go to the CSA to chase any payments.'

'I could have gone to the Child Support Agency,' Ann pointed out, not in the mood to take any crap from the little weasel, 'when your income started taking off. Come to think of it, I probably still could.'

'Yes, yes.' Realising his mistake, he quickly backtracked. 'But you're not over there on holiday, you know. I already gave you–'

'Just send the damn money,' she snapped. 'I need one thousand five hundred pounds. Send it via Western Union. I won't ask for any more. When that's done, I'll come home – with or without Damien. I already have my ticket.'

The last part was a lie. The rest of it, she had no idea. The start of term was looming but the prospect of going back to the classroom seemed rather far-fetched at the moment.

For several seconds she listened to Rashid breathing down the phone.

'One thousand five hundred pounds?'

'Yes,' Ann said quickly, trying to hide the nervousness in her voice. If her calculations were right, £1000 should be about enough, but she had assumed that he would haggle. Rashid was the type of man who would haggle over anything.

More breathing, followed by a woman's voice in the background.

'Alright, alright,' Rashid snapped, 'I'm coming.'

Surely this is more important than anything going on back there, Ann thought, as she listened to muffled voices in the background.

After a few moments, Rashid returned his attention to the phone. 'Are you still there?'

'Of course I'm still bloody here. Where would I have gone?'

'Okay,' he said finally, 'I'll wire you the money. It'll be there this afternoon.'

CHAPTER 28

Rashid ended the call and raised his gaze to the heavens. Mother of God! How had he ever ended up married to that woman? Even after all these years, she could drive him mad. First she lets their son walk out of his school and fly off – to bloody Syria of all places – and then she chases after him. And he has to pick up the tab! The whole thing was a complete joke!

'Mr Zubair?'

'Huh?' Turning, he realised that his PA, Sandra, was hovering at his side, a concerned look on her face.

'Are you alright?' In her hand, she held a glass of water and a packet of paracetamol. 'You don't look well.'

'I'm fine.' Rashid took the glass, gulping down the water as Sandra pushed a couple of pills from their foil wrapper.

'You have to be careful.' She handed him the pills. 'We don't want you having another funny turn.'

Rashid dropped the pills into his mouth and washed them down with the last of the water. 'I'm fine,' he repeated, handing her back the empty glass. 'Obviously this would be a very stressful situation for anyone.'

Sandra nodded gravely. 'Not everyone's had a stroke though.'

'That was years ago,' Rashid winced at the memory, 'and it was a very minor stroke.'

'Yes, but–'

He waved away her concerns. 'The doctor said I'd made one of the best recoveries he'd ever seen. Anyway, this isn't about me.' Lifting his chin, he gestured towards a set of heavy wooden doors behind him. 'Is everyone here?'

'Yes,' Sandra nodded, 'Mr Hunter arrived a minute ago.'

'Good timing.' Rashid handed over the phone. 'Does Imran have the file?'

'He was just finishing it a minute ago.'

Better late than never. The boy was so damn slow at everything, even the photocopying. Rashid was increasingly resigned to the fact that he would never be able to hand over his business to his son; the sad truth was that the boy would run it into the ground in a matter of months.

One son an idiot, the other a wannabe terrorist. What did that say about him as a parent? Rashid didn't want to go there.

'Have him bring it up.'

'Of course.' Sandra retreated behind her desk.

'And I could do with some coffee.' Rashid started towards the boardroom. At the door, he paused to straighten his tie, ran a hand through his hair and attached a suitably restrained smile to his face. Then he grabbed the handle and burst into the room as if he owned the place, which, in fact, he did. The faces of his guests turned to greet his arrival. 'Sorry to keep you all waiting.' Rashid gestured for everyone to stay in their seats.

Four people were clustered around one end of a table that could sit more than twenty. Three of them were familiar to him by now; the fourth was a newcomer, it was the first time that they had met, face to face.

Stepping around the end of the table, he focused on the newcomer. 'I was on the phone to my wife.' Instantly, he realised his mistake. 'My ex-wife, I mean. She is in Adana.' The words seemed to surprise him. 'In Turkey.'

'I know it.' Daniel Hunter rose from his seat and, careful not to tower over his host, offered his hand. 'Nice to meet you, Mr Zubair.'

'You've been there?' Rashid shook Hunter's hand and slipped into the chair that had been left vacant for him at the head of the table.

'A couple of times.' The expression on Hunter's face made it clear that he would not be going into the details.

Rashid lifted a bottle of sparkling water from the table. 'Have you been introduced?' He pointed the cap in the direction of the three worried-looking people facing Hunter before opening the bottle and filling a glass almost to the brim.

The old man sitting furthest from Hunter drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. 'We thought that we would wait for you to arrive and make the formal introductions, Rashid.'

'Very well, Salman.' Rashid took a sip of water, placing his glass carefully on the table before turning back to Hunter. 'From the left, we have Salman Baig, his wife Moira, and Shakeel Rasool.'

Slumped in their seats, the trio nodded nervously. Salman Baig looked like he was pushing seventy. The other two, Hunter pegged at around fifty.

'Everybody, this is Mr Daniel Hunter, he is the military expert I told you about. He will be helping us.'

Saying nothing, Hunter stared at the expensive-looking painting hanging on the wall behind Rashid Zubair. He was making a mental note to increase his proposed fee when a cough from his host brought him back to the here and now.

'I got everyone together after my ex decided to go gallivanting off to Turkey in the hope that our boy would somehow just turn up,' Rashid explained.

Gallivanting. That wasn't a word you heard much these days. Holding the man's gaze, Hunter concentrated on demonstrating that he was listening carefully.

'I thought that it made sense for us to combine our efforts,' Rashid explained. 'After all, we are all in the same boat. Our children have run off to play at being soldiers and no one in authority seems interested in helping us. God knows what is being done to them, how they are being brainwashed, how they are being exploited and no one seems able to lift a finger to help. Worst of all, they can't even be bothered to pretend to be doing something.' He shook his head in dismay. 'Is this what the world is coming to? Our children are maybe a seven- or eight-hour flight away and yet they might as well be on Mars.'

Murmurs of agreement from the other side of the table.

'We visited the Foreign Office yesterday,' Salman Baig pointed out, 'they kept us waiting for more than two hours in a dingy waiting room, without so much as the offer of a cup of tea.'

'And then some skinny boy appeared,' Mrs Baig now took up the story, 'and told us basically that we should just sit tight and keep our mouths shut. Not talk to any journalists, not talk to anyone. Just wait.'

'They want us to go away,' Shakeel Rasool said quietly. 'Our children are an embarrassment and we are an embarrassment.'

'I'm sure they're doing all they can behind the scenes and so forth,' Rashid gave the impression of not believing it for a second, 'but you don't get the impression that they have a handle on what is actually happening over there any more than my ex does.'

'It's very difficult,' Hunter agreed.

Salman Baig placed his hands on the table, palms down. 'Perhaps, Mr Hunter, you could outline your credentials. What skills and experience do you have that are going to be helpful to us? What makes you think that you can succeed where the entire government has failed?'

Rashid started to say something along the lines that he had already made the decision to hire the man but Hunter cut him off. 'Well, Sir,' he said, addressing the old man, but eyeing each of the trio in turn, 'I spent many years in the British Army, in the Royal Military Police.'

'You were a Red Cap?' Mrs Baig asked, referring to the RMP's distinctive peaked cap. 'I saw a programme about them on TV not so long ago.'

'Yes, I was a military policeman.'

'Which makes him perfect for us,' Rashid ventured.

Ignoring the endorsement, Hunter ploughed on with the top-line summary of his CV. 'I followed that up with a spell in the French Foreign Legion, where I saw service in various different theatres, including parts of the Middle East. I returned to the UK just over a year ago. Since then I have been working as a private security consultant for different clients, one of whom introduced me to Mr Zubair.'

'He comes highly recommended,' Rashid butted in, 'by a business contact whose opinion I rate very highly.'

The others nodded warily.

'Presumably,' Baig observed, 'your services do not come cheap. Apart from anything else, this is a risky endeavour we are talking about here.'

This time Hunter deferred to Rashid. The businessman gave a reassuring smile. 'Do not worry about the cost.'

'Easy to say now,' Baig gestured at his wife and Rasool, 'but we are people of modest means. There will be expenses. And when it comes time to pay the bill–'

Rashid waved away the old man's concerns. 'It will be taken care of. Mr Hunter will be retained by Antioch Industries. The company will cover his costs.'

Antioch Industries was the holding company of Rashid Zubair and a number of unnamed investors from Britain's Asian community. From his initial online research, Hunter understood that it specialised in various different business, including financial services, pharmaceuticals and cement.

Salman Baig raised a bushy eyebrow. 'Is this not a private matter?'

A brief look of irritation crossed Rashid's face before he chased it away. 'It is my business and it is my company.' The message was clear: I'm giving you a free ride here, if you're going to take it, I don't expect any back-seat driving.

CHAPTER 29

An awkward silence descended on the room as the door opened and a smartly-dressed young man appeared, carrying a thin manila file. Glancing at Rashid, he placed the file in front of Hunter and retreated from the room without saying a word.

'Tell Sandra I'm still waiting for my coffee,' Rashid shouted after him.

The boy mumbled something just as the door clicked shut.

'My other son,' Rashid mumbled, as if embarrassed by the boy's existence, 'Imran.' He gestured at the file. 'Sandra Baig, Amir Rasool and, of course, Damien. We have put together as much information about our children as we could – photographs, mobile phones, Twitter accounts – anything we thought might help you find them.'

Hunter smiled at each of the parents in turn. 'I'm sure that this will be helpful. Thank you.'

'And then there's this.' Getting up from his seat, Rashid retrieved a remote control from a sideboard behind him and pointed it at a large TV screen at the far end of the room. After some button pressing, the TV sprung into life. Hunter found himself looking at a close-up of a gaunt young man, standing in what looked like a desert location. In the background a group of teenagers were laughing and joking.

'This is Amir,' Rashid explained.

Mortified, Shakeel Rasool dropped his gaze to the table.

'The boy gave an interview to something called Vice News, it's a kind of internet TV station.' Rashid pointed at the screen with the remote. 'I think Damien is one of the boys in the background, but I can't be sure. Anyway, this was picked up by my social media monitoring agency. We don't know when it was recorded but it was posted online last night.'

He hit play.

A voiceover intro intoned solemnly: 'This is Abu Sumayyah – not his real name – a seventeen-year-old student. Abu and two friends came to Syria from England a few weeks ago, in order to join the radical terror IS group.'

Off camera, a reporter asks: 'What's it like being here?'

Grinning into the camera, Amir/Abu says: 'It's actually quite fun, better than I expected. We have been training and learning how to use different weapons. We saw our first action three days ago.'

'Wow! What was that like?'

'It was amazing! It's like real, you know, miles better than that game – what's it called, Call of Duty? It's like that, but really, you know, 3D. You can see everything's happening in front of you. It's real, you know what I mean? The buzz is incredible.'

Hunter glanced at Shakeel. The poor man was on the verge of tears.

'So you are having a good time?' the reporter asked.

'Totally, man. It's freedom, like total freedom. This is the good life, it's fun. I do what I want. I can walk around with a Kalashnikov or an RPG if I want to. No one tells you what to do. We are the bosses here.'

'So you don't want to go home?'

'Never, man, never. I ain't ever going home. I'm going to stay, get married and recruit other fighters. This is the best.' Amir/Abu started beating his chest with his fist. 'This is my life.'

The report cut to images of men in black, their faces covered, going through a succession of training drills in a rocky landscape before returning to pictures of Amir/Abu gazing thoughtfully out across the desert as he smoked a roll-up. The commentary concluded: 'The attraction of jihad is obvious. Abu is one of an estimated six hundred British citizens who have joined the fight and there are thought to be as many as two and a half thousand Europeans fighting under the flag of Islamic State. With the authorities in their home countries apparently unable to stop them, that number can only increase.'

'That's basically it.' Rashid hit the pause button, leaving Amir's grinning face dominating the screen. 'As you can see, we've got a serious problem.'

You can say that again. 'And Damien's mother,' Hunter started, 'has she had any contact with Damien?'

Rashid seemed irked by the question. 'He sent her a text message, just saying that he was okay. He didn't say where he was. That was a week ago. Since then, nothing.'

'And, Mrs er–'

'Ann. Ann Wilson.' Now Rashid looked really pissed off, like he was supposed to be the star of this show, not his ex-wife. 'She always kept her own name. She was funny like that.'

Wisely, as it turned out, Hunter reflected.

'She's going to stay in Turkey for a few more days, just in case. Apart from anything else, she needs to get back to get ready for the new academic year; she's a lecturer at the university.'

Hunter didn't ask which university – it wasn't relevant. 'Does she know anyone in Adana?' he asked. 'Does she have any consular or other support?'

'No. At least not as far as I'm aware.' Rashid glanced at the door. Where is my bloody coffee? 'She just up and went off her own bat, she wanted to feel like she was doing something, I suppose.'

'Alright.' Ignoring Rashid's dismissive tone, Hunter looked at each of the three parents opposite him. Unlike Rashid, who seemed energised by the challenge in front of him, they looked exhausted, defeated. Slumped in their chairs, they seemed to be waiting for the inevitable arrival of bad news. It was probably the only sensible approach to take.

CHAPTER 30

Several lifetimes ago, Daniel Hunter had had been a parent himself. He knew what it was like to lose his family. You crawled into a dark place from which there would never be any escape; from which you never wanted to escape. Rashid Zubair might be too arrogant to realise it, but all of them were on the bumpy road to hell. There was only one way this thing was likely to end and Hunter had no interest in filling them with any kind of false hope.

Eyeing each of the parents in turn, he spoke slowly and softly. 'You have to understand that I can make no promises. No one can make any promises.' He pointed at the screen. 'That video does not appear to give us any indication of where they are but if your children are in Syria they will be hard to locate. Harder still to extract.'

Especially if they don't want to come back.

'In the event that they do return to the UK–'

The highly unlikely event.

'–they will almost certainly face arrest and, most likely, incarceration. Your lives will not go back to whatever passed as normal before.'

'Mr Hunter,' Rashid scowled, 'you don't need to try and manage our expectations. Wherever they are, we want you to find them and bring them home.'

'I understand that.' Rashid was beginning to get on his nerves but he was determined to remain coolly professional. Apart from anything else, he needed the work. 'I think we all understand the size of the challenge. There can be no promises.'

Shakeel Rasool removed his spectacles and wiped his eyes. 'So how will you go about this task?' he asked, his voice tremulous.

Put on the spot, Hunter cleared his throat. 'Well, I have already spoken to various contacts in the area. First we have to try and find your children and then devise a plan to get them out. From here, I am going to the airport, to catch a flight to Istanbul. Tomorrow I will meet with Mrs, er, Ms Wilson and see if there have been any developments.'

Arms folded, Rashid sat back in his chair, looking less than impressed by that part. At least he managed to keep his mouth shut.

'Then,' Hunter continued, 'I will have to make my way across the border and, well, take it from there.'

They all knew it was not much of a plan. The only alternative, however, was to sit around waiting, waiting perhaps months or even years, for the confirmation of their worst fears. At least this gave them the impression that they – like Ann Wilson – were doing something. If nothing else, Hunter was looking forward to meeting Rashid's ex; she had the gumption to get up and go, rather than sit behind a desk and throw money at the problem.

'Does your ex-wife know that I will be coming?'

'Not yet,' Rashid admitted. 'I'll speak to her later on.'

'Good. I'll need her mobile number.'

'Yes, yes, of course.' Jumping to his feet, Rashid gestured towards the door. 'I think, if no one has any more questions, we're done here. And you have a flight to catch.'

'Yes, of course.' Getting to his feet, Hunter picked up the file before shaking hands with the Baigs and Shakeel Rasool. 'Thank you for your time today.'

Like they had anything else to be doing.

The two men stared at the table, offering feeble nods. Mrs Baig managed a smile.

'I am very sorry that we had to meet in such circumstances,' Hunter said solemnly. 'I shall, of course, keep you informed of any developments through Mr Zubair.' Not wishing to prolong the conversation any longer, he slipped from the room.

Standing in front of his PA's desk, Rashid gulped down an espresso and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes blazed with energy but he looked grey around the edges.

A man not in the best of health, Hunter thought.

I'm sorry about that.' Rashid gestured towards the boardroom door with his demitasse.

'It was fine,' Hunter shrugged.

'I didn't want you to feel it was too much like a job interview, but I want them to feel that they are being kept in the loop. We have to stick together at this very difficult time.'

'I think that's right.' Hunter was not going to contradict his new employer. If Rashid wanted to position himself as leader of a group of affected families that was up to him.

'Have you got everything you need?' Rashid placed the cup carefully on the desk.

'I think so, if there's anything else, I'll let you know.'

'Good.' Rashid gestured towards the secretary behind the desk, who was concentrating on something on her computer screen. 'Sandra can get hold of me at any time.'

'Your taxi's outside, Mr Hunter,' Sandra said, not looking up, 'and I've checked you in for the flight.' Reaching behind her, she pulled a sheet of A4 from a printer, stapled a business card to the top right-hand corner and handed it to Hunter. 'Here's your boarding card.'

'Thanks.' Glancing at the seat number, Hunter was disappointed to find that he would be travelling economy. More than likely, the next few weeks were going to be decidedly uncomfortable and a little luxury at either end wouldn't have gone amiss. At least it was only a four-hour flight to Istanbul. Plus, they had put him on BA; Hunter wasn't a particularly enthusiastic flyer and travelling with an airline that had never had a fatal crash was always reassuring.

'If there's a delay and you miss your connection,' Sandra intoned mechanically, 'the ticket is fully flexible. There is another Sonal flight to Adana two hours later. Mr Rangoon will pick you up at the airport. Send him a text message if you're going to be delayed.'

Hunter's eyes flicked to the business card stapled to the paper. It simply said: Carlos Rangoon, Businessman, with a mobile number underneath.

'Carlos is my representative in the Eastern Mediterranean.' Rashid checked the predictably expensive-looking watch on his wrist. 'He's been in Northern Cyprus for the last week but he should be arriving at Adana airport around now, assuming that he made his connection. Sonal Airlines can be a bit hit and miss.'

Adding the sheet of paper to his file, Hunter tried not to wince at the thought of flying Sonal.

'Carlos is a good man. We have worked together for the best part of a decade.' Rashid raised an eyebrow. 'He is very resourceful. Anything you need, just say the word. Carlos will be at your disposal for the duration of your trip.'

'Okay.' Hunter wasn't thrilled by this development. The last thing he wanted was one of the client's people on his shoulder in the field. But there was no point fretting about it now, he would have to sort it out when he arrived. 'I should get going.'

Rashid stole another glance at his watch. 'You've got plenty of time. Let me see you out.'

After the stuffiness of the boardroom, the chill of outside air was invigorating. Standing in the car park, Hunter turned into the wind, trying to blow some of the cobwebs from his mind as well as his body. This was going to be the hardest gig since he left the Legion, by far. It was a fairly hopeless mission but he would give it his best shot. The heartbroken parents – even Rashid – deserved nothing less.

Standing at his side, Rashid stared at the buckles on his shoes. 'Dominic Silver says that you are the best.'

The best what? Hunter wondered. He was grateful for the referral but his work for Silver – essentially acting as a nightwatchman and occasional bodyguard – was a long way short of what he was now being asked to do.

'He says,' Rashid coughed, 'you know how to look after yourself.'

'That's right.' Catching the eye of the taxi driver, Hunter signalled that he would only be one minute.

'That you know how to kill, if necessary.'

'Mr Zubair,' Hunter paused, waiting for the man to look him in the eye. 'I will do whatever I can to bring your boy back. And the others too. But, as I said inside, there can be no guarantees.'

'No, of course not.'

'As the saying goes, past performance is no guarantee of future success.' Hunter started walking to the taxi. 'I will let you know when I arrive in Adana.'

CHAPTER 31

'Are you sure that thing is on?' Mullah Fandi tugged at the sleeve of his robe, determined to let his irritation show. Not a man used to being kept waiting, the cleric was annoyed at having to stand around amidst the rubble of destroyed antiquities while Elliot Vonkel went about getting ready for their interview. Irritated by the delay, Fandi kicked out at a small piece of plaster lying on the museum floor. A better than expected connection sent it flying past the bowed head of Alfons Berghofer. Staring intently at his mobile phone, the German seemed not to notice.

'Almost ready.' Looking up, Vonkel gave an unconvincing smile. 'I want to get the bullet holes in shot.' He pointed at the pockmarked wall behind Fandi.

'That's where we shot four counter-revolutionaries last week,' Fandi said matter-of-factly.

'Oh.' Vonkel went back to his fiddling.

'We have plenty more waiting in jail: speculators, heretics, faggots.' Fandi's lip curled in disgust. 'We could arrange for another group to go in front of the firing squad tomorrow. You could film it.'

That would make a decent sequence. Vonkel quickly admonished himself for having such an appalling thought. 'It's okay,' he said hastily. 'The network wouldn't let me use pictures like that.'

'Suit yourself.'

'Anyway, I think we can get plenty of decent shots out and about in the city. I want to show people outside how normal life is going on in Raqqa.'

'Normal life.' Fandi did not seem overly impressed with the concept. Hopping from foot to foot, he glanced at the chunky Rolex clamped to his wrist; a victory token recovered from the body of a dead Syrian Army general. 'I have a committee meeting in less than hour. We have the dog problem and other important business to discuss.'

'Two minutes.' Vonkel couldn't quite keep the testiness from his voice.

'Alright,' Fandi had been surprised when the famous American reporter had turned up without a crew. More than twenty minutes of set dressing and button pressing had done nothing to convince him that Elliot Vonkel was in any way technically proficient. Surely, if he was such a big shot in American television, the reporter would have brought his own crew? Fandi nervously adjusted his turban. He had used up a considerable amount of goodwill getting the committee to agree to the filming in the first place. Whatever happened, the American's visit would ultimately have to be declared a success. Any other result would see his enemies circling. Fandi knew that there were plenty of people who would need little encouragement to have him up in front of a firing squad. On the other hand, if the interview went well he would be almost untouchable.

'I trust you are going to make me look good.'

From behind the camera, Vonkel uttered something that sounded very much like a curse. 'Alfons, what do think?'

Berghofer looked up from his phone and shuffled over to the camera.

'Is that shot okay?'

'Just make sure he is in focus and remember to get some cutaways.'

'Cutaways, yes, yes.'

Berghofer turned to Fandi and smiled. 'Now remember, when he asks you the questions, just speak slowly and don't tell any jokes.'

The cleric looked at him blankly.

'That was what I was told before I did my first interview,' Berghofer explained, 'a long time ago now. I was very nervous and the producer told me: "speak slowly and don't tell any jokes". It was good advice and I've used it ever since.'

Fandi scowled. 'I wasn't planning to tell any jokes.'

'No, perhaps not.' Berghofer pointed at the last statue in the museum, a life-sized representation of a young boy and his mother. 'Why did they leave that one standing?'

Because they are lazy devils who cannot finish any job properly. 'What we are doing here is a work in progress,' Fandi said testily. 'This type of physical and spiritual cleansing takes time. Once the job is fully done, we will clean this place up and turn it into government offices.' He pointed to the ceiling. 'I myself will have a space on the first floor, where they used to display the pre-historic cooking pots.'

'Ah, I see.' The German nodded, signalling that he accepted the infinite reasonableness of his host's explanation.

'It is important that we have proper offices.'

'Yes.'

'There is so much to do. So much to set right.'

'Your work is never done.'

'Quite.' Was he being mocked? Fandi chose to ignore the old man's mischievous tone. 'Public service is more than a full-time job. It never ends.'

'And this isn't the only place that has been cleansed, is it?'

Fandi stiffened as he realised that the German was recording their conversation on his mobile phone. He glanced at Vonkel who was now busy changing the battery on his camera. 'Is this the interview?'

'Think of it as a rehearsal,' Berghofer said reassuringly. 'A practice run.'

'Hm.' Fandi watched as Mick appeared in the doorway.

'Are you ready for me yet?'

Fandi gave an irritated shake of his head. 'I'm still waiting to start.'

'Fair enough.' Slipping off his jacket, he tossed it on floor.

Fandi did a double take. The boy had a life-sized image of his own face on his t-shirt. 'What are you wearing?'

'Like it?' Mick asked, proudly. 'Sally said it was the best one.'

The best what? Fandi looked at Berghofer.

'It's his new clothing range,' the German explained.

'Where is Sally, by the way?' Vonkel asked. 'I thought we were interviewing her as well.'

At this rate, Fandi thought grimly, no one's going to get interviewed.

'She's on her way.' Mick looked at his shoes. 'She needed to find someone to babysit Russell.'

Feeling a migraine coming on, Fandi began rubbing his temples. 'Mick, could you go and get me a bottle of water?'

'Sure.' Leaving his coat on the floor, the boy turned and slipped back through the door.

Fandi turned back to Berghofer. 'What were we discussing?'

'The museum.'

'Ah, yes.'

'These cleansings of so-called degenerate art have caused much consternation in the West, arguably more than the beheadings that have taken place. Why is this activity such an important part of your work?'

Placing his hands behind his back, Fandi took a deep breath. 'We are standing here in the Raqqa museum,' he intoned, 'the heart of the revolution, where work to create the perfect Islamic state is continuing. We have also clean–' he stopped himself '–we have also repurposed the public library and the library of a Dominican monastery just outside the city.'

Still holding the phone in front of him, Berghofer stepped closer to his subject. 'I have to say, Sir, your English is very good.'

'Thank you,' Fandi stared uncomfortably at the mobile. The interview was not supposed to be about him; his prepared soundbites were more top-level, focusing on the rationale for the regime and its inevitable victory over the decadent West.

'I read somewhere that you studied in England.'

'I was at Oxford for three years,' Fandi smiled wanly. 'I seem to remember it rained a lot.'

'Great university,' Vonkel piped up. 'I remember speaking at the debating society one year on the subject of media freedom and censorship.'

'I was at the community college,' Fandi admitted. 'Not that it's particularly relevant to what we're doing today.'

'No, no,' Berghofer said cheerily, 'of course not. But it is interesting background. Elliot will need to have a few lines for his script to introduce you to the audience in his film.'

'That's right,' Vonkel agreed, adjusting his tripod for the tenth time.

Fandi groaned audibly.

'Sorry, I just want to get a good wide shot and accommodate the lighting.'

That's it, I'm off. Fandi was about to storm out when Mick reappeared carrying four half-litre bottles of water. Striding forward, he offered one to the Mullah.

'Thanks.' Reluctantly taking the bottle, Fandi unscrewed the cap and took a succession of greedy gulps as he watched Mick carefully place the other bottles on an empty plinth by the wall.

Feeling his headache easing slightly, the cleric crushed the empty bottle in his hand and tossed it on the floor. 'Ten more minutes,' he said firmly, 'and then I have to go.' He took another peek at his watch. It was approaching time for lunch. 'Today is a very busy day.'

'We understand,' said Berghofer briskly, trying to keep the cleric engaged. 'So, to go back to the museum-repurposing programme, it's said that thousands of books, rare newspapers and maps from the time of the Ottoman Empire have been destroyed during the process.'

'Probably.' Fandi dismissed any possible concerns with a wave of his hand. 'These things are a fact of life. Anyway, a cleanout was long overdue. We have a job to do; we don't have the space for all this materialism.'

'There were reports,' Berghofer continued gently, 'unconfirmed, that some of the items were loaded onto trucks and driven off in the direction of the border.'

Fandi pushed out his lower lip. 'I don't know anything about that.'

'There are many institutions in the West that would pay handsomely for what you have here.' Berghofer corrected himself, 'For what you had here.'

'No doubt.'

'But there is no truth to the rumours that the revolution is selling off artefacts to help fund its soldiers?'

'Not at all.'

'There are other rumours–'

'We are stopping all rumours and gossip.' Fandi glanced at Mick but the boy, trying to remove a food stain from his t-shirt, paid him no heed. Fandi gritted his teeth. His headache was returning with a vengeance. The boy had his uses but his stupidity was wearing. Appearing in public with a picture of his own face plastered across his chest was a new low. It was almost certainly an act of idolatry that should be banned. Fandi vowed to raise it with the Moral Conduct Committee at the earliest opportunity.

Catching him looking at the t-shirt, Mick smiled. 'Want one? I've got various different colours. All sizes.'

A look of profound dismay crossed Fandi's face. 'I don't think so.'

'Alright,' from behind the camera, the relief in Vonkel's voice was audible, 'Thank you for your patience. I think we're finally ready to go.'

CHAPTER 32

'What shall we call you?'

Mick looked at Fandi, bemused. The cleric shrugged. Having completed his own interview, his focus was now very much on lunch at Al Mejana. The thought of a plate of lamb kebabs sent a small frisson of pleasure through his stomach.

'When you appear on TV,' Berghofer explained, 'Elliot will put up a sign with your name and job title. What should we call you?'

Taking a swig of water, Mick thought about it for a moment.

'Executioner.'

The German raised an eyebrow. 'Executioner?'

'Executioner,' Mick said firmly. 'That's what I am. Executioner and entrepreneur.'

'Renaissance man,' Berghofer smiled.

'Eh?'

'Never mind.'

'Okay,' said Vonkel from behind the camera, 'we're good to go. Alfons, you keep asking the questions.'

'Sure.'

Finally getting comfortable with the camera, Vonkel pressed the record button with a flourish. 'Three, two, one, rolling…'

Lifting the handset to head height, Berghofer resumed video recording on his phone. The American looked like he was finally getting to grips with his equipment but it wouldn't hurt to have a back-up, just in case. The picture quality wouldn't be as good, but it would be better than nothing.

Mick pointed at the phone. 'You using that as well?'

'It will help with the editing,' Berghofer said blandly.

'Okay.'

'Ready?'

'Yeah.'

'Okay, good. Militant Mick, you have become the face of the revolution, so to speak. How did a young man from London come to be such a key figure in the struggle here in Syria?'

Less of the "key figure" – if you don't mind. Standing just out of shot, Fandi folded his arms. Belatedly realising that he had been positioned as the youth's warm-up act, he wondered about insisting on being interviewed a second time. The kebabs could wait. He was the intellectual and spiritual force behind this struggle; his words should weigh more than those of a boy whose only claim to fame was that he removed peoples' heads from their shoulders.

Stumped by the question, Mick turned towards Vonkel, staring blankly at the camera.

'Don't look at me,' Vonkel advised, 'look at Alfons.'

'Okay,' the boy nodded, blushing slightly. He turned to his interrogator. 'What was the question again?'

'How did you become the executioner for the revolution?'

Mick's eyes lost focus as he tried to think of an answer.

The German tried a third time. 'You have been on an incredible journey. How did you get here?'

'I dunno,' Mick grinned. 'It just kind of happened, you know?'

Berghofer nodded vigorously, willing him to keep going.

'I just thought it would be, like, an experience. I never thought that things would take off the way that they have.'

Shaking his head, Fandi lifted his gaze to the heavens. How could the boy possibly be so inarticulate? His first inclination was to jump in and stop the interview. On the other hand, if Mick's answers were so useless as to be unusable that could only mean more airtime for Fandi himself. Biting his lower lip, he let the slow motion car crash proceed unchecked.

Berghofer pressed on. 'What is the religious rationale for what you do?'

Mick looked at him blankly.

'What – in your opinion – gives you the right to take a life?'

'It's a war, innit?' Mick waved a hand in the air. 'My sword is a weapon of war. It's kill or be killed.'

Berghofer glanced at Vonkel. Focused solely on getting the pictures, the American seemed oblivious to the poor quality of Mick's answers.

You're going to struggle to get much out of this, Berghofer reflected. He turned back to their interviewee. 'And when you kill someone, how does it make you feel?'

'Good, I guess.'

Berghofer scratched the stubble on his chin. 'Good?'

Mick nodded. 'Good. I feel like I'm doing my job. This is what I was put on this earth to do.'

'And why do you favour such a barbaric manner of execution?' Berghofer's tone remained even, there was no sense of emotion or outrage in his voice.

Behind the camera, Vonkel suddenly realised that the German was making up his questions as he went along. The news anchor's own list of questions, carefully typed up before leaving New York, were still in the back pocket of his jeans. The initial swell of irritation quickly passed; Alfons seemed to be doing a good enough job of trying to coax something remotely coherent from the boy.

'An act so symbolic, so defiant in its cruelty,' Berghofer observed, his tone almost casual, 'so medieval. Which is then shared with the whole world – instantly – by means of the most modern of technologies. That has to be a deliberate strategy.'

Mick shrugged.

'We want to make a point,' Fandi muttered.

'We want to make a point.' Mick took a swig of water from the bottle in his hand. 'We want people to be scared.'

'Scared of what?'

Mick looked to Fandi for further guidance. 'What do we want them to be scared of?'

A smile slowly broke across the cleric's face. 'Of everything.'

CHAPTER 33

Berghofer pointed at Mick's chest. 'Tell me about your fashion collection; this is a new development, is it?'

'Er, yes.' Mick glanced hopefully towards the entrance. This was supposed to be Sally's part of the interview but, so far, she had failed to show.

'And what are your hopes for its success?'

'Well,' taking a deep breath, the self-styled executioner-entrepreneur tried to recall what his wife had told him about their plans for world domination, 'there is clearly a gap in the market.'

'And what market is that?'

'The market for, erm…' A sense of panic gripped Mick as he felt his brain freeze.

'You must have high hopes for the Militant Mick label.' Berghofer continued his gentle probing. 'You are well-known around the world and it must have the potential to generate a lot of money.'

'I think,' Mick offered finally, 'the idea is that we, erm, sell a lot of stuff and make some dosh.'

'Dosh?'

Relieved that he had finally managed to squeeze out a soundbite, Mick gave a nervous chuckle. 'Make some money.'

'So you want to cash in on your fame?'

Mick frowned at the stupidity of the question. Wasn't this guy smart? 'What's the point of being famous if you can't get some dough, know what I'm sayin'?'

'Stop! This is not what we are here to discuss.' Stepping in front of the interviewee, Mullah Fandi started waving his arms in front of the camera. 'This report is supposed to be about the struggle against the infidels. The inevitable triumph of our struggle. Why our enemies are trembling with fear. It is not about t-shirts and fashion clothing.'

Biting his lower lip, Mick tried to suppress a grin.

From behind the camera Elliot Vonkel shot the annoyed cleric one of his famous news anchor smiles. 'Don't worry, we won't use any of that.'

The casual lie failed to appease the Mullah. Stepping forward, Fandi placed one hand on the American's chest and began stabbing at buttons on the camera with the other. 'I want it deleted, all of it.'

'Hey! Be careful–' Vonkel tried to push Fandi away from the kit but the Mullah showed considerable upper body strength to easily keep the journalist at bay.

'We have been tricked,' Fandi grunted. 'The boy's words must be erased.'

'I can do it again,' Mick offered hopefully.

'There will be no interview,' the Mullah insisted. 'Everything that comes out of your mouth is complete nonsense. We should never have agreed to it.'

Looking past the outraged Fandi, Vonkel watched Berghofer slip his phone into the back pocket of his trousers. 'But that's what we're here for,' he cried, 'to speak to Mick. To let him tell his story in his own words.'

'You have spoken to me, that is enough.' The religious leader gave the machine a firm shove, sending it toppling to the floor. 'If any of that … nonsense ever appears anywhere, even one word of it, you will die. That is my total guarantee. Do you understand?'

'But–' The journalist's words were suddenly interrupted by the sound of a plane overhead, quickly followed by staccato bursts of gunfire.

'Oh shit – the Americans.' Mick began running towards the door, with Fandi and Berghofer in tow. Vonkel started after them, before turning back to retrieve his camera. Reaching down to pick it up, he felt a massive explosion rock the building. Thrown forward, he tripped over the tripod and hurtled, face-first, towards an empty plinth. Throwing up his arms, he tried to diffuse the force of the inevitable impact as a final thought raced through his brain.

Please God, don't let it end like this.

CHAPTER 34

Feeling bored, Damien Wilson sat at a table outside a small café, a few blocks from his billet. Under the shade of a dirty parasol, he looked out across a dusty square, which was empty, apart from a couple of hawkers offering a random selection of goods for sale from plastic sheets spread out on the uneven ground. Sitting on the table in front of him was a can of Cola, a local brand that Damien had never heard of. He was sure that the café owner – an overly friendly fat guy – had vastly overcharged him for the drink but he had been too embarrassed to complain. Lifting the can to his lips, he took a mouthful and winced. Lukewarm and flat, with a nasty aftertaste, it reminded him of the cheap supermarket stuff that his mum used to buy at those times when she gave in to his pestering to put more junk in the weekly shop. Even the sugar rush did nothing to improve his mood.

At least he had managed to get some time on his own. Amir had refused to leave the house and Sandra was out on patrol with the religious police. Damien calculated that this was the first time in almost a fortnight that he hadn't been with at least one of his companions.

Not that he had anything much to do with the free time. From what he had seen of the town so far, there was little to do, other than prayers and people-watching. And you had to be cautious about the latter. There were plenty of people in Raqqa who didn't like you looking at them.

Leaning back in his plastic chair, Damien shoved a hand into the pocket of his jeans. Pulling out his mobile, he checked the battery and waited to see whether he would get a signal. The quality of the local network was surprisingly good, when it worked, but it would go down with depressing regularity. The problems might be technical, but were more likely to be political – the government deciding to shut things down for a variety of seemingly random reasons.

Flicking through the menu, Damien was pleased to find that he had eleven new messages. On closer inspection, however, eight of those were spam and the remaining three were from his mother.

'Mum,' he groaned, 'leave it alone, will ya?' After leaving the country, he had been surprised that it had taken Ann so long to twig what was going on. Since then, however, he had been deleting Call me, Where are you? and Please come home messages with depressing regularity.

Damien deleted the two oldest messages without opening them.

'I'm not a kid anymore.'

Accidentally opening the most recent message, he was about to hit delete when he did a double take.

Am waiting at the border. You need to come home. Plse call asap xx.

'What the fuck?' Damien knew that his mother wasn't much of a traveller. Since his father had run off she'd basically given up on family holidays anywhere more exotic than Ilfracombe. Damien hated Devon, whining endlessly at the thought of returning to the smelly B&B, miles from the beach, that they used to return to year after year. For his mother however, there was comfort in the familiar. The very idea of travelling beyond the UK stressed her out for months before their departure. As far as Ann was concerned, going abroad was very much a last resort.

In the last ten years, Damien could remember a trip with his mother to Paris and one to Barcelona. Neither exactly represented heading off the beaten path. And now this. How would Ann cope with the dubious delights of provincial Turkey?

Damien suddenly realised that his mother turning up in Turkey was the least of his worries. If she had made it as far as the border, what was to say that she wouldn't keep coming? The thought of Ann in Raqqa caused him to laugh out loud. 'This is a wind-up, right?' He scratched his head. 'You've got to be having a laugh.'

The text had been sent a couple of days ago. Doubtless there would be more pleas in the days to come. Damien drummed his fingers on the table, wondering how to respond to this rather unexpected turn of events. The possibility of his mother arriving in Syria to try and drag him home was, obviously, deeply embarrassing. More than that, it was almost too bizarre to contemplate. His mother, a self-styled post-feminist feminist (whatever that was), would have a righteous fit if she saw what things were like over here. It was a different world. An image of Ann coming up against Sandra's religious police popped into his head. God help anyone who tried to make her wear a veil, for a start.

The thought of such a clash of cultures made him giggle.

'Bloody hell, mum.'

Shaking his head, he typed in a reply.

I'm fine. Go home.

Looking at the reply, his thumb hovered over send when the sound of anti-aircraft fire started up, somewhere behind him. The square burst into life as people emerged from the surrounding buildings and started running in all directions, shouting at the top of their voices. The hawkers quickly gathered up their goods and disappeared down an alley leading away from the square. Getting to his feet, Damien dropped the phone back into his pocket. Unsure what best to do, he watched the familiar figure of Militant Mick emerge from a doorway on the other side of the square and start sprinting towards the alley. He was followed by one of the Mullahs that seemed to be everywhere and an older white guy. Damien recognised the third man as the German bloke they had met at the border.

'Hey, Mick!' Damien started waving his arms to try and catch his hero's attention. 'Mick! What's going on?'

Ignoring his young comrade, Mick lengthened his stride, showing an impressive turn of speed as he hurdled a pile of refuse sacks and disappeared down the alley. The cleric, hoisting up his robes, followed quickly after him. The German, catching sight of the youngster, hesitated.

'What's happening?'

'Get out!' the German shouted, pointing towards the alley. 'Run!'

Still rooted to the spot, Damien became conscious of a whistling noise above his head getting louder. Looking up, he saw a dark shadow in the sky. Before he could work out what it was, there was an almighty crash. Instantly, a blast of hot air and dust hit him the face. Lifted off his feet, Damien felt himself flying backwards, crashing through the front of the café as the building seemed to collapse around him.

CHAPTER 35

What the hell had happened? Staggering out of the café, it took Damien several moments to realise that the table where he had been sitting was no longer there. The building on the opposite side of the square was also missing. A man started screaming somewhere in front of him. After a few seconds, the screams stopped and were replaced by a ringing noise in his ears that he couldn't shake. Sniffing the air, he tried to work out where the smell of freshly cooked kebabs was coming from. A dog appeared from somewhere and began sniffing at an arm sticking out from under a small pile of rubble less than ten yards away from where he stood. Picking up a piece of rubble, Damien threw it at the mongrel.

'Fuck off, you little bastard.'

It was a weak effort but the aim was accurate enough for the stone to smack the animal on its hindquarters. With a surprised yelp, the mutt ran off in search of easier pickings. Stepping forward, Damien leveraged a lump of concrete off the body with his foot.

'Shit.' Giving the body a gentle prod with the toe of his trainer, Damien tried to remember the guy's name.

'Adolf?'

Lying face down in a dark pool of blood that was quickly soaking into the ground, Alfons Berghofer did not respond. A piece of shrapnel had peeled off the top of the poor bloke's head like a tin can. It looked like he had been scalped.

'Are you okay?'

It was clear that the guy was dead but Damien still bent down and made an attempt to check for a pulse.

'Fuckin' hell.'

Trying not to puke, he stood up, and tried to get some clean air into his lungs. Hands on hips, he looked around. The sound of small arms fire rose and fell from nearby streets but the square remained deserted.

Looking down at the corpse at his feet, he caught sight of something in the back pocket of the guy's jeans.

'No point in leaving that around.' Squatting down, Damien gingerly removed the expensive smartphone. 'You aren't going to need it anymore, are you?' Without rolling the body over, he quickly checked the dead man's remaining pockets, coming up with a passport and a small roll of banknotes.

Waste not, want not. He quickly shoved the booty into his own pockets.

'Damien, what are you doing?'

Jumping up, he turned to face Sandra Baig who was marching towards him, her head covered, a pistol in her hand.

'What are you doing?' Sandra repeated.

Damien tried not to stare at the gun. 'It's the German guy we met back at the border,' he explained, 'Adolf.'

'Alfons.'

'Yeah. Right. I was checking for a pulse but he's dead.'

'Lots of people are dead,' Sandra said flatly. 'More will be injured.'

Relived that she hadn't seen what he was up to, Damien stepped away from the body. 'What the hell happened?'

Sandra pointed towards the copper sky with the semi-automatic. 'It was a drone attack.'

Damien pushed out his lower lip. 'A what?'

'A drone attack. You know, unmanned planes.'

'Oh.' Damien only had the vaguest idea of what she was talking about.

'Remote warfare,' Sandra scoffed, 'for cowards.'

'Yeah.'

'Some bastard sitting in an office somewhere works the plane by computer, sending it over here to bomb innocent people. They used to be quite common but this is the first one for several months, apparently.'

'Oh.' Damien wondered how she knew so much about it, but it was better not to ask. Sandra knew far more about what was going on here than he or Amir did, but she didn't like them asking too many questions.

'It is just another war crime perpetrated by the Americans and the British.' She angrily waved the gun in front of her face.

I hope that thing has a safety. Damien nervously took a step to his left.

'The bastards will pay.'

'Yes.'

'We will make them pay.'

Damien looked around doubtfully.

'In the meantime, there is lots to do. I need you to come and help.' Sandra turned and marched towards an ambulance that had appeared in the far corner of the square. 'Follow me.'

'I'm fine, thank you for asking.' Grumbling under his breath, Damien reluctantly jogged after her. Approaching the vehicle, he saw two militiamen emerge from one of the bomb-damaged buildings, carrying an injured comrade. One of them had the guy's arms, while the other had his legs. Groaning quietly, the wounded man seemed be in shock, his torso reduced to a bloody pulp.

Don't drop him, Damien thought, or he might tear apart.

'Water!' Sandra screamed. 'Get him some water. Quickly!'

'Water, right.'

'Hurry up.'

'Okay.' Damien jogged back across the square towards the café. Inside, he found the owner was cursing loudly as he sifted through the wreckage of his business. He looked at Damien suspiciously as the youngster stood in the doorway.

'I need water.'

The man looked at him blankly.

'Water.' Damien lifted his hand to his mouth. 'For fuck's sake. Bloody water.' He pointed over his shoulder. 'For the injured men. Wounded.'

The fat man angrily waved away his plea. 'Closed.'

'We need water.' Damien looked around. At the back of the room was a squat, rectangular freezer cabinet that seemed to have survived the blast largely unscathed. Picking his way through the tangle of tables and chairs on the floor, he slid open the glass lid top and began pulling out small bottles of water.

'Thief!'

Damien felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him backwards. Letting the bottles fall from his grasp, he half-turned in time to see the owner aiming a blow at his head with a glass bottle. Flinching, Damien took a glancing blow to the temple before elbowing his attacker in the stomach, sending him stumbling backwards, smashing his skull against the side of an upturned table and sprawling across the floor.

'Ouufffff.'

Sitting up, the man tentatively felt the cut above his eye. Blood was streaming down one side of his face.

'Go.'

'I just wanted some water. It wasn't for me.' At his feet were the remains of a table which had been destroyed in the blast. Calmly picking up one of the table's wooden legs, he took a step forward.

'You are a selfish bastard, aren't you?'

The man's face drained of colour. He gestured at the cabinet. 'Water. Take.'

'Too late.' Lifting his arm, Damien arched his back and brought the improvised club down firmly on the centre of the man's skull with a sickening crack.

'Awwww!' As the man started to scream, Damien hit him with a second blow, then a third. Getting into his rhythm, he focused on synchronising his breathing as he hit the man with blow after blow.

After a while, he realised that the screaming had stopped. Taking a step backwards, he tossed his weapon on the floor, blinking rapidly as he tried to make sense of the scene in front of him. The guy's head seemed to have dissolved into a pile of mush. How many times had he hit him?

'Bloody hell.' Damien wiped his bloody hands on his t-shirt and headed behind the counter. 'All I wanted was some water,' he muttered to himself, rooting around in the chaos until he found a wicker shopping basket in a drawer. Returning to the cabinet, he filled the basket with bottles of water and headed back outside.

The smell of charred flesh was getting worse. More people were arriving, staggering around the square, shouting randomly at each other. No one seemed to be in charge. Everything was happening in slow motion.

A single gunshot caused Damien to flinch. Turning round, he saw the mongrel that had been sniffing around Alfons' body minutes earlier. It was lying on its side, motionless, apart from one of its back legs which was twitching repeatedly as a militiaman walked towards it, an AK-47 cradled in his arms. Five yards from the animal, the soldier stopped, lifted the gun to his shoulder and calmly shot it three more times. The dog stopped twitching. Job done, the fighter turned and walked away.

Where was Sandra? Letting the basket fall from his hand, Damien nodded warily at the two militiamen he had seen earlier. Lounging by the side of the ambulance, they shared a joke as they smoked unfiltered Turkish cigarettes. Their wounded colleague, lying on a gurney in the shade of the vehicle, was still awaiting medical attention. The medics were nowhere to be seen.

Wrinkling his nose at the pungent smell of the tobacco, Damien bent down and retrieved a couple of bottles of water. Stepping forward, he handed one to each of the fighters in turn, looking on in embarrassed silence as one of them took a small cloth from the pocket of his fatigues, soaked it in water and stepped over to the gurney. Gently dabbing his comrade's brow, the cigarette still dangling from his lower lip, he started muttering something that Damien could not understand.

The wounded man lay silent, eyes closed, his breathing shallow and irregular.

He's not going to make it. Damien watched in dismay as flakes of cigarette ash fell onto the dying man's shirt and were instantly absorbed in the bloody mass of his torso.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of an angry male voice coming from the other side of the ambulance. Moving away from the dying soldier, he peered around the vehicle to see a tall, elderly man shouting at Sandra. In the man's arms was a young girl, as limp as a rag doll, another victim of the airstrike. Covered in blood, the child was clearly in shock. As the man gestured towards the ambulance, Sandra raised her arm and fired a single shot into the air.

Grabbing a bottle of water, Damien ran over. 'What are you doing?'

'It's soldiers first.' Sandra lowered the gun to her side, but kept her finger on the trigger. 'He's trying to jump the queue.'

'But it's just a little kid,' Damien protested. He offered the man the water but was rebuffed with a curt shake of the head.

'Soldiers first,' Sandra insisted. 'Fighters have priority. A little kid isn't going to protect us. Civilians have to wait.'

The man stared at Sandra. The hatred in his eyes was more pure than anything that Damien had ever seen. When he started to say something else, Sandra took a step forward and pointed the pistol directly at his face.

'Sandra, fucking hell!'

'Shut up, Damien. Just shut the fuck up.'

A look of weary resignation descended on the old man's face; resignation mixed with infinite disgust. Turning, he walked away, still holding the child.

'Water,' Damien shouted after him. The man did not stop.

Snatching the bottle from his hand, Sandra unscrewed the cap and drank greedily, quickly draining the bottle before casually tossing it on the ground.

'Will the kid die?' Watching the old man disappear from the square, Damien felt consumed by shame.

'Lots of people die.' Sandra stifled a burp. 'That's what war is. What did you expect? Grow up. Be a man. This isn't Bristol, this is real life. If she dies we didn't kill her. The Americans and the British are responsible.'

'Yes, but–' Damien looked on as the medics finally appeared to load the gurney containing the wounded fighter onto the ambulance.

'Our fighters risk their lives every day.' Sandra pointed at the ambulance. 'That could be you. If you're wounded do you want us to leave you to die?'

'But he's going to die anyway,' Damien mumbled, under his breath.

'What?'

'Nothing.'

'Anyway, that guy, how old is he? Eighteen? Nineteen? His life is worth saving too.'

And who made you God? Biting his tongue, Damien watched as the two soldiers climbed into the back of the ambulance beside their comrade and pulled the doors shut.

Sandra waved the gun at his stomach. 'Did you get hit?'

'Huh?'

'Are you hurt?'

Damien looked down to see the blood of the café owner smeared across his t-shirt. 'Uh. No. It's nothing.' He watched as the ambulance slowly rolled away, unceremoniously driving over Alfons Berghofer's body as it exited the square. Fighting back tears, he wiped his nose on his forearm.

'This is what we came for,' Sandra reminded him.

'Yeah,' he said quietly, 'I know.'

'This what you wanted. So don't start crying about it now.'

CHAPTER 36

Vonkel woke to the sound of screaming coming from outside. The wailing was interrupted by the rise and fall of a succession of sirens. It took the disorientated journalist several seconds to remember what had happened. Struggling into a seated position, he checked his limbs, spitting a succession of broken teeth from his mouth. Despite the worst headache of his life, no bones seemed to be broken.

I'm still alive. The thought cheered him more than he might have imagined. Dusting himself down, he started to laugh. 'This time, there will be no misremembering. I really was in the middle of the action.' He had engaged with the enemy or, rather, he had been embedded with the enemy while his own side had engaged with him. Either way, it would make for a good anecdote. After word spread of his miraculous escape from almost certain death, Luciana would doubtless be able to hike his speaking fees by at least fifty per cent. And forget Oshkosh, Wisconsin; he would be playing only major metropolitan areas from now on.

Energised by the thought, he glanced towards the doorway, belatedly wondering about the fate of the others. With the benefit of hindsight, it looked like fleeing the building had probably been a bad choice. Despite some superficial bomb damage, it appeared that the Museum had survived relatively intact. Vonkel slowly thought it through. Maybe they had all been blown to smithereens. He giggled at the thought. If Militant Mick was dead, that would make his interview – the first and last one he ever gave to an American network – even more valuable.

Especially if he managed to get some usable footage of the corpse.

Vonkel realised that he needed to get out there; shoot some pictures of death, destruction and mayhem. Bring the true horror of war back into peoples' living rooms for the first time in more than a generation.

If it bleeds, it leads.

Where was the camera? Trying to get to his feet, he was overwhelmed by nausea.

Patience, patience. He sat back down heavily. If Mick's dead, he's not going anywhere. Finding a small bottle of water by his feet, he struggled to unscrew the cap before lifting the bottle to his lips. Rinsing out the blood from his mouth he took a couple of gulps before cautiously washing the dust from his eyes.

Completing his cleaning regime, he struggled to his feet at the second time of asking. Spying the tripod sticking out under of a pile of rubble, he stepped over and pulled it out, finding that the camera was still attached. To his relief, it appeared still to be in working order, undamaged apart from some scratches and a dent on the casing. Releasing it from the tripod he made his way to the exit and cautiously headed outside.

For the first time since his arrival in Raqqa, no one showed him any heed. Vonkel patted the breast pocket of his jacket, looking for his sunglasses.

'Damn.' He felt a stab of irritation as he realised that he must have dropped them inside. He hesitated, unsure about whether to go back to look for them, before deciding it could wait.

Shielding his eyes against the glare, he stood on the steps of the museum, surveying the damage. The square looked like the set of a disaster movie. A crater, perhaps 100 feet long and fifty feet deep, had been torn in the ground. To his left, a couple of buildings which seemed to have borne the brunt of the blast, had been effectively demolished.

What was the target? Lifting the camera, Vonkel started filming, focusing on the bodies scattered amidst the rubble. Some of the dead wore uniforms but it was clear that many of them were civilians. He stopped counting at thirty. A group of injured sitting at the bottom of the steps watched him sullenly as he went about his business, as if they were resigned to their roles as extras in someone else's drama.

A solitary ambulance stood near the edge of the crater, an ancient vehicle that looked like it belonged in a museum. I need more pictures. Panning slowly round, Vonkel searched in vain for signs of medical staff going about their duties. A boy handing out bottles of water seemed to be the limit of aid on offer. The lad seemed to be vaguely familiar. Moving towards him, Vonkel was distracted by the sound of angry voices. Stopping, he turned the camera on an old man who was carrying a wounded child in his arms.

That's more like it.

In some distress, the man appeared to be demanding assistance from a woman in a burqa. Clearly not pleased with his request, the woman pulled out a pistol and fired a shot into the air.

Chicks with guns. Great stuff. Vonkel kept his camera trained on the argument. For all he knew, the next shot might go straight between the guy's eyes.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

'Hey, Elliot. I'd stop filming if I was you.'

'Shit.' Vonkel turned to see a grinning Mick standing next to him. 'You gave me a hell of a fright.'

Mick's grin grew so wide it looked like it might eat his face. 'Sorry, man.'

Vonkel let the camera fall to his side. 'I was just getting a few background shots.'

'The militia won't like that.'

Vonkel looked around the square. Apart from a couple of guys standing by the ambulance, there seemed a surprising lack of soldiers. 'Where are they?'

'They'll be here when they're sure the bombing is over.'

'You mean there might be more?' Vonkel edged back up the steps. 'Maybe we should go back inside.'

'Relax, man,' Mick chuckled. 'If your name's on it, your name's on it. That's one of the things I've learnt since I've been here: You can't hide from Death.'

'I suppose.' Not interested in juvenile philosophy, Vonkel looked wistfully towards the museum entrance. 'So what happened?'

'What does it look like?' A woman appeared next to Mick. Under her veil, Vonkel could just about make out the face of Sally Zimbio. 'The bloody Americans.'

'And Brits,' Mick pointed out cheerily.

'And Brits. The usual suspects.' Sally gestured over her shoulder. 'Did you get some pictures of the dead kids?'

'Some.' Suddenly feeling a twinge of shame, Vonkel took a seat on the top step.

'You okay?' Mick held out a bottle. 'Want some water?'

Vonkel shook his head. 'It's fine. I'm good. A bit shocked, but alright. You?'

'Yeah,' Mick pointed towards the crater. 'Just got out of the square in time.'

'I had a narrow escape, too.' Sally added, not wanting to be left out of the conversation. 'I was buying some oranges at a supermarket just down the road. Two minutes later, I would have been right here.'

'Lucky,' Mick observed casually.

'The will of God,' Sally intoned. Vonkel detected no obvious sense of irony in her voice.

'Yeah,' Mick agreed. 'God's will.'

Vonkel slowly got back to his feet. 'Where's Alfons?'

'Dunno,' Mick frowned. 'I thought he was with you.'

'The last time I saw him, he was right behind you, when you ran out of the museum.'

Mick shrugged.

'You ran away?' Sally gave her husband a less than playful punch on the arm. 'What were you saying about not being able to hide from Death?'

'Ow. Leave it out Sal.' Mick glared at the journalist for dropping him in it. 'I didn't run away. I went to see what I could do help.'

'Yeah, right.'

'I did,' the boy whined. 'Me and Bovar came straight out to see what was happenin'. If we was lookin' to be safe we would have stayed put inside the museum.' He looked at Vonkel, daring him to contradict this version of events.

'But where is Alfons?' Vonkel felt a chill in his stomach. If his travelling companion – his protector – was injured, or even dead, what would that mean for the rest of his trip? 'We'd better go and look for him.'

Sally held up a hand. 'First things first. We need to start the fight back.'

'Fight back?' Vonkel looked at Mick, but the man-child just nodded.

'We need to do a new interview with Mick, and me, in the middle of the destruction. Show the Americans that they missed their target.'

'Which was?'

'Mick, of course,' Sally said brightly.

'Ah, right.'

'Don't you think?'

'I suppose it would make sense.'

'Mick is the most high profile target for at least a thousand miles. Not to mention a global icon. Think of how the Americans would gloat if they killed him.'

This American certainly would. Vonkel restricted himself to a sickly smile.

'So,' Sally continued, speaking slowly so that her audience could keep up, 'we need to show that he's alive and well and still fighting.'

'Still fighting,' Mick parroted.

That could work. Vonkel rubbed his chin. A living breathing Mick wasn't as good a story as a dead one, but it wasn't bad.

'Set up the camera so that the square's in the background,' Sally ordered. 'Let's go again.'

CHAPTER 37

'Stop, stop, stop.' Mullah Fandi stumbled up the steps, followed by a couple of gangling militiamen. Pistols in their hands, they took up position behind Vonkel. 'Didn't I say that there would be no more of your damn interviews?' The cleric had a nasty-looking cut on his cheek but otherwise seemed to have escaped from the attack unscathed.

Half-turning, the journalist nervously eyed the soldiers, neither of whom seemed to have passed through puberty. 'We were just getting an, erm, update on the situation from Mick,' he stammered, trying not to sound guilty. 'Things have obviously moved on and–'

'No updates.' Fandi grabbed the camera from the journalist's hand and passed it to one of the guards. 'This has now been confiscated by the revolutionary government. And you are under arrest.'

'Wha-at?' Vonkel felt his knees buckle. He had to stop himself from pitching forward and taking a tumble down the steps.

'All of this,' Fandi gestured towards the scene destruction in front of them, 'takes place only days after you arrive. Coincidence? I don't think so.'

'But I'm only a journalist,' Vonkel protested.

'You have been feeding information to the Americans.'

'What? How?' Vonkel turned to Mick for some moral support but the boy was gazing vacantly into the middle distance. His face bore a glazed expression which made the American's stomach churn. Images of himself wearing an orange jumpsuit, kneeling in front of the sword-wielding youth, began flashing through his head. Such an ignominious end! How had things come to this?

'You will be tried,' Fandi said grimly, 'and executed. In line with the due process of our legal system, of course.'

Due process? 'But we had a deal,' Vonkel cried. 'Alfons was guaranteed safe passage and–'

'Alfons is dead.' Fandi said flatly. 'I saw his body only minutes ago.'

Oh shit. Feeling alone and afraid, Vonkel stifled a sob.

Hands on hips, Fandi launched into an impromptu eulogy. 'He was your friend. He brought you here. And you betrayed him. Abused his trust. Killed him. You are without doubt a spy.' He clicked his fingers, as if calling a waiter in a restaurant. 'Take him away.'

'No, no, no.' Vonkel stifled a sob as one of the guards grabbed his arm and started leading him down the steps.

'Make sure he is fully debriefed.' Fandi looked on impassively as the American was bundled into a waiting car and driven away.

'What about our interview?' Sally asked.

'That will have to wait for another day,' Fandi said dismissively.

'Shame.'

'I'm not really that bothered.' Mick unscrewed the cap on his bottle of water and took a swig. 'His questions were rubbish anyway.'

'But I don't want us missing our window of opportunity,' Sally persisted. 'The timing would have been perfect. Now is your time.'

'Look on the bright side,' Fandi muttered. 'You've got another star for one of your videos.'

'You think?' Mick took another mouthful of water.

'Yes. We have to make an example of Mr Elliot Vonkel. No one can betray our hospitality like this and hope to get away with it.'

Mick looked at Sally. 'But I thought people were getting bored with what we were doing?'

'This will grab the attention of the entire world,' Fandi asserted. 'People will tremble in the face of our righteous justice. No one is above the law.'

'No, but–'

'Who were the others that you dispatched to the afterlife? Can you even remember their names?'

'Er–'

'No. Exactly. No one remembers. Apart from their families. They are just anonymous victims. This man is known around the world. People will remember. They will see that the sword of Militant Mick reaches far and wide. Your legend will continue to grow.'

'That's right,' Sally said brightly, 'if this guy is half as famous as he says he is, we'll set a new record for views.' She made a mental note to let Hamit know. The Turkish entrepreneur might want to use the Vonkel execution as a platform for their merchandising launch.

'When do you want me to do it?' Mick asked casually.

Fandi thought about it for a moment. 'There's no rush. The trial should take maybe a week or so. After that will be fine.'

'We should do some pre-publicity,' Sally chimed in.

The Mullah gave her a sideways glance, shaking his head. 'This is not business school,' he scoffed. 'You are not doing an MBA project.'

'You can't just put it out there,' she said huffily. 'You have to seed the market if you are going to get the widest reach.'

'I'll leave that to you.' Somewhere in the distance there was an extended burst of automatic weapons fire. All three of them involuntarily looked towards the clear blue sky.

'They probably won't come back today.' Fandi expressed what everyone was thinking. 'Not least because their man on the ground has now been neutralised.'

'Do you really think he is a spy?' Mick asked.

Fandi's eyes narrowed. 'They are all spies. Spies and infidels.' Reaching forward, he gave the boy a pat on the shoulder. 'When the time comes, put on a good show. We have to show the world that we will not be beaten.'

'No,' Mick nodded vigorously, 'we will not be beaten.'

'The revolution will never stop.' Fandi jabbed a stubby finger at Mick's chest. 'Whenever you shoot the video, just make sure you're not wearing that damn t-shirt.'

Sally started to protest but thought better of it.

'Can I have the camera?' Mick sounded like a five-year-old asking for an ice-cream.

'What?' Fandi frowned.

'Elliot's video camera. We've been having a few technical problems recently. Salford says we need better equipment.'

'We could use Elliot's camera to record his beheading.' Sally squealed with delight. 'A two-camera shoot will give us more options when we come to edit it. Better content will drive audience share.'

Whatever. Smiling, Fandi stroked his modest beard. 'I don't see why not. The idea has a certain appeal.'

CHAPTER 38

Sitting in one of Terminal 5's sushi restaurants, Daniel Hunter looked up at the screen and groaned. It wasn't the best way to start a job. The BA flight to Istanbul was now delayed by almost an hour. If the delay got much worse, it would be touch and go whether he would make his connecting flight to the border city of Adana.

Should he call Carlos Rangoon, his contact in Adana? It could wait. Preferring to work alone, Hunter wasn't all that keen on having a minder. On the other hand, entering unknown territory, he would need some help, if only while he got his bearings. If it helped keep the client happy, that would be an added bonus.

Finishing his beer, he flicked backwards and forwards through the thin file of background material that Imran Zubair had given him before Hunter had left for Heathrow. Aside from the photographs, there was nothing that seemed like it would be of much use. Damien Wilson, Sandra Baig and Amir Rasool were, to all intents and purposes, three perfectly normal kids. Damien looked like he was a pretty good student, with the possibility of going to university, at Oxford no less. Nothing so ambitious was expected of the other two but they were still expected to do okay. None of them had any history of getting into any trouble; certainly they were not on any watch lists. There was nothing in their backgrounds to suggest that they were being radicalised behind their parents' backs.

Then again, Hunter reflected, they probably hadn't been "radicalised", whatever that meant… From what he could see they were just a group of kids who had gone off on an adventure. A bloody stupid adventure, but that's what kids did. Damien's mother thought that her son had gone on a rail trip around Europe. Thirty years ago, he would have done, much as Hunter himself had done between leaving school and joining the army.

Back then, the concept of going travelling had been quite exotic. Hunter remembered his father being dead set against the idea of his son "just taking off and running about without a care in the world". His mother had been more accommodating, slipping him an extra £100 as he walked out the front door.

'You enjoy yourself, son,' she smiled. 'Who knows when you might get the chance again?'

'Very true Ma, very true.' Hunter smiled at the memory. He lifted his empty glass, signalling to a passing waitress that he would like another drink. As he did so, he caught sight of a jumbo TV set up in the middle of the passenger lounge. A rolling news programme was showing pictures of an Arab town that had clearly been bombed; images of death, destruction and mayhem that he had seen thousands of times before. At the bottom of the screen a caption proclaimed: Americans bomb terrorist targets.

The waitress appeared with his beer. Hunter went back to his file. Compared to when he was young, kids today had so many different options. Going off and playing at war was just one of them. Hunter very much doubted if these three kids had a political bone in their body. Terrorists? Hardly. They were just looking for a bit of adventure. It might be a bit sick but that didn't necessarily make it any less true.

Taking a mouthful of his beer, Hunter watched his mobile start vibrating across the table. Picking it up, he glanced at the screen.

Silver.

Hitting receive, he lifted the phone to his ear.

'Boss.'

'Where are you?'

'Heathrow.'

'You're on your way, huh?'

'Yeah,' Hunter said wearily, 'the flight's been delayed but we should be off soon.'

'Jolly good.' The noise in the background suggested Silver was in a bar, probably somewhere in Soho. 'What did you make of Rashid?'

Hunter chuckled to himself. He had never known anyone like Dominic Silver for constantly pumping you for information. 'I think that Mr Zubair's under a bit of pressure at the moment, as you might expect. That said, he appears to be fairly realistic about the chances of my success.'

'Just as well.'

'Quite.'

'You're happy to take the job, though?'

'Sure. Thanks again for the referral, by the way.'

'No problem. I could sense that you were getting rather restless working for me at the gallery.'

'A bit,' Hunter admitted.

They both knew that was the understatement of the day.

'Well this should be about as different to St. James's as you could get.'

'Yeah.'

'Have fun, but remember that this job's still open for you when you come back, if you want it.'

'Thanks. I appreciate it.'

'Did you agree terms?'

It was a cheeky question but Hunter took it in his stride. 'A weekly rate, plus expenses and a success fee.' He raised an arm in the air, signalling for the bill.

'I'm not sure I'd have gone for the success fee element,' Dom reflected. 'Not on a case like this.'

'I'll make enough on the retainer. The bonus would be, well, a bonus.'

'Even so.'

'I tell you what,' Hunter laughed, 'you can handle the fee negotiations next time.'

If there is a next time.

'That might not be such a bad idea.'

'Mr fifteen per cent.'

'Why not? I should have thought of it before. There are always people looking to get different things done. You could make a good living. And I could keep my hand in.'

Keep your hand in at what? Clearly, Dominic Silver was not your average art dealer. 'One thing at a time. Let's see how this goes first.'

'Of course. But, remember, this job is very much at the hard end of the scale,' Dom observed. 'Not everything I would expect to put your way would involve travelling back in time to the fifteenth century to deal with a bunch of bloodthirsty nutters.'

The fifth century, more like. Not wishing to get into a historical debate, Hunter watched as a very elegant woman walked past him, pulling a small carry-on case. 'That's not how you presented it to Mr Zubair, I hope.'

'No, of course not. Rashid is no fool. I simply told him that you were the ideal man for a job like this. And I pointed out that it was his very great fortune that I was prepared to let you go at such short notice.'

'Hm.' The waitress appeared with the bill. Hunter immediately paid up in cash, plus a large tip.

You know how to kill. Recalling Rashid's words, he wondered what the businessman had been told about his past. His thoughts were interrupted by an announcement from the speaker above his head; British Airways is pleased to announce that BA zero seven one two to Istanbul, a One World Alliance flight, is now ready to board from gate eighty-one.

'They've just called the flight.' He scooped up the file and dropped it into the holdall at his feet. 'I've gotta go; with a bit of luck I can still make my connection.'

'Good luck. Keep me posted.'

'I will.' Switching off his phone, Hunter dropped it on top of the file. Slipping off the stool, he picked up the bag and began the long march to the gate.

CHAPTER 39

Stepping out of the small crowd at the arrivals gate, Carlos Rangoon crumpled the sheet of paper bearing Daniel Hunter's name in one hand, while offering the other.

'So, you managed to make your connection in Istanbul, I see.'

'It required a quick dash through the terminal, but it was fine.' Shaking hands, Hunter was reminded of the actor Peter Lorre. A small, middle-aged man in a crumpled linen suit, his suspiciously black hair was gelled back over his skull. With a pair of sunglasses perched on his head, he looked every inch the shady fixer that Rashid Zubair had made him out to be. 'I hope you haven't been waiting too long.'

'Oh, no. Not at all. Not that it matters, anyway. Waiting around is part of just about any job, isn't it?'

'Very true.'

Dropping the ball of paper into his pocket, Rangoon pointed at the small holdall Hunter was carrying. 'Is that all your luggage?'

Hunter nodded. 'I like to travel light.'

Rangoon stared at the battered bag, less than impressed.

'As you will appreciate,' Hunter continued, 'there is a limit to what you can bring on a commercial flight these days.'

'Yes, indeed.'

'Anyway, I'm sure that I can pick up anything I might need along the way.'

'That should not be too difficult around here. The place is one big bazaar. Everything's for sale – if you know where to look.' Rangoon gave a conspiratorial smile. 'And I know where to look.'

'That's good.' Hunter gestured towards the exit. 'Shall we get going, then?'

'Of course.' Turning, Rangoon looked down the length of the terminal building. 'We just have to find Mrs Zubair and then I'll take you out to the car.'

'Mrs Zubair?' Hunter would have preferred a shower and a nap before meeting the client's ex-wife. 'You mean the former Mrs Zubair?'

'Yes, yes. Damien's mother. I still think of her as Mrs Zubair even though she has long since been supplanted in that role. It's just the force of habit on my part.'

'Did you know them when they were married?' Hunter asked. Despite being tired from the flights, he felt himself slipping effortlessly into investigator mode.

'Yes, indeed. I have worked with Mr Zubair for many years.'

'And the boy?'

'Damien? I saw him often. But only when he was very young, before his parents' split up.'

Hunter continued to probe. 'What caused the divorce?'

'Pfff. The usual things, I suppose.' The expression on Rangoon's face made it clear he was uncomfortable talking about that. 'But it was many years ago and these things tend to get lost in the mists of time, don't they? Anyway, I don't suppose it has much relevance to why we're here, does it?'

'No,' Hunter conceded. 'I suppose not. It must have had an impact on the boy, though.'

'I suppose so.'

'Affected his state of mind in some ways.'

Rangoon pushed out his lips in a show of dismay at this line of thinking. 'I am afraid, Mr Hunter, that I am not a psychologist. Any more than you are, as I understand it.'

Saying nothing, Hunter thought back to the degree in Behavioural Science, paid for by the British Army, as part of his training as a Red Cap, a military policeman.

'What I do know, however,' Rangoon continued, 'is that lots of children have to suffer the stress and unhappiness of a broken home, but not very many of them run off to become terrorists, do they?'

'Fair point,' Hunter conceded.

'There are more than a hundred thousand divorces in Britain every year.' Rangoon reeled off the statistic in a casual manner, as if he had been waiting for the matter to come up. 'There is no doubt that children can be hit hard by their parents splitting up. Very hard indeed. But that doesn't explain what Damien has done. Especially as it was so long ago.'

Trying to get out of the conversational cul-de-sac, Hunter changed tack. 'He has always lived with his mother?'

'That's right. They stayed in Bristol after Rashid moved up to London in order to develop his various different business interests.'

'And he goes by his mother's maiden name?'

'Yes. Wilson. It's Damien and Ann Wilson.' An irritated expression descended on Rangoon's face as he scanned the middle distance, trying to find the lady in question amidst the terminal crowd. 'You knew that she was here, didn't you?'

'I knew she had come to Adana. I didn't expect her to come and meet me at the airport.'

'When she realised you were coming, Ann wanted to see you as soon as possible. She is hoping that you will be able to make progress where others have failed in the search for Damien.'

'Hm.' No pressure then.

'Things have been moving rather too slowly for her liking. It is difficult here – after all, you can do little other than wait and hope. She has come all this way and then … nothing. You can only imagine her frustration.'

'Yes.'

'Not surprisingly, that frustration gets channeled into anger against Rashid. Ann has been less than complimentary about her husband's efforts in trying to recover their son.'

'It would be a very difficult situation for anyone.'

'Yes, but Ann thinks that Rashid, with his wealth and his connections, should have been able to do more.'

'Connections?' Hunter frowned. If Rashid Zubair had any kind of influence, if he could pull any strings, what was he doing hiring him, a retired military policeman on the recommendation of his art dealer?

'To be honest, I'm afraid Ann Wilson is a bit of a fantasist. I suppose that's what happens when you spend all of your time in the Middle Ages.'

Hunter looked at him blankly.

'She teaches medieval history,' Rangoon explained. 'And there she is.' He pointed towards a tall, pale woman in a patterned knee-length dress, walking towards them, a cigarette dangling from her lower lip. Hunter glanced at the large No Smoking sign hanging from the ceiling. It was only as the woman came closer that he realised that the cigarette remained unlit.

'You must be Daniel Hunter.' Ann didn't offer her hand.

'That's right.'

Taking the cigarette from her mouth, she made a show of looking him up and down. 'The famous ex-cop.'

Hunter glanced at Rangoon, who shot him a look that said I told you she was difficult. Turning his attention back to Wilson, he gave her one of his most professional smiles. 'I was a military policeman for many years. And after that, I spent some time in the Foreign Legion.'

'How exotic.'

'Not really,' he replied, his smile beginning to waver.

'Anyway, I suppose I should be grateful that Rashid is finally trying to do something.'

'Mr Zubair has been doing everything that he possibly can from day one,' Rangoon piped up in defence of his employer. 'Both here and in the United Kingdom.'

An amused smile crept across Wilson's lips. 'Is that right, Mr Hunter?'

Put on the spot, Hunter held her gaze. 'These things are never straightforward. In my experience–'

'You can tell us about your experience later.' Wilson pulled a plastic lighter from the pocket of her dress and began marching to the exit. 'Let's get out of here. I'm dying for a smoke.'

Rangoon let her get out of earshot before whispering. 'I'm sorry about that. Like I said, she is a woman under a lot of stress at the moment.'

'That's understandable.' Wilson was already half way to the exit. Hunter began walking after her.

Rangoon kept pace at his side. 'She didn't smoke at all when she first arrived. Now she's up to a packet a day. More.'

'Like you said, it's a stressful situation.'

'Mr Zubair wants us to be accommodating as possible.'

'Of course.'

'He hopes that if we can persuade her that there is nothing for her to do here we can get her to go home as quickly as possible.'

Hunter took a deep breath. He didn't like lackeys telling him what his priorities should be. 'My job is to try and get the boy back,' he said evenly.

'The mother being here is going to be a distraction for us.'

Us? Hunter realised that he was going have to delegate responsibility for Mrs Wilson to Rangoon.

'The danger is that she is too high profile. She wants to go on local TV.'

'Let me talk to her.' Hunter delved into his collection of stock reassurances. 'We all want the same thing here. We're all trying to achieve the same goal. I'm sure that Mrs, er, Wilson–'

'Ms Wilson,' Rangoon corrected him. 'Don't call her "Mrs". She doesn't like that. When I did it, she nearly bit my head off.'

'I'm sure that she will be open to our advice on these matters.' The automatic doors opened and Hunter was hit by a blast of hot air. It almost stopped him in his tracks.

Rangoon pulled his sunglasses down over his face. 'I hope you like the heat.'

'It doesn't bother me.' Hunter fished a pair of Wayfarers from his bag and slipped them on. Taking a couple of moments to acclimatise, he looked around for Ann Wilson but she seemed to have disappeared.

A couple of taxi drivers approached hopefully but Rangoon shooed them away. 'Ms Wilson doesn't like the heat. I thought that all you English preferred the cold.'

'I've worked all over,' Hunter pointed out. 'I can handle it.'

'Ah, yes,' Rangoon grinned. 'Mr Zubair had already told me about the Foreign Legion. That must have been quite an experience.'

'It was quite an experience.' Hunter stepped off the pavement, heading towards the parking lot. The war stories could wait. 'Which car is yours?'

They found Ann Wilson leaning against the bonnet of a dusty black BMW, her face hidden behind a pair of outsized sunglasses as she methodically puffed on her cigarette.

'It was the best they had at the rental desk,' Rangoon explained.

'It's fine.'

'The air conditioning works.'

'Good.'

Watching them approach, Wilson took a final drag on her cigarette before dropping the stub on the tarmac and crushing it under the toe of her shoe. 'So what's the plan?'

Hunter looked at Rangoon.

'I've rented a house near the centre of the city,' the fixer explained. 'It can be our base of operations for the, er, duration of our stay.'

'Fine. Let's get going. I'll have a shower, get something to eat and then we can review what we've got.'

'And that's the plan?' Wilson placed another cigarette between her lips and lit up.

A look of dismay crossed Rangoon's face. 'Not in the car, please. It makes me feel ill.'

'Don't worry, Carlos, we wouldn't want that.' Lifting herself off the car's bonnet, Wilson took a succession of furious puffs, before throwing away the smoke and moving round to the front passenger door.

'Don't you want to take the back?' Rangoon fumbled with the remote key and the doors clicked open.

'It's fine.' Pulling open the door, Hunter threw his bag on the back seat and manoeuvred himself inside. 'I can take the back.'

They travelled into the city in silence. Half an hour travelling in light traffic through a dusty suburban landscape brought them to a quiet neighbourhood of small, two-storey villas hiding behind high walls. At the far end of a deserted street, Rangoon brought the car to a halt outside a set of black metal gates and gave two short bursts on the horn. After a few moments there was a loud metallic click and the gates slid open.

'This is it.' Rangoon steered the car inside, parking in front of a double garage.

Getting out of the car, Hunter was met by a young boy who relieved him of his bag and darted inside the house. At the door a middle-aged woman greeted him with a burst of what he presumed was Turkish.

Hunter smiled and nodded.

'This is Neriman,' Rangoon explained. 'She is the housekeeper. The boy, Ersin, is her son. They will look after us while we are here.' He pointed towards the top floor of the house. 'You will have the best room in the house, facing the garden at the back. There is a swimming pool too.'

'Okay.' A swim sounded good, not that he had packed any trunks.

'I have the room over the garage,' Rangoon smiled. 'We are neighbours.'

Hunter turned to Wilson, who was already puffing on a cigarette. 'Which room have you got?'

A look of distaste crossed the woman's face. 'I'm not staying here. I prefer my hotel.' She gestured at Rangoon with the cigarette. 'That way he can't spy on me all the time.' Returning the smoke to her mouth, she took another quick drag. 'Neither can you for that matter.'

Ignoring the barb, Rangoon turned to Neriman. After a short conversation, the housekeeper turned and disappeared into the house.

'You speak Turkish?' Hunter asked, impressed.

'I speak a little of many languages,' said Rangoon, clearly proud of his linguistic skills. 'It is important in my line of work.'

'Which is what, exactly?'

'We can discuss that later.' Rangoon gestured for them to go inside. 'Your room is up the stairs and to the right. Neriman will have a meal ready for us in an hour. First, you can get cleaned up and have a rest. Then we can eat and talk.'

CHAPTER 40

The kitchen was a large room at the back of the house that opened out on to a well-tended garden. Hunter gazed longingly at the swimming pool. He needed to do some exercise to fight off the sluggishness caused by the travelling. If he was going to make any progress in the search for Damien Wilson, he would have to put in some hard yards in the coming days and would need to be on the top of his game. It was a game that hadn't been tested much recently and he wondered if he could still hack it.

'My ex hired you, huh?' Sitting on the opposite side of the kitchen table, Wilson played with her lighter.

'I'm working for all the families–'

'But Rashid is paying for it, right?'

'That is my understanding.' Hunter pushed away his plate, ignoring Neriman's disapproving look. More tired than hungry, he had barely touched his food. Muttering to herself, the housekeeper disappeared into the garden, leaving them to their conversation.

Wilson shook her head in disgust. 'He thinks that he can ignore the problem and then,' she clicked her fingers, 'start throwing his money around and – bam – solve any problem. Life's not like that.'

'No.' Rangoon had yet to put in an appearance in the kitchen and Hunter was the sole focus for the woman's complaints. Deciding to take the path of least resistance, he added: 'It must have been difficult, having to bring Damien up on your own.'

The change of tack threw her momentarily. She gave him a quizzical look and then laughed. 'No, not really. Damien was always a good kid. We got on well. He became more distant as a teenager but that's quite normal. I gave him a certain amount of freedom but he was never really any trouble.'

Until now.

Wilson let the lighter fall onto the table. 'Which is one reason why this whole thing is such a surprise. I mean, he wasn't the kind of child that you'd expect to do this kind of thing.'

'What kind of person would you expect to do this sort of thing?'

'I don't know.' Wilson pushed out her lower lip. 'I suppose I sound like the typical delusional parent, don't I?'

'It's okay. Things like this are always so out of the ordinary that they always take people by surprise. Things happen that you can't predict, you can't prevent. The question is how do you deal with them?'

'And how am I dealing with it?'

'I think you're doing what you can. You're trying to make things happen, which is good. You're not just being passive. The same is true of Rashid, of course, he is genuinely trying to do what he can.'

'I suppose.' She sounded less than convinced.

'I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for Rashid.'

'How did he choose you?'

'It was a referral. All my jobs these days are referrals.' Strictly speaking, that was true. This was his first job, the result of Dominic Silver's recommendation.

'So you're good?'

'Yes.' It was what she wanted to hear and now was not the time to disappoint. He put on what he hoped was a modest smile. 'I'm good.'

'Good at finding people.'

'Amongst other things.' Hunter took a sip of his tea. 'What you've got to remember is that finding Damien is one thing. Bringing him home is another. If – when – we catch up with him, he might not want to come back.'

A look of grim determination descended over Wilson's face. 'The little sod's coming back,' she said quietly, 'whether he wants to or not.'

CHAPTER 41

A cheery Carlos Rangoon appeared in the kitchen doorway, apparently refreshed by his nap. 'How are you two getting along?'

'Mr Hunter,' Ann Wilson explained drily, 'has just been explaining how he doesn't have a plan to get Damien back.'

Rangoon and Hunter exchanged looks.

'Yes, well. We are at an early stage in this, er, project. Mr Hunter has only just arrived. It will take him a little time to do a situation assessment and decide how best to proceed. Plus, we have to be realistic. Everyone is doing what they can, but no one wants to get your hopes up unnecessarily. Managing expectations is very important in a situation like this.'

She shot him a dirty look. 'Is that all this is to you, Carlos? A grubby little PR exercise? Is that how Rashid sees it? A game he has to play, to pretend to care about his son?'

'No,' the fixer stammered, 'not at all. I was just–'

'What we're doing here, it's a long shot.' Hunter pushed his chair back from the table and got to his feet. 'No more, no less. You are an intelligent woman, you know that. Why would you want us to pretend otherwise?'

'I want you to pretend you know what you're doing, at least.'

'I do know what I'm doing,' Hunter said solemnly. 'Up to a point.'

'We all have to admit we don't know,' Rangoon chipped in. 'Unknown unknowns and all that.'

Wilson shot him a dirty look. 'What are you talking about?'

'Not many people have managed to do what we are trying to achieve,' Hunter pointed out. 'We literally have to make it up as we go along. There is no playbook we can follow here.'

'It has been done before,' Wilson insisted. 'Before I left England, I read about one woman who went into Raqqa, on the other side of the border, and rescued her son. There must be others.'

'We don't know Damien's in Raqqa,' Rangoon pointed out.

'But still.'

'He could be anywhere in Syria. He could be–' Rangoon was about to say dead but caught himself just in time. 'He could be in Iraq for all we know. The jihadists have launched a new offensive there recently. They have been sending foreign fighters to the front line.'

Hunter glared at Rangoon. Stop winding the poor woman up. 'We know that Damien and his friends travelled here from Istanbul. It's a reasonable assumption that they went over the border and headed for Raqqa. That is the nearest jihadi stronghold and we know that they have a training base for foreign fighters there.'

Rangoon shot him a look that said We do?

'As Carlos says, we have to acknowledge what we don't know. But have to make some working assumptions. Assumption number one – Damien is in Raqqa, or has been there until recently.'

'So, we go to Raqqa,' Wilson said flatly. 'Follow in Damien's footsteps.'

'So I go to Raqqa.' Hunter caught the woman's eye and held her gaze until she looked away. There was no doubting her determination but her attitude didn't help. 'Once I have located your son, we'll have to work out how best to initiate contact.'

'And then?'

'And then, like I said, we'll have to improvise.'

It was clear that his answer didn't satisfy her, but it was the only one he had.

The room descended into a sullen silence.

After a few moments, Rangoon pulled the car key from his pocket.

'Let me take you back to the hotel,' he offered. 'It's getting late.'

'Okay,' Wilson sighed wearily, 'I suppose tomorrow is another day.'

Rangoon looked at Hunter. 'Want to come too? I can show you around a bit.'

'Sure, why not?'

'Good.' Wilson made the most half-hearted attempt to smile that Hunter had ever seen. 'If nothing else, you can buy me a nightcap.'

CHAPTER 42

While Wilson commandeered a table, Rangoon scuttled over to the bar to buy some drinks. Taking a seat, Hunter looked around the half-empty room.

'This is where I hang out most of the time.' Wilson fished a lighter from her pocket and dropped it on the table. 'It's busier during the day.'

'Hm.'

'It's one of the places where the would-be jihadis meet up with the smugglers who will take them across the border.'

'How did you find that out?'

'Everybody knows.'

Hunter looked at the woman. Certainly out of Rashid Zubair's league. He smiled at the thought.

She regarded him with a certain amusement. 'What's so funny?'

'Nothing.'

Wilson picked up the lighter and began tapping it against the plastic table top. 'You think I'm a bit of an idiot, don't you? This stupid woman who let her kid run away to get his head blown off.'

'I don't judge.'

'But that's what you think, isn't it? I don't mind, tell me.'

'What do I think?' Hunter exhaled, trying to order his thoughts. 'I think, based on a limited amount of information and the experience of having met you for all of a few hours that you are a regular person caught up in a very unfortunate situation.'

'A regular person?' Blushing slightly, she lowered her gaze to the table.

'Nothing wrong with that. I didn't mean it as an insult. I'm just a regular person myself.'

She looked up and fixed him with a look that mixed sadness and realism. 'You don't have any kids yourself, do you?'

'Er, no.' Hunter felt his face burn in shame. 'No kids.'

'That's why you don't understand.'

'Don't understand what?'

'Why I will do anything to get Damien back. Go to Syria? No problem. I don't mind dying, if it means getting him back.'

Did Hunter believe her? He wasn't sure.

She read the doubt on his face. 'I mean it. God knows, I've had plenty time to think about it recently.'

Hunter looked over at the bar. Despite the lack of competing customers, Rangoon seemed to be struggling to get served. A barmaid studiously ignored him as he hovered in her eyeline, waving a banknote in his hand. Setting up his next line of investigation, Hunter turned back to Wilson. 'So, how did you and Rashid meet?'

She seemed taken aback by the question. 'Why do you ask?'

He shrugged. 'Just a bit of background colour. Helps me understand my client a bit better.'

'Him or me?'

'Both.'

'He's the one paying the bills.'

'You're still my client. The same as the other families.'

Wilson arched an eyebrow. 'Does that mean you'll do what I tell you?'

'No,' Hunter laughed. 'It doesn't work like that.'

'I didn't think so.' She made a face. 'So how does it work?'

'I agree to take on a job, you have to let me do it, my way.'

'Improvise.'

'That's right. It's fine to have a plan but you have to be prepared to tear it up. There's a saying: no plan survives contact with the enemy.'

'Very convenient.'

'It's just a fact of life. Anyway, you and Rashid. On first impressions, you seem like an unlikely couple.'

She frowned. 'Why? Because he's Asian.'

Hunter shook his head. 'I was thinking more because he's an uptight, control freak. Very driven.'

Listening to his deconstruction of her ex, Wilson's face softened. 'And me?'

'And you're an academic.'

'That's all?'

'So far. Medieval history and modern business seem an unlikely mix. How did you two hook up?'

'Well,' Wilson took a deep breath. 'He was my student.'

'Your student?'

Seeing the expression on his face, she added: 'It wasn't as outrageous as it sounds. When I was a post-grad at the University of Bristol I taught an introductory undergraduate course. Rashid was in one of my classes. He dropped the class after a couple of months, which was probably just as well, as we were dating by then. A year later, we were married, I was pregnant and he had dropped out of university altogether. He said he wanted to earn some money to look after the family, which was fair enough, but there was more to it than that. You're right, he is very driven. It quickly became clear that he was getting off on it. He was hugely motivated by being his own boss, by making money.'

'There's nothing wrong with that.'

'No, not at all. But I couldn't get to the bottom of it, you know? What made him so determined? It became a bit overwhelming. There was no work-life balance. It quickly became clear that he wouldn't stay the course. Even before he became unfaithful.'

Seeing the residual hurt in her eyes, Hunter looked away. High on the far wall, a TV was showing a news programme, with the sound muted. Although he couldn't read the caption, the story was clear. A sullen-looking man in an orange jumpsuit was being goaded by a hooded terrorist waving a sword in the middle of some bombed-out building.

Another day, another cliché.

'Sorry it took so long. These people have no idea about service. They say Britain is bad. Well, compared to this place…' Shaking his head Rangoon placed a tray of beers on the table and handed Wilson a fresh packet of cigarettes.

'Thanks.' Ripping the cellophane from the packet, Wilson took out a cigarette and began lighting up.

Hunter gave her a quizzical look.

'No one cares here.' Taking a long drag, Wilson blew a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

Taking a seat, Rangoon picked up one of the beers and pointed at the TV. 'Looks like they've got another one. Some big name American reporter too.' Lifting the bottle to his lips, he took a succession of rapid gulps. 'What was the fool thinking of? What kind of idiot puts himself in a position of danger like that?'

An idiot like me. Hunter could see that Wilson had the same idea. They both started to laugh.

What's so funny?

'Nothing,' they said in unison.

Rangoon turned his attention back to the screen. 'The Americans will go crazy about this. It's one thing chopping the heads off freelancers no one has ever heard off. This is different. They will have to act. They can't keep losing the propaganda war.'

Hunter was less than convinced. 'This has been going on for years now. One reporter, more or less, doesn't really matter. People don't really care anymore.'

Focusing on her cigarette, Wilson said nothing.

'I don't know about that,' Rangoon countered. 'They've restarted airstrikes. And there's talk of them putting boots on the ground.'

'We'll see.' Hunter didn't believe it for a minute. The Americans and their allies had tired of their Middle Eastern adventures. These days, the politicians wanted to do all their killing by remote control. As far as he could make out, only the French, his previous employers, still had any stomach for fighting, face to face.

Which was ironic, when you thought about it.

Finishing her cigarette, Wilson stubbed it out on the tray and reached for her beer. 'So, the Foreign Legion, why did you join?'

Taking the final beer, Hunter shrugged.

'Were you running away from some dark secret?'

Hunter took a mouthful of beer. 'I needed a job. It was something I could do.'

She looked at him, a twinkle in her eye as she waited for him to continue.

'Why do you ask?'

'Just a bit of background colour,' she grinned. 'It helps me understand my employee a bit better.'

Hunter finished his beer. 'I'm not your employee.'

'You know what I mean.'

'It's not a big deal.'

'So why be so coy about it?' Wilson clearly wasn't going to let him off the hook. Rangoon was obviously interested too.

What the hell.

'I had to leave the UK in a hurry. I shot a man.'

'Dead?' Wilson lit up another smoke.

Hunter nodded. 'Dead.'

'So you're a killer.'

'I've never really thought about it like that but, yes, I suppose I am.'

'Why did you do it?'

Conscious that his heart rate had ticked up, Hunter looked at Rangoon. He looked at Wilson. 'The guy killed my wife and kids.'

'Jesus.' Rangoon almost dropped his beer. 'Why did he do that?'

Embarrassed by the shameless brutality of the question, Wilson shot the fixer a look of disgust.

'To stop me from coming after him,' Hunter said flatly.

Rangoon stared at the label on his beer bottle. 'Didn't work then, did it?'

'Nope.'

A look of genuine compassion clouded Wilson's face. 'I'm very sorry, Daniel.' She reached across the table to pat his hand but he pulled it away.

So now you know, he thought grimly. You don't have a monopoly on suffering around this table.

'It was a while ago now. At least I don't have to wonder.'

Sitting back in her chair, Wilson stared at him through a haze of cigarette smoke. 'Wonder what?'

'They've gone.' Hunter listened to his heart beating, wondering why he was here. Wondering why he was still alive. 'No one can ever hurt them now. And I don't have the anguish of wondering if they're ever coming back.'

CHAPTER 43

'Want another beer?'

Hunter placed his empty bottle back on the table. 'One more.' Half an hour sitting in the café hadn't taught him anything much. This might indeed – as Wilson claimed – be a meeting place for wannabe jihadists but the current crowd looked like a fairly ordinary mix of blue collar guys winding down after the working day and a few families enjoying what passed for a night out in these parts.

Rather more than another drink, Hunter wanted his bed. Maybe he was getting too old for this sort of thing. He pushed the idea from his mind. Tomorrow he would come back – alone – and start making some proper enquiries.

Rangoon waved an empty bottle at Wilson.

'Sure, why not? Thanks.' She watched Rangoon get to his feet and head back to the bar with the empties.

'What exactly does he do for Rashid?' Hunter asked, once the fixer was out of earshot.

'Your guess is as good as mine.' Wilson eyed the packet of cigarettes on the table hungrily, but managed to resist the temptation to reach for another smoke. 'I suppose, the way I would characterise it, he's more than an employee, but less than a partner. They've been working together for ages. Carlos was around pretty much at the beginning of it all. He's just about the only person Rashid hasn't fallen out with over the years.' She chuckled to herself. 'I think the reason for that is probably that Carlos spends so much time on the road fixing up deals.'

'What kind of deals?'

'How should I know?' Wilson shrugged. 'An import-export kind of thing. Rashid will give pretty much anything a go if he thinks he can make some money out of it.'

Pretty much anything.

'I remember one of the first deals that they did, years ago,' Wilson continued, 'was to bring a container load of DVD players over from Greece or somewhere. They sold them at markets around London. Rashid said they made a packet.' She dropped her voice an octave to try to impersonate her ex. '"That was a good deal, love, we done good". He was very pleased with himself. I seem to remember he bought a car off the back of it. A battered old Saab. They've moved up since then, of course.'

'Rashid said Carlos was coming here from Northern Cyprus.'

'Quite possibly. He goes all over around the Mediterranean and the Middle East, sourcing products, doing deals, trading stuff.'

'Is it all above board, do you think?'

'That's not my area of expertise,' Wilson said primly.

'No. I suppose not.'

'I mean, I'm not going to sit here and say Rashid would be above that kind of thing. Like I said, he is very focused on turning a profit. But you can say that about a lot of people. I don't know that he would necessarily push things too far.'

'No.'

'I suppose I wouldn't be that surprised either way.' Her face softened and she shot him a rueful smile. 'I just don't know. After all, I'm just the ex-wife who teaches medieval history, remember?'

'Fair point.' He smiled back, pleased that she appeared to be thawing a little.

'But enough about Rashid and Carlos. What about you?'

'What about me?'

'Are you on the run?'

'No,' Hunter laughed. 'I'm not on the run. I don't have so much as a parking ticket to my name. I'm just an ex-military man trying to make it in the civilian world; just a regular citizen.'

'How so?' Wilson made a show of looking surprised. 'Last time I looked, you were supposed to go to jail for killing people. Or did you claim self-defence?'

'Not at all.' Wishing that he had kept his mouth shut about his past, Hunter sat back in his chair. 'I never tried to dress up what happened.'

'So how did you get away with it?'

'It's a complicated story.'

'Why don't you give me the short version.' Wilson stifled a yawn. 'I can quiz you on the details later – if I feel like it.'

'The short version…' Hunter scratched his head, 'well, after I came back from my time in France I handed myself in, only to find that someone had already been convicted of the murder.'

'Wrongly.'

'Obviously.'

'A miscarriage of justice, then.'

'The police went for the easy win. It happens. There was a drifter with mental health problems and a previous record, who they could place at the scene. He was made to sign a confession and was sent down for life in double-quick time.'

'And you let that happen?'

'I didn't know anything about it. I was in Africa with the Legion at the time.'

'But once you finally turned up back in England, didn't this guy – or his lawyer at least – want you to get him out?'

'Nope. The guy was dead by then. They put him in what was supposed to be a secure medical facility. It was so secure that he was able to stop taking his drugs, head up to the roof and jump off.' He shook his head. Even now, the whole thing didn't seem real. 'Kurt Zerlkderik.'

'Huh?'

'That was his name Kurt Zerlkderik. The guy who took the rap for me – as the Americans might say – without even knowing anything about it.'

'And you feel bad about it?'

'Not really,' Hunter admitted. 'More bemused. I did try to do the right thing, albeit a bit late. The funny thing was, the harder I tried to sort it out the more people got pissed off. No one wanted the investigation re-opened. I went back to England to give myself up, but the cops didn't want to know. The case was closed and it was staying closed. They basically told me to sod off.'

'Lucky old you.'

'Yes, I suppose.'

'Does Rashid know about this?'

'I would assume so. He took up my references, so to speak.'

'He is very thorough.' Wilson's tone suggested it wasn't really meant as a compliment.

'It was part of my CV, I suppose.' Hunter gave her a hard stare. 'Something to give him confidence that I am capable of doing whatever it takes to get a job done. You too, for that matter.'

'Hm.'

'So you can go back to England, confident that we're doing everything we can to get Damien back.'

Wilson jerked back in her chair as if she had been slapped. 'I'm not going home.'

'Look at this place.' Hunter waved an arm in the air. 'There's no point in you being here. There's nothing going on. It's a dump.'

'You've obviously never been to Bristol,' Wilson muttered with some feeling.

'I can't say that I have,' Hunter replied earnestly. 'But home is home. You need to get back to some kind of normal routine.'

'This is the new normal,' Wilson insisted. 'Anyway, I've changed as a result of all this. There is no going back. Not to how things were before.'

Hunter's heart sank. The last thing he needed was for the woman to turn her domestic drama into a full-blown mid-life crisis. Eat, Pray, Love meets the War on Terror. He wondered if Wilson had a boyfriend.

Don't go there.

'How so?'

Wilson pushed out her lower lip. 'In a strange way, this whole experience has been really quite empowering. It has lifted me out of my comfort zone. I've had to establish new goals. Push myself.'

Hunter tried to keep the dismay from his face. If they ever make a movie of this nonsense, he mused, Julia Roberts is a shoe-in to play you. But who would play him? No one immediately sprang to mind.

'Before I came here I wouldn't say boo to a goose. When Damien first went missing, I was pathetically grateful to anyone who gave the impression that they were trying to help. But I quickly realised that giving the appearance of being helpful was just a strategy for fobbing me off – an effective one too. People were pretending to be concerned when, really, they couldn't give a toss. That's just how it is.'

You only just realised that now? How old are you?

'I quickly understood that the only way anything was going to happen was if I made it happen. Think about it, the only reason you're here now is because Rashid was embarrassed that I had taken the initiative. He hated the idea that his ex-wife was prepared to head off into a war zone while he stayed at home, sitting on his backside. It undermined his sense of his own manhood.'

'That's one way of looking at it.' Hunter didn't want to think about Rashid's manhood. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

'I know Rashid,' she insisted. 'If I go home now, how long do you think he will he keep paying your retainer?'

'It's a flat fee,' Hunter pointed out, before adding 'with a success element.'

'Ha! I'm sure that Rashid would rather not pay out on success.'

'Are you saying he doesn't want his son back?'

'He abandoned us both years ago. This little expedition of yours is just about saving face. As cheaply as possible. Whether you find Damien or not, he won't want to pay out any bonus.'

'That's my problem,' Hunter replied tartly. 'I've taken the job and I'll see it through to the end.'

'And it's the same for me.' Her eyes shone with defiance. 'I'm not going home without my son. Leaving now would only let Rashid wriggle off the hook.'

Why was he having this argument? Did he really care whether the woman stayed or not? 'Okay, if that's the way you feel. Stay. It's your call.'

'And I'm not just going to sit here, waiting. I want to go with you into Syria.'

'Not a chance,' Hunter grimaced. 'No way.' How had she managed to turn the tables on him so comprehensively? 'You can stay here if you must, but I'm not taking you into that craziness. There's no point in bringing one family member back, only to lose another.'

Wilson sullenly accepted the point, her eyes tracking Rangoon as he returned from the bar with the beers. Not waiting for him to put the tray on the table, she grabbed one of the bottles and raised it in the air.

'To Kurt … whasisisname.'

'Kurt Zerlkderik.' Hunter took a beer and gave a small salute.

'Who's he?'

'A guy I knew.' Hunter shot Wilson a conspiratorial look that said Keep it to yourself. 'Just one more poor bugger who deserved better.'

'Ah. There are plenty of those in the world.' Rangoon raised his beer in turn. 'To the unlucky Kurt. And all the random shit that happens in the world.'

For a few moments, they drank in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, until Wilson pointed past Hunter, towards the doorway.

'Bloody hell,' she whispered, 'look at that guy.'

Hunter started to turn in his seat when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.

'Oh, Danny boy…'

Hunter stiffened as he heard a familiar Boston accent whispering softly in his ear.

'The crazies, the crazies are calling…'

The hand left his shoulder and there was the sound of a chair being scraped across the floor.

Hunter waited until the new arrival had taken his seat. 'What the hell have you done to your hair?'

'You like it?' With canary yellow spiked hair, the American bore more than a passing resemblance to Sting, circa 1980. He was a good looking guy, tanned, fit, with high cheekbones and just a hint of plastic surgery around the eyes.

The world's vainest mercenary.

'You know what it's like. I'm not the kind of guy to stand still for too long.' He gave a I can't help being so totally cool look. 'I decided that it was time for a change of look.'

Hunter shook his head. 'Very inconspicuous.'

'To be fair, I wasn't going for an "inconspicuous" look. I got it done when I was on holiday in Lebanon. Which is when I got the call. Which, on reflection, was probably why I got the call.'

'I see.' Hunter didn't want to know what a "holiday" in Lebanon involved. It almost certainly wasn't a few days sitting by a pool, followed by a bit of sightseeing.

'So you like it?'

It took a moment, but Hunter finally summoned up a few grains of generosity. 'It suits you.'

'Thanks.'

The man gestured at Wilson and Rangoon, who were eyeing him suspiciously from behind their beer bottles. 'Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?'

As if you don't know more about them than I do already. Hunter extended an arm. 'Sal Osman meet Carlos Rangoon and Ann Wilson.'

'Pleased to meet you,' reaching across the table, the Sting impersonator shook both of them by the hand, 'Salvatore Osman. Call me Sal.' He jerked a thumb in the direction of Hunter. 'An old colleague of Danny's. We've worked together on a couple of jobs over the years.'

A couple too many, Hunter thought sullenly. His irritation was heightened by the fact that Rangoon and Wilson seemed quite impressed by the new arrival. Folding his arms, he eyed his ex-comrade suspiciously. 'So, Sal, what are you doing here?'

Looking around, Osman checked that none of the other patrons were showing too much interest in their conversation. 'Same as you, my friend. Same as you.'

Rangoon and Wilson edged forward in their seats, waiting for more.

'I got the call,' Sal repeated.

Here we go, Hunter thought wearily. Sal always did love all that Expendables-type shit.

Rangoon obligingly took the bait. 'The call?'

'We have a little … situation, on the other side of the border.' Osman's smile revealed a set of perfect white teeth that could only belong to an American. He gestured towards the TV, which was now showing some kind of soap opera. 'Maybe you saw it on the news.'

'The star reporter?' Rangoon seemed energised by Osman's appearance, which irritated Hunter even more.

'Elliot Vonkel, that's right.'

Osman's smile was so bright that Hunter had to resist the temptation to reach for his sunglasses. 'You're going in to get him back?'

'That's right,' Sal beamed. 'And I thought I might take you along for the ride.'

CHATPER 43

Rangoon was despatched to the bar for a fresh round of drinks while Wilson visited the bathroom.

Losing the smile, Sal got down to business.

'Are you flying solo?'

'Yeah,' Hunter admitted.

'Must be a pain having those two in tow.'

'It's a complicated situation.'

'It always is with private clients,' Sal mused. 'That's why I only work with the government.'

Hunter raised an eyebrow.

'Directly or indirectly.'

'How did you know I was here?'

'You know what it's like. The Agency monitors everyone travelling through any airport within two hundred miles of the border. You were flagged three hours ago.' Osman gestured towards the bar. 'Along with Mr Rangoon there. A very interesting guy. With a very interesting boss.'

Hunter let that slide. 'You got here quick.'

'I was in the neighbourhood.' Sal ran a hand through his expensively-bleached hair. 'I have to say, I'm more than a little surprised that you're not in jail.'

'Me too,' Hunter admitted.

'The Brits don't bother putting people in jail these days?'

'Long story.' Hunter wasn't about to run through all that again. Fortunately, Osman showed no interest in the details.

'So, here we are. It's like…' he waved a hand in the air, searching for the word, 'fate.' Leaning forward, he placed his elbows on the table. 'We can help each other. You're here to try and rescue Rashid Zubair's kid. I have to try and get this damn journalist out while his head is still attached to his shoulders.'

'This guy…'

'Elliot Vonkel.'

'Why is he so important?'

'He's a big name. Or at least he was. His luck has been out recently. He worked for BNN till they sacked him a few weeks ago. He's currently freelance.'

'What the hell was he doing in Syria?'

'Apparently, he thought he had an exclusive interview with Militant Mick, you know the shithead who likes to cut people's heads off and video it for the internet. Surprise, surprise, he goes to do an interview and ends up with a starring role in his own snuff movie.' Osman shook his head in disgust. 'What an idiot.'

Hunter scratched his chin. Three days' stubble wouldn't do much to help him blend in once they crossed the border, but it was a start. 'And he's on his own?'

'Vonkel went into Syria with a German guy; some politician who's made a couple of trips to see what's going on over there.'

'Is he a prisoner too?'

'No idea,' Osman admitted. 'We don't know what's happened to him. If he's around and we can get him out too, fine, but he's not a priority.'

We?

'There's a lot you don't know.'

'What I do know is that the powers that be want this guy brought back. Apparently, the Prez is a big fan of his work, something that is not thought to be unrelated to the fact that Vonkel's boss gave a quote-unquote significant seven-figure sum to the President's re-election campaign right before he snuffed it. Monkseaton Chamberlain.'

'Never heard of him,' Hunter admitted.

'He and Vonkel dined at the White House four times in the last year. The word has come down that this guy can't be left to die.'

'Easier said than done.'

'We can help each other.'

I can help you, you mean. Keeping his mouth shut, Hunter signalled that he was prepared to listen to Sal's offer.

'I haven't had time to put a team together and the intel suggests my window of opportunity is small and narrowing.'

American Intelligence. The ultimate oxymoron. 'I don't have a team either.' Hunter gestured towards Rangoon at the bar. 'Apart from him. And he's a civilian. He might be of some use in terms of logistics but I don't know yet.'

'What about the woman?'

'She's the kid's mother. Rashid's ex-wife.'

'Jesus. What the fuck's she doing here?'

'She came out here to try and persuade the boy to come back. She wants to go into Syria.'

'I hope that you told her that wasn't a good idea.'

'Of course, Sal. Do you think I would take her along for the ride?'

'Okay, okay. Look, I think a two-man team would work.' Osman placed his hand back on Hunter's shoulder. 'Given that the two men would be us.'

Why did I take this damn job? Hunter watched Wilson emerge from the toilets and head towards Rangoon at the bar. He turned to Osman.

'We bring out both guys?'

'Both guys. Assuming that they are somewhere in or around Raqqa.'

'If not?'

Osman shrugged. 'If we can't find them, we can't find them.'

'What about equipment?'

'Leave that to me. Uncle Sam will provide.'

That was something, at least. 'What about extraction services?'

Osman shook his head. 'We're on our own. This is completely off the books. There has to be total deniability for my people. If something goes wrong, the story is that I'm working for you and we were only trying to get the boy … David.'

'Damien.'

Osman's face lit up. 'Like The Omen? Cool.'

Hunter wasn't interested in movie chat. 'So I'm your cover?'

'Neat, huh? The kind gives us plausible deniability. In some ways, we couldn't have planned it any better. Like I said, it's fate.'

Conscious of a small surge of adrenaline in his chest, Hunter watched Rangoon and Wilson heading back from the bar. There was no point in talking round the issue any further. Turning to Osman, he smiled.

'When do we go in?'

Ann Wilson watched Sal Osman walk out of the café and disappear into this night. 'So that guy's going to help you get Damien back?' Not waiting for an answer, she shoved a cigarette between her lips and lit up.

'Is he reliable?' Rangoon asked.

Reliable? No. Effective? Well, Sal sure had his moments. Hunter looked at the beer in front of him. Now that he was under starter's orders, he had no intention of drinking it. 'Let's put it this way. If anyone can go in there and execute an extraction, it's Sal and his team.' He chose his words carefully. It would be better on their nerves if they thought that it was a properly resourced venture. 'It's very fortuitous that we are going to be able to piggyback on his operation.'

'His priority is this guy Vonkel,' Wilson pointed out.

'Of course. But it's worth going along for the ride. At the very least, its gets me into Raqqa. I can recce the situation and see if I can locate Damien. It's better than sitting around here, trying to make something happen. Trust me, this is a lucky break for us.'

Wilson eyed him suspiciously before conceding the point by blowing a stream of smoke towards the ceiling.

Rangoon sipped his beer. 'Rashid is basically getting Special Forces for free.'

That's one way of looking at it.

'What do you want us to do?'

'Keep all this to yourselves for now. The fewer people who know that Sal Osman is in town the better.'

'So he's famous?' Wilson asked.

'In certain circles,' Hunter conceded.

'And you've worked with him before?'

'When I was in the Legion. He was working as a contractor.'

Wilson raised an eyebrow. 'A mercenary?'

Hunter shifted uncomfortably in his chair. 'A freelancer. The same as me, basically.'

'Who's he working for now?'

'Does it matter?' Irritated by the endless stream of questions, Hunter got to his feet and signalled for Rangoon to follow suit. 'Let's get back to the house. I need to get some rest. It's going to be a full-on couple of days.' Leaving the table, he turned to Wilson. 'We can reconvene here when I get back.'

Wilson started to say something then thought better of it.

Heading for the door, Hunter tried to sound a note of reassurance. 'Don't worry, if Damien's there, we'll find him.'

'What should I tell Rashid?'

Hunter looked at Rangoon. The fixer gave him a look that said How can I be expected to try and control her?

'If you have to say anything,' Hunter said wearily, 'don't mention my friend. Just tell him I've gone in and I'll be back in forty-eight hours, max.'

'Unless they kill you.'

'Yeah, right,' Hunter grunted. 'If and when we get to that point you can say and do what you like.'

CHAPTER 44

Elliot Vonkel sat on a green plastic chair behind a small desk, staring vacantly at the unintelligible slogans that had been painted on the far wall in Arabic. He had been brought to the gymnasium of a school near the centre of the city which, for the purposes of today's activities, had been transformed into Revolutionary Court Number 3.

What looked suspiciously like faded blood stains were splattered across the floor. Standing behind him, a pair of almost identical shaven-headed guards slouched to something approaching attention, their automatic weapons almost caressing his ears. Vonkel shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His orange jumpsuit, made out of some kind of man-made fibre, was deeply uncomfortable, trapping a layer of sweat against his skin.

There was no clock in the room, so the American had no idea how long he had been waiting for the trial to begin. Following his arrest, he had been deposited in a cell that looked like something out of an Errol Flynn movie. His bed was a ratty mattress on a dirty concrete floor. Unable to sleep, Vonkel had spent the night listening to the cries of his fellow inmates. At least they had given him a cell to himself. In the morning, he had been given some inedible slop for breakfast before being forced to change into his new uniform and thrown in the back of a minibus. A fifteen-minute drive through deserted streets had brought him here. A sign in English and Arabic at the front gate informed him that this was – or had been – the Hisham Turkmani Lower School. Underneath the name, the sign bore a childish painting of the students at play. The image could have represented just about any school, anywhere in the world. The buildings, however, showed clear signs of bomb damage.

Ushered out of the van, Vonkel was led inside. The place seemed deserted. He remembered Berghofer telling him that all the local schools had been closed for more than six months.

Behind him, the guards shared a joke. One of them started laughing, poking Vonkel in the nape of his neck with the barrel of his gun. Leaning forward, the reporter closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself somewhere far from here.

Just breathe.

Frozen in terror, his mind refused to play along. Unable to transport himself elsewhere, Vonkel reluctantly re-opened his eyes. Folding his arms, he sat back in his chair. Anxiety washed over him in waves. He needed something to drink. He was hungry. He needed a shave. He needed to pee. Thinking back through his rollercoaster life, he tried to think of times that had been worse than this. Nothing came close. Not even the time a Mexican drug dealer had threatened to chop off his balls with a machete. Or the time, he thought he'd caught AIDS after a rather spectacular night on the town in Sydney's red light district when he had been sent to cover the Olympics. Or even his "re-imagined" dice with death on the Falkland Islands.

This is what happens when you fly solo, fool. Vonkel's brain was screaming at him to acknowledge the seriousness of the situation. All of his previous journalistic escapades had been a walk in the park compared to this. The really worrying thing, however, was that Hisham Turkmani Lower School was clearly just a short pit stop on the road to somewhere much worse.

He was distracted from his morbid musings by some muttering off to his right, where his nemesis, Mullah Fandi, sat behind a large desk, slightly elevated on a low podium. Vonkel had been surprised to find the priest waiting for him when he arrived. Nothing had been explained about the legal "process" to which he was being submitted but, from what he could glean, it appeared that the cleric had somehow acquired the role of judge.

And, by the looks of things, jury too.

Partially hidden behind stacks of books and papers, the cleric was hunched over a small bundle, on which he was scribbling furiously, pausing every so often to look up and glare at the defendant. Next to Fandi, a clerk – presumably the court stenographer – tapped away at a laptop, making the occasional observation, sotto voce.

'I think we start soon.' Vonkel's defence lawyer, a thin, nervous-looking man called Yanal Akra, who had introduced himself to his client only a few minutes before, placed a small bottle of water on the desk. 'They're having a few technical difficulties.' He gestured towards the back of the otherwise empty public gallery, where a trio of men were clustered around a tripod, trying to coax Vonkel's camera into life.

'For fuck's sake,' one of the men shouted, his harsh provincial English accent sounded incongruous in the surroundings.

'Silence in court,' Fandi intoned solemnly, not looking up from his writing.

'This is no better than the other one,' the man complained. 'And the battery life is shit.'

Vonkel felt an irrational flicker of satisfaction in his breast. At least I'm not the only technological idiot around here. If he ever made it back to New York, he was going to walk right into Nineteenth Street Photo & Video and demand a full refund.

That was a very big if but the thought still managed to make him smile.

'That's enough, Mr Salford.' Fandi's eyes flicked upward. 'A bad workman always blames his tools. Get it sorted in the next five minutes or we just have to get on without any filming.'

'But Mick wanted some proper pictures,' the Mancunian growled.

'That's as maybe,' Fandi's tone suggested he couldn't care less, 'but I have an important committee meeting in an hour. We are running out of time.'

'An hour?' Vonkel looked at his lawyer.

Retreating to the defence bench, Akra said nothing.

'Silence in court!' Fandi thundered before going back to his writing. 'An hour will be more than enough,' he muttered, 'and I've got a speech to write.'

These people, he thought sourly, they just cannot understand the burdens of power. Trying to do two things at once was the bare minimum; multi-tasking was an essential skill when you were trying to drive a revolution forward. Trying to block out any distractions, he picked up a sheet of paper and contemplated the title he had scrawled in capitals on the top of the page.

A NEW APPROACH TO THE DOG PROBLEM

Underneath, the subtitle read: Tough on dogs, tough on the causes of dogs.

Catchy.

Letting the sheet of paper fall onto the desk, Fandi stroked his chin thoughtfully. The soundbite sounded good in his head but he had yet to find a way of working it into his speech to the Revolutionary Committee. Bowing his head until it hovered barely an inch above the desk, he scanned through the heavily edited text.

As part of our ongoing efforts to stem the tide of filth which has swept through our society, we must leave no stone unturned. We must now candidly recognise that the deliberate procedures embodied in present efforts to control dogs are not sufficient in themselves. The problem has assumed serious dimensions. Enforcement must be coupled with a rational approach to the reclamation of the dog owner himself. The laws of supply and demand function in the illegal dog business as in any other. We are taking steps to deal with the supply side of the equation with our "one dog, one bullet" initiative. In addition, I want to recommend today additional steps to be taken now. But we must also deal with demand. We must rehabilitate the dog user if we are to eliminate dog abuse and all the antisocial activities that flow from dog ownership.

A bit too wordy? Perhaps. But he knew that the promise of new action on dogs would play well in the committee. It was an issue he owned and he was on to a winner.

Fandi was pleased with himself for having hit upon such an emotive topic. All he needed now was a clear policy. He was considering his three-point plan for immediate radical action when another curse came from the back of the room.

'Dammit!'

The damn dogs would have to wait. Gathering up his papers, Fandi dropped them into a rucksack by his feet. 'I'll take that as a sign that our technological problems have not abated and are unlikely to do so in the foreseeable future. Let us proceed.'

Muttering to himself, Salford remained hunched over the camera.

'This tribunal is now formally in session. For the benefit of the defendant and to demonstrate our impeccable credentials when it comes to fairness and transparency, this session will be conducted in English.' After glancing at Vonkel, Fandi turned to the defence lawyer. 'The charge is one of counter-revolutionary activity, to wit espionage. How does your client plead?'

Akra gave a nervous cough. 'Guilty.'

'What?' Vonkel shot from his chair, only to be restrained by the burly guard at his shoulder. 'I do not–'

'SILENCE IN COURT.' Fandi banged his fist upon the table. 'We are going to extreme lengths to accommodate you here but do not try my patience too far. You must accept the required procedures. You may only address the court through your representative, do you understand?'

Vonkel glared at Akra who gave an embarrassed it's every man for himself smirk. Turning to Fandi, he tried to make eye contact over the piles of books on the desk. 'I am not guilty,' he said as firmly as he could manage. 'There are no witnesses. You have no evidence to support the charge.'

'No evidence?' Fandi was so outraged by the suggestion that he immediately tossed all protocol out of the window. 'No witnesses? I saw it all with my own eyes. Twenty people are dead – men, women and children – including your own colleague. More than a hundred injured.' He pointed to the already fading scar on his cheek. 'I almost died myself. You are nothing less than a mass murderer. A criminal of the worst kind.'

'But–'

'One more word,' Fandi growled, 'and I will find you guilty of contempt of court.'

That's the least of my worries, Vonkel thought. A sharp poke in the ribs with the barrel of an AK-47, however, encouraged him to sit down and shut up.

'Let us move on.' Taking a moment to compose himself, Fandi looked towards the prosecution bench. 'Where is the prosecutor?

'He nipped out for a snack,' Akra advised.

'A snack?'

'He was hungry,' the defence lawyer observed, before adding: 'He was looking for the death penalty.'

Picking up the bottle of water from the desk, Vonkel hurled it towards his lawyer. 'You're fired!'

'Guards! Restrain the accused.' Fandi waited until Vonkel had been handcuffed to his chair before turning back to Akra. 'Do you object to the prosecution's request for the death penalty?'

For a moment, Akra looked almost bemused. 'No.'

'Awww–' Vonkel was silenced by a blow to the side of his head with the stock of one of the AK-47s. A sharp pain rattled through his brain as he watched Mick appear at the back of the room and start joking with his colleagues.

'Ah, there you are. Good timing.' Getting to his feet, Fandi quickly confirmed the verdict and the sentence while his clerk typed away furiously. 'He's all yours.' The cleric gestured at the camera. 'Make sure you get that damn thing to work before you chop his head off.' Stepping off the podium, he quickly disappeared through a side door.

After consulting with Salford, Mick approached the dazed reporter. 'Hey, Elliot,' he said quietly, 'maybe you could give us a quick lesson on how to use your kit.'

CHAPTER 45

'You ready to go?'

Standing next to Osman's SUV, Hunter looked across the empty scrubland. The sun had almost set and the light was rapidly fading. Time to make a move. 'Sure.'

'Have you got any ID?

'No.

'Good.' Osman unzipped his jacket and tossed it inside the car.

Hunter did a double take. 'What the hell is that?'

'Do you like it?' Osman tapped his chest. 'I bought it in town from a guy standing on the street corner. Only ten bucks. Good quality too – heavy duty cotton. It'll probably shrink in the wash, though.'

Hunter contemplated the grinning face of Militant Mick staring at him from Osman's t-shirt. 'That's sick.'

'Whaddya mean?' Osman held up his hands in mock protest. 'It'll help me get into character.'

Hunter's heart sank. He had forgotten how wearisome Sal's method acting approach to missions could be.

Osman pointed in the general direction of south. 'Three kilometres that way is where all the bad boys are. When we cross that border, I'll blend right in.'

'Yeah, right.'

Osman gestured towards the vehicle. 'I've got a couple of spares in the back. Different designs. Want one?'

Hunter patted the camo outfit that he'd bought from a surplus store in Kentish Town. 'I think I'll pass.'

'Suit yourself. They'll be collector's items when you get home.'

If I get home, Hunter mused. If he was pleased to have ditched Rangoon and Wilson, he was still less than convinced that hooking up with Sal was a good idea. His best hope of getting Damien Wilson out of Syria was to slip in and out of Raqqa as quickly and inconspicuously as possible. Sal and "inconspicuous", however, didn't belong in the same sentence.

'The guy I bought it from said these are just off the boat from China. Apparently some entrepreneur from Istanbul has had thousands made up. They're going to be all the rage in Islamic State. Everyone'll be wearing them in a few weeks' time.' Osman gave Mick a playful slap on the chest. 'This guy is the biggest thing since Bin Laden.'

'But he's just some teenage berk from East London.'

The American slammed a clip into a well-oiled AK-103 sub-machine gun and tossed it to Hunter. 'Berk?'

'Idiot.' Hunter weighed the gun in his hands. It felt good. At least Osman had come up with some decent hardware. The Kalashnikov variant would give them a decent amount of firepower if they walked into trouble. 'You've got enough to start a war here.'

'That's the plan.' Osman shoved a pistol into the waistband of his trousers.

'If we meet Mick himself–'

'If we come across the great man, we take him out. A free bonus for my employers.'

'Will you chop his head off?'

'Maybe, if there's time. That would cement his legend for all time.' Osman chuckled at the possibility. 'I might ask him to autograph my t-shirt first, though.'

'He probably would,' Hunter grinned. 'Like I said, he's a berk.'

'Just because you're an idiot doesn't mean you can't be a celebrity. In fact, it's probably a plus.'

'Fair point.' Placing the assault rifle at his feet, Hunter helped himself to a selection of additional weapons from the spread that Osman had laid out on the roof of the car.

'Look at it this way, the sooner our Islamic brothers start embracing celebrity culture, the sooner they can start to crawl their way out of the Middle Ages. The kids, they need role models that are real. Not old guys who probably never existed anyway.'

'Militant Mick isn't a role model,' Hunter countered, not impressed by Osman's thesis, 'he's a killer.'

'So are you. So am I, for that matter.'

'I don't have my face plastered across a t-shirt, do you?'

'It has been known.'

'You're kidding me,' Hunter frowned.

'Nope.' Osman pulled on a softshell jacket and zipped it up.

'Even by your standards,' Hunter grinned, 'that's fairly over the top.'

'Hey, I'm a brand myself, man. Don't forget that there's a Sal Osman Appreciation Society in Antigo. At least there was.'

Hunter nodded sagely. He had visited Antigo twice, once while on joint manoeuvres with the Legion, the other while investigating a murder for the Red Caps, the British Military police. The Wisconsin town, population 8,549, was the location for the headquarters of FR3, the contracting firm which had employed Sal for more than two decades.

'Back in the day, the Society had more than seven hundred members.' Osman said wistfully. 'They ordered three hundred Sal is God t-shirts, in different styles.' He fingered the fabric of his current garment. 'They weren't as good quality as this one, though. Not as far as I remember.'

'That was then.'

'Yeah.' A faraway look crossed Osman's tanned face. 'But still, at least I was a contender. And the last time I looked you could still buy one of my t-shirts on eBay. For about ten cents. Plus postage.'

'You're still persona non grata over there, huh?'

'I haven't been back to the States since the convictions.'

Almost a decade earlier, Osman had sent out a tactical support team called Raptor 17 to guard a convoy travelling through Baghdad. Coming under sniper fire, four of the crew opened up with machine guns and grenade launchers, leaving seventeen civilians dead and more than fifty wounded. The media branded it the Chapouk Square Massacre. After a legal battle lasting more than seven years, Osman's crew ended up in the dock on a New York court. Guilty verdicts led to two being imprisoned for life, with the other two being handed thirty-year mandatory sentences.

Hunter had listened to Osman complain about the unfairness of the prosecutions several times before. 'Didn't I read that they appealed?'

'They did. The appeals are ongoing. But you know what will happen – another five years and another million in legal fees and then they'll throw away the keys for good.'

'It's always the way.' Hunter sighed. 'The guys that do the work are the ones who get the blame.'

'Ain't that fucking right?' Osman scanned the darkening sky. 'I'm not sure I'll ever go back to the US now. It's not home for me anymore.'

'They're not after you, are they?'

'Not the courts. But there are plenty of guys who would happily put a bullet in my head. FR3 hate me. I was put on a blacklist the moment the guys were arrested. If the management knew that Uncle Sam was still making use of my services, they'd have a shit. The company's going to hell in a handcart and I'm the scapegoat. Every job they've worked on in the last fifteen years is being scrutinised. They're facing something like half a dozen different government and law enforcement investigations and they're stuck in litigation up to their neck. The stock price has fallen more than ninety per cent. People are saying that the company could go under.'

'Shit happens,' Hunter observed. 'So they declare bankruptcy and set under a new name. Big deal. Corporations do that kind of thing all the time.'

'Yeah, but this is not your average corporation. These guys want to settle old scores. And I mean settle 'em. As well as trashing the company, they think I didn't do enough to protect my guys. Think I let them hang out to dry.'

'What realistically could you have done? You couldn't have stopped it. You weren't actually there.'

'There's a school of thought that says I should have covered it up.'

'Like that was possible.'

'I would have done if I could.'

'The days of hushing those things up are over, what with mobile phones and the internet and all that shit.'

'Spoken like a true cop,' Osman chuckled. 'By the way, you need to sign this release form.' Osman pulled a sheet of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket and placed it on the car hood.

'You want me to fill out a form?'

'There's always paperwork.' Osman offered Hunter a pen. 'You know what it's like, health and safety is taking over the world. Even when you go to war.'

'Have you filled out one of these?'

'Sure,' Osman chuckled, 'every time. Uncle Sam won't pay you if you don't have your paperwork in order.'

Without reading the details, Hunter scrawled his signature across the bottom of the document.

'On the plus side, I always make sure we get proper life insurance cover.' Osman pointed to a box higher up the page. 'One day you'll need it.'

One day.

'Benefits are important,' Osman continued. 'I see them as the sign of a good employer.'

'Hm.' Rashid Zubair certainly hadn't mentioned any benefits, Hunter reflected.

Osman cleared his throat. 'In the unlikely event you don't make it back, who do you want to get your cash?' He pointed to an empty box above Hunter's signature. 'You need to write it in there.'

'There's no one, you know that.' Hunter handed back the pen. 'Leave it blank.'

'There must be someone,' Osman protested. 'A distant nephew, a long lost cousin, a great aunt. Someone like that.'

'No one,' Hunter said flatly. 'Who'd you put down?'

'Academic question,' Osman chuckled. 'I always come back one hundred per cent A-okay.' He flicked at the form with a finger. 'But I always make sure I look after my guys. If you were to croak, there would be quite a sum sitting on the table; mid-six figures. It would be a hell of a waste for dough like that to end up going straight back to the government.'

Trying to think of a suitable beneficiary, Hunter scratched his head. 'Give it to charity,' he suggested finally.

'Charity, sure, we can do that.' Osman gave him a crooked grin. 'Like maybe the Sal Osman Appreciation Society?'

'Why not?' Hunter laughed. 'It's as good a cause as any.'

'Put in Salvatore A. Osman.'

Hunter scribbled the name into the relevant box, before handing back the form. 'What does the A stand for?'

'Attila.' Osman shrugged. 'What can I say? My old man was a big fan of Attila the Hun. He was made up when I joined the army. Less so when I quit.' A somewhat wistful look crossed his face. 'I sometimes wonder if that contributed to his untimely death. But, hey, we've all got to go sometime, right?' Tossing the form into the car, he retrieved a small assault pack. 'You got everything you need?'

'Yeah,' Hunter grabbed half a dozen spare clips of ammunition and shoved them inside his own backpack. 'I'm good to go.'

'Good.' Osman began returning everything deemed surplus to requirements back inside the vehicle. 'Enough of this idle gossip. Let's move.'

CHAPTER 46

They walked in silence under a moonlit sky, their pace steady, each man lost in his own thoughts. After around an hour, Osman stopped to check the GPS on his phone. 'We should have crossed the border by now.' He pointed in their direction of travel. 'Raqqa should be straight ahead, more or less.'

Hunter nodded. 'I assume we're not going all the way on foot?'

'No, no. We should hit a tarmac road about a half a click from here. Someone will meet us there. Then it's not much more than an hour's drive, a bit more if we have to take a detour for any roadblocks. But the chances of that are fairly low; they're fairly sporadic at best.'

'You've got people operating in Syria?' Hunter felt slightly better about their prospects with the support of a few more bodies.

'Everyone's got people everywhere,' Osman shrugged. 'There are plenty of guns for hire. This is the place for psycho fuck-ups from all over the world, right now. Present company excepted.'

'You are too kind.'

'Not that my guy is a psycho fuck-up.'

'No, of course not,' Hunter grinned.

'He's a Kurdish guy I've worked with before; a Peshmerga.'

'A what?'

'Peshmerga. It means "those who confront death". The Kurds have been fighting for their independence for, like, forever. They are the only guys who have stood up to the Islamic State guys. When the Iraqi Army ran away, these guys marched up to the front line and fought back. They're tough.'

'And you've fought with them?'

Osman smiled coyly. 'Let's just say our paths have crossed a couple of times. What about you?'

'What about me?'

'Have you ever been to these parts?'

'Not really. In the Legion, I was mostly deployed in Africa and the Gulf. When I was in the British Army, I went to Basra a couple of times,' Hunter took a deep breath, trying to recall events from a previous life, 'but only for specific investigations. I was never really posted out there for long.'

'That's right, you were a cop, right?'

'A military policeman.'

'Does your client know that?'

'Yeah. The client knows my full background. I don't think he had much of talent pool to choose from.'

'Lucky for him he got the main man, then.'

'Ha.'

'I meant me, dude.' Osman chuckled as his own punchline. 'And the guy we're meeting tonight is quite something, too. He became a Peshmerga at fourteen; he's spent his whole life fighting. It's what he does. He's totally reliable.'

'Good to know.' Hunter calculated that "totally reliable" on the Sal Osman scale of things, probably represented about fifty per cent reliable on the Daniel Hunter scale. Still, they would take any help going.

'What did you expect? I wouldn't let us walk into something like this without some kind of back-up.'

'I was wondering,' Hunter admitted.

'Well, wonder no more, my friend. We will be in very good hands.'

'Let's just hope he turns up.'

'He will.'

'And if he doesn't?'

'Then we're walking all the way.' Osman put the phone back in his pocket and resumed walking. 'Did you tell them about me?'

'Huh?' Keeping a wary eye on the ground in front of them, Hunter fell into step beside his companion.

'Your clients. Did you tell them about my messy situation?'

'No. Why would I do that?'

'I was just wondering. Sal Osman provokes questions and intrigue wherever he goes.'

'Get over yourself.'

'I'm just being professional.' The mercenary seemed genuinely offended by the barb. 'No one is supposed to know I'm here. I risked my cover to bring you on the team.'

'And I'm very grateful,' Hunter sighed.

'So what did you tell them?'

'I just said that we had worked together. I didn't mention Baghdad.'

'Good. The less they know the better.'

'Absolutely.'

'What's the story with the ex-wife?'

'What about her?'

'She's quite foxy.'

Hunter burst out laughing. 'Fucking hell, Sal. Leave it alone. She's a client.'

'I thought her old man was the client, her ex.'

'By extension, she's the client.'

'Are you banging her?'

Hunter frowned. 'That would be inappropriate,' he said primly.

'Maybe for you.'

'Maybe for both of us. Anyway, I've only known her for about twenty-four hours.'

'That doesn't mean shit, man. In times of intense stress, people shed their inhibitions faster than you can say, I dunno, inhibitions.' Osman gestured over his shoulder with his thumb. 'I thought I sensed some chemistry between you two back there.'

'Bollocks.'

'Seriously.'

'She's a teacher. Hardly my type. Or yours, for that matter.'

'Brother, they're all my type.'

'Well, you might not be hers. I don't think she's been too active on the dating front since her divorce. He seems to have put her off men, pretty much for good.'

Osman raised an eyebrow. 'And what about you?'

'What about me?'

'You know. I know things have been tough. Any closure? Have you managed to move on?'

'Fucking hell, Sal. Mind your own business.'

'I'm just concerned about you, bro.'

'Yeah, right.'

'Straight up.'

Hunter was just about to point out that his private life was off limits when there was a soft metallic click off to his left. He turned to see an M16 pointed at his head.

'Woah.' Hunter froze, locking eyes with a tall, slender youth who seemed barely out of this teens. Dressed in US Army surplus fatigues, the kid had a wispy beard that did a poor job of concealing his jawline.

'Hey, Sherko. How's it going man?'

'Hey, Sal.'

Osman gave Hunter a friendly punch on the arm. 'Fieldcraft never was your strong point, was it, Danny?'

Maybe I'm too old for this shit, Hunter thought dolefully. 'How long was he watching us?'

'Only the last ten minutes or so. I'm glad I'm not relying on you to watch my ass out here.'

The Kurd kept his weapon trained at Hunter's head. 'I thought you were coming alone.'

'Slight last-minute change of plan, you know how it is.'

The Kurdish fighter finally lowered his weapon and offered Hunter his hand.

'Danny Hunter, Sherko Zal.'

The two men shook hands quickly before the Kurd turned and began jogging off in the direction of a small hill around 150 metres ahead of them.

Osman quickly headed after him, signalling for Hunter to follow. 'Come on, looks like our ride is over there.'

CHAPTER 47

Their convoy consisted of a pair of battered Range Rovers; four Kurds in the first vehicle, Zal and a driver in the second, along with Osman and Hunter in the back. As the cars set off, Zal glanced at Osman in the rear-view mirror.

'You're always late, Sal.' The accent was more Brooklyn than Erbil. Hunter assumed that their host had spent a lot of time in the United States.

'Not always.' Rummaging in his rucksack, the American pulled out two large bricks of shrink-wrapped banknotes. Leaning forward, he dropped them in Zal's lap.

The Kurd tossed the money at his feet. 'I wanted weapons.'

'How was I going to manage to bring anything on foot? There's more than fifty thousand there, in hundreds and fifties. That should buy you plenty of decent kit down the local bazaar.'

'They only sell crap,' Zal huffed. 'You're always getting ripped off.'

'Caveat emptor, baby,' Osman chuckled. 'Caveat emptor.'

'And now you're ripping me off too.'

'Me?' A look of almost genuine offence spread across Osman's face. 'Never. I'm a straight arrow.'

Turning in his seat, Zal glared at Hunter.

'As straight as they come,' the Englishman verified.

'I wanted weapons,' their host repeated.

'But you can buy weapons.' Osman reasoned. 'Cash is king,' he looked out into the darkness slipping past their window, 'even in this shithole.'

'Not the right kind. We are constantly being out gunned. It's a total fuck-off.'

'A total fuck-up.'

Their host dismissed the semantics with a wave of his hand. 'Whatever. It's a mess.'

The driver cursed under his breath and swerved to miss a pothole.

'Put your seat belts on,' Zal advised. 'It'll get worse from here.'

Osman grabbed his belt and strapped himself in. 'So what about my guy? Any news?'

'There is news, but it is not good. The American journalist is being kept in the central prison. The word is that he may be executed as early as tomorrow.'

Osman rubbed his hands together in glee. 'Perfect. I love it when I can channel the spirit of John Wayne.'

Zal looked at him blankly.

'It's like in the movies, when the cavalry arrives at the last minute to save the day.'

'I don't think they make movies like that anymore,' Hunter observed drily.

'Which is why Hollywood is shit.'

For several moments, Zal looked thoughtful. Finally, he offered: 'Sly Stallone.'

'What about him?' Osman asked.

'He still makes movies where the good guys win.'

'Good point.' Osman smacked Hunter on the arm. 'This guy knows his culture better than you.'

'Stallone,' driver chipped in. 'Bullet to the Head.'

'One of my favourites. He got so totally ripped for that movie,' Osman's voice drifted away in admiration, 'awesome effort for a guy in his sixties.'

'That was just the poster,' Zal scoffed. 'All done with Photoshop.'

'Still awesome.'

'I'm sure we can all agree that Sly is great,' Hunter piped up, 'but maybe we could get back to the matter in hand.'

'Sure.' Osman looked vaguely offended but added 'You're right. Now is not the time for small talk. Game heads on.'

'I'm looking for a boy. An English kid named Damien Wilson.'

Zal looked at Osman.

'A secondary extraction target,' the American admitted.

'Not for me,' Hunter muttered.

'Secondary but important.' Osman placed a conciliatory hand on his comrade's arm. 'Let's not get into a debate about the details. We want to get both of them out.'

A sour expression coated Zal's face. 'No one mentioned a kid.'

'It was a last-minute thing.'

'Another one.' The Kurd's frown deepened. 'And we know he's in Raqqa?'

Osman looked at Hunter. 'We hope so.'

'It's possible. There are many kids in the city. They come from all over the world. Foreign fighters outnumber the Arabs more than two-to-one.' Zal shook his head in dismay. 'What are the parents doing? They should stay at home.'

You don't look that old yourself, Hunter thought.

'They are not right in the brain.' Zal tapped his temple with an index finger. 'They come here for fun, to play at being soldiers, to get girls.'

'That's right,' Osman laughed, 'none of these losers would ever get laid if they stayed at home.'

'They should stay at home,' Zal insisted. 'This is my home. I am not here on holiday. This is my fight.'

'Don't you have any foreign fighters on your side?' Hunter asked.

'One or two,' Zal conceded, 'but very few.'

'Well, the cavalry's here now,' Osman yawned, 'so things will be alright.'

Zal's grunt made it clear that he was less than impressed.

'It's the love that you get when you help people that makes it all worthwhile.' Resting his head against the window, Osman closed his eyes. 'Time for a power nap,' he advised Hunter. 'I'd try and get some shut-eye if I were you. You don't know when we'll get the chance to sleep again.'

CHAPTER 48

Hunter was running through a long, straight underground tunnel. Men were chasing him; he didn't know who they were, or why they were chasing him, but he could hear their footsteps behind him, coming closer…

There was a dull thud, followed by a series of curses and a loud crash.

Hunter was thrown forward, smacking his head against the front seat.

'Fuck.' Groaning, he slowly opened his eyes.

'You should have put on that seat belt,' Osman said cheerily.

'What happened?'

'Landmine. Looks like it comprehensively took out the car in front.' Unbuckling, himself, Osman pushed open the car door and slipped outside.

'That bodes well…' Hunter could already feel a swelling on his forehead. Retrieving a packet of painkillers, he popped a couple into his mouth and washed them down with some water.

By the time he struggled out of the vehicle, Zal and the driver were arguing loudly.

'Zal blames him for driving into the back of the front car,' Osman explained. 'It was quite an achievement, considering there was so little of it left.'

Hunter contemplated the lifeless bodies in the wreckage. 'We need to get on.'

'That's going to be difficult,' Zal gestured at the crumpled hood of the Range Rover, 'the front axle's busted.'

Hunter looked at Osman.

'Looks like we're walking after all.' The American pulled his pack from the car. 'And I think, all things considered, we'd better get a move on.'

Gazing through an open window, Damien Wilson scanned the lightening sky. Before leaving home, he had been able to sleep through the morning, given the opportunity. Here, whether required to or not, he was up with the lark. Damien didn't understand it. His body seemed to have developed a life of its own. Maybe it was the heat or something.

'Do you think they're gonna bomb us again?'

'Nah, they've nabbed the American spy.' Amir Rasool didn't look up from his games console. He had finally managed to get the damn thing charged and was trying to get to level fifty-seven before he lost the last of his battery power. 'Without him guiding their bombs n' stuff they're fucked.'

'What day is it?'

'Dunno.' Amir shifted in his seat. Trying to kill aliens on this thing was hard – the damn screen was cracked.

'The twenty-fifth?'

'No idea, man.' Amir groaned as he was decapitated by some hostile reptile. He banged the handset against his leg, bitterly regretting not having been able to convince his dad to spring for an iPhone before they had left Bristol. Ignoring the pain that shot through his kneecap, he squinted at his friend 'What does it matter, anyway?'

'I was just wondering.'

'It's the twenty-ninth.' Sandra Baig gave the boys a tired smile. 'Exam results tomorrow.'

'Is it?' Damien Wilson tried to sound nonchalant. 'I'd forgotten.'

'Right.' Sandra pulled her scarf more tightly around her head and went back to her homework.

'Maybe I'll send my mother an email, see how I got on.'

'How would she know?' Sandra said archly. 'Seeing as she's in Turkey, trying to get you to go home.'

'Hey, I'm trying to focus on my game here, guys,' Rasool waved the phone at Damien and Sandra in turn. 'My scores have been shit since we got here. I'm losing my touch. It's a truly chronic situation.'

Damien gestured at his friend's phone with his chin. 'What are you going to do when it gets switched off?'

'That won't happen.' Amir grinned as he brought a new commando to life, ready to shed some alien blood. 'My old man pays for it on direct debit. Mum would kill him if he ever stopped. How else would she know if I was okay?'

Good question. Damien guiltily glanced at his own phone, peeking out of the top of the small rucksack sitting on the dusty concrete beside him. He hadn't dared switch it on in the last three days – you never knew when you might be able to charge it up – but it remained his one link with the outside world.

'Doesn't your ma text you anymore?' Amir was frantically thumbing the screen.

Before Damien could reply a murmur, there was the sound of voices in the hallway outside. As he looked up, a group of young men appeared in the doorway on the far side of the room, each holding a rifle. One of them pointed at him. 'Do you know about computers and cameras and stuff?'

Confused by the man's grinding Manchester accent, Damien was momentarily struck dumb.

'We sure do,' Amir said eagerly, 'I know it all, Java, HTML, you name it.' Jumping to his feet, he gave Damien a friendly pat on the shoulder. 'And he ran the school website for a couple of years, until–'

Stepping in front of his mate, Damien gave Amir a sharp elbow in the ribs. Now was not the time to be bragging about posting a sex tape that had been made by two of their teachers online. 'What do you need?'

Salford eyed the lads without enthusiasm. They didn't look like much. Then, again, he didn't have the time to run a full-on recruitment process. 'Come,' he said finally, 'both of you. We have important work to do.' Signalling for them to follow him, he disappeared back down the corridor.

Hopping from foot to foot, Amir looked like he was about to piss himself with excitement. Damien glanced at Sandra who was eyeing him over the top of her book.

'I'll see you when you get back,' she said, obviously miffed at being left behind.

'Okay.'

'Have fun.'

'We will,' Amir cackled, 'for sure.'

CHAPTER 49

Sal Osman unwrapped a chocolate bar under the watchful gaze of Sherko Zal.

'Gotta keep my sugar levels up.' Extending his arm, Osman offered the Kurd a bite. 'Want some?'

Zal shook his head.

'Suit yourself.' Osman demolished the bar in three swift bites, chewing happily.

Getting to his feet, Hunter walked over to a shattered window that offered views over the city's rooftops. Other than a couple of buildings that were showing clear signs of bomb damage, the place looked pretty normal in the early morning light. Even the building they had holed up in, although clearly derelict, didn't contain anything to indicate that they were in one of the most dangerous places in the world.

Hunter listlessly kicked at a small pile of rodent droppings on the dirty concrete floor. 'What is this place?'

'It used to be a lunatic asylum for children,' Zal explained, 'but all the patients left a long time ago.'

'They left, huh?' Osman shot Hunter an amused look.

Hunter looked round the empty room. 'Where are the beds?'

Zal looked faintly irritated by the question. 'There were never any beds.'

From outside, came the sound of a dog barking. Hunter turned back to the window. Careful not to be seen, he peered outside. Two men, their backs to Hunter, were walking towards a mongrel which was huddling in a doorway. As they approached, one of the men raised a pistol, pointed at the dog and fired, twice.

Hunter stepped back into the room. 'They don't like dogs here, huh?'

Pulling a bottle of water from his pack, Osman frowned. 'What?'

'Nothing.'

Taking a succession of deep swigs, Osman offered the bottle to Zal. Once again, the Kurd declined.

'No one comes here. You can rest up. It is a safe place to stay for a couple of hours.'

'We don't need to rest,' Osman shoved the chocolate wrapper into the pocket of his jacket, 'that little trek into town was good for getting our juices flowing.'

Speak for yourself, Hunter thought. The three-hour jog into the outskirts of Raqqa had been uneventful, but his fitness levels were no match for those of his companions and he was feeling the strain.

Zal gestured at the driver who was standing in the corner, staring at his phone. 'You need to sit tight while Barham and I go and check out the latest situation. The American may no longer be in prison. We'll find out where he is; then you can plan your John Wayne cavalry charge.' The Peshmerga gave Osman a smirk. 'Barham will locate a suitable getaway vehicle.'

'Something fast,' Osman pointed out.

'Obviously.'

'We need some intel on Damien Wilson too.' Hunter remained worried that the boy would be forgotten the minute Vonkel was located.

'We will find out what we can.' Zal's demeanour was in no way reassuring.

'Makes sense,' Osman shrugged off his jacket. 'You guys do what you need to do. We'll just chill for a while.'

Zal's jaw dropped. 'What the fuck is that?'

'You like it?' Osman caressed Militant Mick's face with his hand. 'I can get you some if you like. All different colours. Different style, too.'

Zal looked distinctly unamused. 'Wearing something like that could get you killed.'

'I was just trying to fit in.'

'Sal, you never want to fit in.'

'He's right about that,' Hunter laughed.

'And I thought you guys were friends.' Osman made a show of mock indignation.

'You are crazy.' Zal signalled to Barham that it was time for them to go. 'We should be back in around two hours. If we're still not here after three, move out. By that stage, you'll be on your own.'

After Zal and Barham had left, Hunter paced the room restlessly. 'We can't just sit around. We're wasting time.'

Osman dismissed his concerns with a wave of the hand. 'I'm the one who's under time pressure here, remember? My guy is the one who's gonna lose his head. What's your boy doing? Probably just sitting around, jerking off dreaming of heavenly virgins.'

'Your guy doesn't seem that interested in finding him.'

'Don't worry about Sherko. He's a good guy. If David is in this town, he will track him down.'

'Damien.'

'Yeah, right. The Omen kid. The point is we've got no reason to think his life is at risk.' A thought caused Osman to smile. 'Unless he's in training as a suicide bomber.'

Hunter grimaced. 'Not funny.'

'None of this is funny, Danny boy. Not for anyone who isn't sick in the head.'

A lorry rumbled by on the street outside. Hunter continued to pace.

'How's life in London?' Osman asked, trying to move the conversation on to something more mundane.

'Okay.'

'What do you do these days, normally speaking?'

'Private security.'

'Working in that art gallery?' Osman chuckled. 'Man, that must be boring.'

'If you knew what I did,' Hunter replied grumpily, 'why did you ask?'

'It's always best to hear it from the horse's mouth. Once your name was flagged by the spooks, basically everything about your entire life got downloaded in less than a second. But you know what it's like; words on a screen are only of limited utility. These days we have so much electronic info, we don't know what to do with it. But when it comes to eyeballs on the ground? Nada. An asset like Sherko is extremely rare. That's why we're lucky to have him. In terms of the wider picture though, there aren't enough Sherkos. Not nearly enough. Not even close to a fraction of one per cent of what we need. That's why the US is ultimately fucked over here. You can't do everything by remote control. You can't send a drone to do our job.'

'No.'

Osman waited for a more expansive response. When none was forthcoming, he returned to the subject of Hunter's employment. 'So how did you end up working in an art gallery?'

Hunter shrugged. 'I needed a job. My boss is a good guy, he gave me somewhere to stay. The work wasn't much but I was grateful for the chance.'

'You know that Dominic Silver is a major league crook?' Osman's eyes shone with mischief as he scrutinised Hunter's reaction.

'I never saw anything untoward,' Hunter said flatly.

'Before he bought his gallery he was a pretty major drug dealer in London.'

'Why are you telling me this?'

'Didn't you know?'

'No,' Hunter lied, hoping that it would be enough to shut Osman up.

'Well, then, I've told you something useful. The CIA was all over him for years but never saw any merit in taking him out. He never dealt in the US and, according to his file, he was very much at the gentleman end of the business. He was one of those players for whom the policy of complicity, tolerance or studied ignorance worked well.'

'And now he's gone straight.'

'Yeah. Poor bloke must be going mad with boredom.'

'I don't think so. He seems genuinely into the art.'

'Can't be the same buzz, though, can it? Certainly not for you.' Osman flashed his most sincere smile. 'Which is one of the reasons I want you to come and work with me.'

'Isn't that what I'm doing?'

'I mean after this thing is over. Face it, Danny, it's time for you to get out of the art business and get back to doing what you do best.'

'One thing at a time,' Hunter laughed. 'Let's just concentrate on getting out of this thing alive.'

'Sure, sure, that's a given.'

'Glad you think so.'

'You'll think about it?'

The guy was relentless. Hunter smiled. 'Sure, Sal, when the time comes, I'll think about it.'

CHAPTER 50

Damien took a swig from a bottle of water and scanned the scene. After an hour bouncing around in the back of a pickup, every bone in his body ached. Now they were standing on the edge of what looked like a rubbish dump. In front of a mound of different-coloured refuse sacks lay a selection of rotting carcasses. The temperature was already in the thirties and the smell made his eyes water. Tossing the bottle, he turned to Amir. 'What's with all the dead dogs?'

'How should I know?' Leaning forward, Amir stared into the viewfinder of a video camera that had been set up on a tripod. 'Do you think we're pointing the right way for the sun?'

Damien looked at their shadows on the rocky ground at their feet. 'Yeah, I suppose.'

Amir stepped away from the tripod and pointed at the Apple laptop sitting on a box, connected to the camera by a couple of grey cables. 'I hope this bloody thing works. Salford says this is gonna be on news programmes around the world.'

Damien scratched his head. He needed a piss. 'Just make sure you don't photograph me. I don't want my face in your bloody video.' Unzipping himself, he took a handful of paces away from the dogs before going about his business.

'We could become big stars,' Amir chuckled, 'just like Militant Mick.'

'I don't think so,' Damien muttered to himself. 'That guy is gonna be dead in the next few minutes.' Finishing up, he wiped his hands on the back of his jeans and retrieved his mobile.

'You'll be lucky to get a signal out here.' Amir pointed back in the direction of the city. 'We're miles from the nearest mast. That's why they come out here. It's one of the places that the Americans can't track their mobile phones.'

Damien shoved the phone back in his pocket and pulled out the iPhone he had taken from Berghofer's corpse.

'Where did you get that?'

'Found it.'

'Nice phone.'

'It's locked.'

Amir extended an arm. 'Give it here.'

After a moment's reluctance, Damien handed over the phone, watching as his mate gently tapped the screen.

'There you go,' Amir grinned. 'Easy.' He tossed the phone back to his friend. '1-2-3-4.'

Damien stared at the selection of apps on the now unlocked handset. 'How did you know that?'

'Law of averages,' Amir shrugged, clearly pleased with himself. 'Most people have to go with something really simple or they can't remember it. Remember that time I had a summer job in that phone shop on Parsons Lane? People would come in there every day to get their phones unlocked. Most of them had 1-2-3-4 or 4-3-2-1 and they couldn't even remember that. Cost them twenty-five quid a time to get it fixed. One woman, she got locked out of her phone three times in less than a week.' He shook his head at the memory. 'She was quite fit, too.'

From the other side of the rubbish mountain came the sound of a series of four-by-fours.

'Put that away,' Amir advised, 'you don't want them thinking we're messing about on the job.'

Damien quickly did as he was told.

Still out of sight, the vehicles came to a halt. There was the sound of doors opening and slamming shut, along with a succession of excited voices. After a few moments, a familiar fighter appeared, carefully picking his way through the rubbish as he headed towards them.

'Alright lads?'

'Alright, Salford,' the duo said in unison.

'Everything ready to go?'

'We're good,' Amir nodded. Damien could hear the nervousness in his voice.

'Good lad.' Salford laid a meaty hand on Amir's shoulder. 'Just remember to get it framed right. This isn't Hollywood, you only get one take. There's no special effects.' Laughing, he watched as a group of men appeared from behind the refuse. Most were dressed, like Salford, in camouflage uniforms, Israeli Army surplus supplied by an enterprising Lebanese entrepreneur. Their long shirts with a round, granddad collar represented the latest in jihadi chic, a nod to the fashion among fighters in Afghanistan back in the 1980s. Trousers were tucked into socks, in line with the sayings of the Prophet which, Sandra had told them, outlawed trousers that went below the ankle. Each man had a black balaclava rolled up, sitting on the top of his head. A couple of the guys wore Oakley gloves, a favourite of US Special Forces and much prized among the IS fighters.

Only two men were dressed differently. The prisoner, chained at his hands and feet, wore the standard orange jumpsuit. Bringing up the rear was a jaunty youth in a pair of skinny jeans and a bright yellow t-shirt.

'Militant Mick,' Amir whispered.

'Is that his face on the t-shirt?'

'Word of advice,' Salford muttered, 'if he asks you buy a t-shirt, make sure you get a couple each. Apparently, his missus has given him a sales quota; if he doesn't meet it – no sex for a week. I had to buy a dozen.'

'Bummer.' Damien was more worried about his own sex life. They had been here for weeks now, and he hadn't had a sniff of any action. It was one more reason why their adventure was beginning to lose its appeal.

The group containing the prisoner came to a halt five yards in front of the camera. Damien nodded to one of the guards, Albu Kamal, the Scandinavian jihadist who apparently had his eye on Sandra.

'Is that the spy?' Amir gestured at the broken figure in the orange jumpsuit.

'There's no flies on you, son, are there?' Salford gave him a hearty smack on the back. 'Just make sure you get plenty of pictures. He should always be in shot, especially when the head comes off.'

Amir glanced at Damien. 'Right.'

'You two stick here. We should ready to be go in a few minutes.' Salford began walking towards Mick. 'I just need a quick word with the boss.'

Hands on hips, Mick surveyed the scene. It somehow didn't seem right, creating one of his masterpieces in a rubbish dump, but he told himself that the location didn't really matter. 'Are we ready to go?'

'Just about,' Salford jerked a thumb in the direction of the camera. 'The boys have it all set up.'

'They better know what they're doing,' Mick muttered. 'I'm sick of working with amateurs.'

Tell me about it. 'They'll be fine,' Salford said soothingly. 'You got the sword?'

'It's in the car. I thought I could have it delivered to me. Like a kind of ceremony.'

'Sure.' Salford took a deep breath. 'There's just one thing–'

'What?'

'You're not going to do it the t-shirt, are you?'

'Why not?' Mick looked down at his grinning face. 'Sally says we need to step up with the branding.'

'That's not your image though, is it?'

Mick frowned. 'Whaddya mean?'

'When you get down to business, people expect to see you in black, with a scarf around your head.' Salford pointed at Mick's chest. 'Like you look on the t-shirt.'

Mick thought about it for a moment. 'Sally–'

'Sally would say the same thing if she was here. It's all about maintaining the consistency of your image.'

Mick shot him a funny look. 'Did you do Business Studies, too?'

'Nah, mate, school of hard knocks, that's me.'

'Maybe I should call her.'

'No network out here,' Salford pointed out. Which was just as well; now was not the time for a marketing meeting. 'Anyway, it's a no-brainer.'

Mick thought about it a while longer. 'Okay,' he said finally. 'I'll go back to the car and change. You get the shot set up.' He gestured towards Damien and Amir. 'Do those two really know what they're doing?'

'Absolutely,' Salford said soothingly, 'they're digital experts just arrived from England. Plus, they've got the American's own kit – state of the art – nothing can go wrong.'

'Hm.' Not arguing the point, Mick began marching back in the direction that he'd come.

CHAPTER 51

Out of the corner of his eye, Elliot Vonkel watched Mick disappear back behind the stinking pile of trash and felt his heart skip a beat. Maybe they've called it off. Things had spiralled so badly out of control he hardly dared hope for any last-minute reprieve.

Catching the look of hopeless optimism in the American's face, Salford crossed his arms and planted his feet apart. 'He's just gone for a costume change. Won't be long. Don't worry, we'll be getting started soon.'

Sinking to his knees, Vonkel started to tremble. 'I don't want to die,' he sobbed.

The admission brought laughter came from the milling guards.

'It is the will of God,' said a callow voice.

Vonkel felt hot tears rolling down his cheeks. 'I haven't even made a will,' he sniffed.

'Too late now,' said Salford, his voice suggesting boredom rather than compassion. He shot an irritated look in the direction of the rubbish mountain. 'Where the hell is Mick? How long does it take to change a bloody t-shirt?'

'Here he comes,' someone shouted.

After a few moments, Vonkel saw Mick reappear from behind the refuse sacks. Returned to his traditional black garb, he appeared invigorated, striding forward, sword in hand.

Vonkel's tears began to flow faster.

'Right,' Mick came to a halt a couple of yards from the journalist. 'Let's get this done.'

'Lookin' good,' Salford said admiringly.

'I think you were right,' Mick took a moment to adjust his headscarf. 'This feels better than doing it in a t-shirt. It just seems right, somehow.'

'Ready to go?'

'Ready. Have we done the preamble?'

Salford looked at him blankly.

'All the Koran stuff. The rousing words of the righteous before the infidel is despatched.'

At mention of his despatch, Vonkel started keening like an old woman. Stepping forward, Salford extended an arm and gave him a clip round the head. 'That's enough of that. Save it for the cameras.' Once the American reduced the volume of his sobs to a more acceptable level, he turned back to Mick. 'We were waiting for you. We haven't done anything yet.'

'Bloody hell, I can't do it, can I? I don't speak Arabic, do I?'

'Neither do I,' his comrade pointed out.

Mick gestured at the guards with his sword. 'Any of you lot speak the local lingo?'

There was a shuffling of feet as everyone avoided eye contact.

'What? No one?' Mick stabbed the rock-hard ground in frustration.

'They're all foreign fighters,' Salford explained.

'Bloody tourists,' Mick spat contemptuously.

What does that make us then? Salford said nothing.

Hands on hips, Mick stared into the middle distance. If Sally could see the conditions he had to work in she would have a fit. His wife was a stickler for professionalism – "fail to prepare, prepare to fail", was one of her favourite mottos – and this kind of amateur hour drove her insane. For a moment, he considered cancelling the whole thing. He had been up until three in the morning and could do with some kip. Then again, he was in no rush to come back to the rubbish dump any time soon.

'Mick?'

'Let's just get it bloody done. You'll just have to stick all the other stuff on afterwards, when you do the editing.'

'Okay, boss.' Salford signalled over his shoulder. 'We're ready to go,' he shouted. 'Get the camera going.'

Jumping to attention, Damian dug an elbow into Amir's ribs. 'We're on,' he hissed.

'Come on sunshine, over here.' Salford dragged Vonkel directly in front of the camera. 'You don't want to miss your own show.'

Jabbering like a lunatic, a dark patch began spreading across the crotch of Vonkel's jumpsuit.

'Oh, God,' Amir giggled, 'he's pissed himself.'

'Let's just get on with it,' Damien mumbled. Suddenly it felt hard to breathe. A sense of shame mixed with nausea in the back of his throat.

'Look lively,' Salford glared at the boys as he pushed the journalist down onto his knees.

Amir adopted a crouched stance behind the camera and nervously pressed the record button, letting out a small groan of relief when the image of Vonkel filled the viewfinder, accompanied by a flashing red circle in the top left-hand corner. 'It's working.'

Just out of shot, Mick was limbering up with a few practice sword strokes. 'Start with a wide shot.' he commanded, 'and focus in on his face when I slit his throat.'

'What's a wide shot?' Amir asked, panicked.

'Just keep filming.' Damien stepped next to Amir and squinted into the viewfinder.

'Get out of the way,' Amir complained, 'that's my job.'

'Just taking a look,' Damien replied grumpily.

'Don't hassle me, man.' Sweat was forming on Amir's brow; it looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment. 'I don't work well under pressure. I need my space.'

'Okay, okay.' Damien stepped back a respectful distance.

There was a final wail from Vonkel, accompanied by the unmistakable sound of his bowels being voided. Slumping forward, he fell silent and, for a moment, it seemed as if he might have managed to cheat his executioner.

He's had a heart attack, Damien imagined, a sense of relief flowing over him at the thought. He was quickly disabused of the idea, however, when Mick stepped forward and pulled the American up by his hair. As he brought the sword to Vonkel's neck, Salford signalled for Amir to move to a close-up. Damien watched as Amir pressed a button and Vonkel disappeared from view.

'Shit, you've broken it!'

'What?' Amir cried. 'I didn't do nuffin'.'

In the background, Mick was working himself up into a righteous indignation about the spy in their midst.

'Bloody hell.' In a panic, Damien pushed Amir out of the way, frantically pressing at buttons, trying to recover the picture.

'Don't do that, man.' Amir tried to wrestle back control but only succeeded in knocking over the tripod. The camera fell to the ground, breaking apart with a sickening sound.

Oh fuck. Damien stared at the smashed lens.

'What a piece of shit,' Amir groaned, 'it's fallen apart.'

'What the fuck are you doing?'

The pair looked up to see Mick storming towards them, sword in hand, Salford in tow.

'I thought you knew how to work that thing?'

'Your man gave us a toy camera.' Ignoring the look of horror on Damien's face, Amir went on the offensive. He gestured angrily at Salford. 'You said this was proper professional kit. It's rubbish. Falls on the ground and it falls apart. You should have got GoPro or something.'

'Fucking hell. Fucking hell.' Mick turned to his comrade, almost stabbing him with the sword. 'What are we going to do now?'

A look of infinite weariness descended on Salford's face as he contemplated the mess of glass and plastic at his feet.

'We're going to have to reschedule,' Mick cried. 'We'll miss our deadline now. Fandi will kill me.'

'You shouldn't have given us this crappy camera.' On a roll, Amir was now hopping up and down like a six-year-old needing to pee. 'It never worked properly.'

'But you said you were filming,' Mick pointed out.

'Yes, but it went wrong after about ten seconds.'

'A bad workman always blames his tools.' With a sigh, Salford pulled a pistol from the back of his waistband, raised his arm and fired once.

'Shit.' Feeling Amir's blood spray across his face, Damien stumbled backwards, falling onto his backside.

'Stupid little cunt.'

After cleaning himself with the sleeve of his shirt, Damien looked up to see Salford standing over him, the gun pointed at his face.

'Aw.'

'That's enough.' Mick tapped the barrel of the pistol with his sword. 'You've made your point.'

After a moment's hesitation, Salford lowered the gun and shoved it back into his waistband. The smell of rotting rubbish suddenly filled his nostrils and Damien promptly threw up.

'You need to get me another camera,' Mick instructed. He pointed the tip of the sword at Amir's body, 'maybe one of those things he mentioned, Go-whatever.'

'It's gonna be difficult.'

'Don't give me that shit. Why do you always moan about things being too hard?' Mick kicked out at a piece of the camera's plastic casing lying on the ground. 'There can be no more fuck-ups. Get me proper equipment. And, this time, get someone who really does know how to use it.'

'You're the boss.' Glaring at Damien, Salford stalked off in the direction of the SUVs.

Turning to the guards, Mick waved the sword above his head. 'That's it for today. Technical problems. Let's get the prisoner back to the jail for now.'

Edging away from his own vomit, Damien stared at Amir, gazing blankly at the sky, the back of his head missing. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he tried to staunch the tears that had stared to flow. 'I want to go home,' he mumbled to himself, 'I want my mum.'

CHAPTER 52

Sherko Zal stood in the doorway, a smouldering cigarette stuck to his lower lip. The look on his face said it all. 'We were too late. They took the American from the prison maybe an hour before we got there. He's probably dead by now.'

'Ah, well, that's the end of that.' Osman jumped to his feet. 'I guess we'll see the execution online soon enough. Washington's gonna be pissed. I'm gonna struggle to get my success fee on this one.'

'What about my guy?' Hunter asked. 'Any news?'

'Nothing.' Zal sucked on his smoke. 'There are so many foreign fighters in the city these days, no one pays them any attention. My contacts came up with nothing. He might be here; he might not. We just don't know.'

Hunter nodded. 'I need to keep looking.'

'We can't do any more,' Zal countered. 'Raqqa is too dangerous. There are spies everywhere. We can only stay for a few hours at any one time. Barham is liberating a car.' He glanced at his watch. 'We need to go and meet him now. Get out of town while everyone is at prayer.'

'But–'

'He's right, dude.' Osman placed a hand on Hunter's shoulder. 'We need to get out of here. You can't just go out there wandering about, asking questions. So we came up empty-handed this time. Those are the breaks. We can regroup. In the meantime, you've done the right thing by your client, risked life and limb. We go back across the border, chill for a couple of days, have a few beers. Once the noise around the Vonkel killing dies down we can come back. In the meantime, I'll see if we can dig up a location on David and–'

'Damien.'

'Damien, right. We'll try and get a lead on where the boy is and then I'll help you track him down.'

Hunter looked at Osman sceptically.

'I want us to want us to work together, remember? Think of it as a sign of my boundless good faith.'

Hunter looked at Zal. The Peshmerga dropped the cigarette on the floor and stubbed it out with the toe of his boot, clearly itching to get going. 'Okay.' With a frustrated sigh, he hoisted his pack over his shoulder. 'We'll have to come back when we've got better intel…'

'These things happen,' Osman said philosophically. 'You can't guarantee outcomes.'

'Yeah, yeah. I know.' Hunter suddenly felt weary; the overnight march was catching up with him. 'Let's go and get that beer.'

'Good man.' Osman smacked him on the back before making for the door. 'Vamos!'

At least they had given him a lift back into town. Crammed into the back of a distinctly smelly SUV, Damien sat next to the American. In his stinking jumpsuit, Elliot Vonkel stared vacantly into space, seemingly unable to process the events of the day. In front, Salford drove while Mick stared moodily out of the window. Damien tried to shake the image of Amir's body from his head. The boy had been left where he fell; vultures had already started circling the corpse as the convoy had left.

Despite everything, Damien brooded, Amir was supposed to be one of their own. Shouldn't they have brought him back for a proper burial?

More worrying was the uncertainty over his own fate. Mick had saved him from a bullet in the brain but for how long? Salford clearly had him in his sights and, next time, Damien might not be so lucky.

What was certain was that there would be a next time. He had to get out and get out soon. Resisting the temptation to pull open the door and fling himself from the moving vehicle, he began to think about the possible mechanics of his escape.

The first thing he realised was that he was on his own. Amir was dead and Sandra would never go back. She was the only one of them who had really adapted to life in Raqqa and, for reasons Damien couldn't begin to fathom, she really believed in the revolution. Joining the religious police had been the making of her. Damien had no doubt that she would happily put a bullet in his head to stop him from leaving.

The American mumbled something incomprehensible and slumped forward.

Just don't shit yourself again, Damien thought.

Mick glanced in the rear-view mirror. 'Is he okay?'

'Yeah,' Damien said sheepishly, 'just had a hard day.'

'Bad day at the office,' Salford cackled, giving a sharp blast on the horn as he swerved past an old man leading a donkey towards the city. 'Get off the road, you old bastard.'

'Give him some water,' Mick handed Damien a grubby plastic bottle. 'I don't want him getting sick before I chop his head off.'

Still leaning forward, Vonkel unleashed a bout of violent coughing. Damien tentatively offered him the bottle but he ignored it.

'What's your name?'

'Huh?'

'Your name,' Mick repeated.

'Damien.'

'Okay Damien,' Mick commanded, settling back into his seat, 'you make sure you look after our man there. If he dies before he's due, you die too.' Looking at the line of traffic in front of them, he groaned. 'Bloody hell, how long is this going to take?'

'Rush hour,' Salford shrugged. 'We've hit it at a bad time. It could take an hour from here. Maybe more.'

'Shit.' Mick looked at the clock on the dashboard. 'I'm supposed to be in a meeting with Sally and our Turkish partner in half an hour.'

'How are the t-shirt sales going?' Salford failed to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

'It's early days,' Mick said defensively. 'And it's not just t-shirts.'

'Hm.' They rolled to a halt behind a crowded minivan. Salford gave another blast on the horn. No one paid him the slightest bit of notice.

'You could have bought a few more,' Mick huffed.

'I bought plenty. I've got enough for Christmas presents for all of my family for the next hundred years.'

Mick frowned. 'I thought that we didn't celebrate Christmas?'

'We might not celebrate it,' Salford pointed out, 'but everybody else does. My nephews are going to be delighted when they find out that they've got Militant Mick t-shirts rather than computer games.'

'They're collector's items. They'll be the coolest kids in the playground.'

'They don't go to school very often. And if they turned up with your mug plastered across their chest, they'd be expelled.'

'That's discrimination.' Mick was genuinely outraged.

'That's life.' Salford released the handbrake as the traffic edged forward.

'What about freedom of expression?'

Salford gave him a sideways glance. 'Are you taking the piss?'

'Eh?'

The conversation petered out and they sat in silence, contemplating the jam in front of them. After around five minutes they had moved forward maybe 200 metres. Mick pointed at a road sign in Arabic that Damien knew he couldn't possibly read. 'Take the shortcut; I've got to make that meeting.'

'We'll get stuck,' Salford said, injecting the weariness of a thousand taxi drivers into his voice. 'And, anyway, it's not the right way.'

'Just do it,' Mick snapped. 'I've had enough of your bullshit today.'

'You're the boss.' Winding down the window, Salford grabbed his pistol from the dashboard and fired a volley of shots into the sky. Finally getting the message, the driver in front shot through a gap in the oncoming traffic and into a ditch on the opposite side of the road. 'Thank you.' Pulling a hard left, Salford had just enough space to make the turn.

'See?' Mick cackled at the sight of the empty road ahead. 'Didn't I tell you this way would better?'

Salford stomped on the accelerator, muttering something under his breath.

'Stop moaning. You hate it when I'm right.'

'We haven't got anywhere yet.'

'No, but at least we're moving.'

CHAPTER 53

Parked in a side street, Barham tapped the steering wheel nervously as he listened to the hum of the air conditioning. Despite the temperature inside the Porsche being barely twenty degrees, the driver was conscious of the fat bead of sweat running down the length of his spine. His heartbeat was elevated and he had to concentrate in order to keep his breathing somewhere close to regular.

Zal and the others should have been here by now. Could his comrade have been caught, Barham wondered? Was it game over? Muttering angrily to himself, he tried to push the idea from his mind. Zal knew what he was doing.

But Zal was not alone. The foreigners were unknown quantities. Their mission had been cursed from the outset; they had already lost four comrades to a landmine and Barham fretted that the American in particular could get them all killed. Sal Osman seemed exactly the kind of cowboy you didn't want to be stuck with in the middle of a bunch of crazy jihadists. Not if you wanted to come out alive.

Lost in his thoughts, Barham didn't see the two militiamen checking out the Cayenne until they were almost right in front of him. He cursed himself for stealing the luxury vehicle, rather than taking the time to seek out something less conspicuous. However, when the opportunity had presented itself, he just couldn't resist. Some idiot had left the door open and the engine running. It would have been a sin not to take it.

Keeping one hand on the wheel, he slowly pulled on the seat belt, his right foot hovering over the accelerator while he stared nonchalantly into to middle distance. Ignoring him, the pair made a show of checking out the car's registration plates. Eventually, one of them stepped up to the driver's door and tapped the window with the barrel of his rifle.

Turning to look the man in the face, Barham made no move to open the window.

'This is Mullah Fandi's car.' It was a statement rather than a question. The man spoke in heavily-accented English, suggesting he was originally from Germany, or maybe Scandinavia.

Who? 'I wait for him.' Barham tried to give the impression that he was struggling with the language, trying to buy a few seconds as he did a mental inventory of the businesses that he had passed while driving the car to Zal's RV point. 'The Mullah is at round the corner.' Lifting a hand, he mimed cutting with a pair of scissors. 'Getting his hair cut.'

Not obviously impressed by the answer, the soldier ran the palm of his hand over his own shaven head.

'Hairdresser. Finished soon.'

The man snapped his fingers. 'Papers.'

Shit. Stomping down on the accelerator, Barham jerked the car forward, forcing the guards to jump out of the way.

'Hey!' As the guy raised the gun to his shoulder, Barham ducked down, keeping the pedal fully to the floor. The Porsche shot ahead, to the soundtrack of warning shots flying overhead.

Ha, Barham thought, they don't dare damage the car. This Fandi guy must be really important. Sitting up in the driver's seat, he watched the speedometer reach sixty. Fifty metres ahead the street was bisected by a wider thoroughfare. The cross traffic seemed light. Barham kept his foot to the floor, not slowing as he shot across the junction.

'See you, suckers.' Pumping the air in triumph, he caught a blur of colour in the corner of his vision.

'Oh shit.'

The crash threw him sideways, smashing his head against the window. Pedestrians dived for cover as the Cayenne barrelled straight through the front of a shop selling burqas. As the car came to a halt, the airbags activated, smacking him in the face as a series of alarms pierced the air.

Staring through the windscreen, Barham contemplated the crumpled bodies of the shop owner and one of his customers. Ignoring his ferocious headache, he reached for the door. 'Time to get out of here.'

I wonder what I got? Crossing the road, Sandra Baig was lost in deep thought about her exam results when a shrill, piercing whistle caused her to jump. Turning, around, she found herself looking up at a skinny boy of no more than sixteen or seventeen. With the ubiquitous assault rifle, the young militiaman held a baton in one hand and a shiny silver whistle in the other. Stepping down from the small podium from which he was supposed to be conducting the traffic, the youth began gesturing wildly at her with the baton while lifting the whistle to his lips in anticipation of another admonishing blast.

Jabbering away in Arabic, the boy seemed annoyed and embarrassed in equal measure. As the other pedestrians melted away, Sandra tried to ignore the guilt that was already gnawing at her stomach. Don't apologise, she told herself sternly, you've done nothing wrong. Unable to understand the cause of his unhappiness, she stepped in front of the boy, adopting the standard tactic of British travellers abroad for generations.

'Do you,' she asked, with exaggerated slowness, 'speak English?'

The boy's anger seemed to boil over and then evaporate. Letting the whistle drop from his hand, he gave her a shy smile.

You're cute. Sandra frowned at the thought. Where had that come from?

'Your hijab,' the boy said, effortlessly switching languages, 'it is too loose. Your hair is showing.'

'Oh, sorry.'

As Sandra adjusted her scarf, the boy's gaze fell on the pistol on her hip.

'You are a fighter?'

'Female militia,' Sandra said proudly.

'Then you should know better,' the boy said smugly.

'I thought your job was to direct the traffic,' Sandra teased, gesturing towards the line of vehicles edging forward.

'I have many jobs,' the boy retorted. 'Anyway, mind your own business.'

Her heart beating rapidly in her chest, Sandra felt almost giddy. Ignoring the childish rebuke, she stammered: 'What's your name?'

The boy started to reply but his words were drowned out by the throaty roar of an engine. Looking past his shoulder, Sandra watched, open-mouthed, as a car shot through the junction, smashing into another vehicle before spinning off the road and ending up in a clothes shop. For a second, silence descended on the scene. Then the air was filled with the sound of screams and alarms.

The boy did a double take before shooting Sandra a look that said did that just happen? Making no effort to investigate the crash, he stood rooted to the spot. 'My name's Radwan,' he repeated. 'What's yours?'

'What the hell?' Slamming on the brakes, Salford jerked hard on the steering wheel, taking out a tall man crossing the road as he vainly attempted to avoid the vehicle that had appeared out of nowhere. Bouncing off the side of Porsche, he brought the SUV to a halt in the middle of the road.

'Woah,' Mick giggled, 'what just happened?'

'So much for your fucking shortcut,' Salford groused, 'some bastard almost killed us.'

A look of fear spread across Mick's face. 'Maybe it's a hit?'

'On you? I should be so lucky.' Thrusting open the door, Salford jumped out onto the dusty road, narrowly avoiding landing in a large pothole. Brandishing his pistol, he scowled angrily at a young traffic cop who appeared to be chatting up some woman, oblivious to the carnage around him.

'Sort this lot out,' Salford shouted.

Lifting his arms, the boy shot him a helpless look.

'Do it now!' Sidestepping a crumpled body on the tarmac, Salford marched towards the smouldering wreckage.

The front of the Cayenne was half-buried under a mountain of black burqas. Stepping inside the remains of the shop, Salford watched impassively as the driver pawed at the door, trying to get out of the destroyed vehicle. The man was clearly in shock; blood pouring from a scalp wound gave his face a theatrical look. Stepping into his line of vision, Salford pointed his gun at the man's head.

'Didn't anyone ever teach you to fucking drive, man?'

Not waiting for a response, he pulled the trigger twice, shattering the glass and sending the man sprawling across the passenger seat, his brains spraying the inside of the windshield and the passenger-side window.

'That'll teach you to cut me up.'

Pleased to have got that off his chest, Salford stepped back onto the street as two jihadists ran up to him, rifles at the ready. He signalled for them to put their guns down.

'It's over.'

The pair peered nervously into the destroyed shop. 'That's Mullah Fandi's car,' one of them pointed out.

'Well,' Salford smirked, 'it's going to need quite a bit of work before he can drive it again.'

CHAPTER 54

'Barham should be waiting for us on the other side of this junction.'

Following Zal, grubby baseball caps pulled down over their faces, Hunter and Osman kept up a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. Their journey on foot to meet the driver had been uneventful, the city side streets were largely empty and the few passers-by, used to foreigners of all descriptions wandering around their city, paid them little heed.

'It will take us maybe half an hour to get out of the city,' Zal muttered, sotto voce. 'After that, if there are no problems, you should be back in Turkey in time for dinner.'

Osman, all business, gave him a solemn nod.

Still smarting from his failure to find Damien, Hunter wondered what he was going to say to Ann Wilson. Having to tell her that her only child was, most likely, lost forever was not something he was looking forward to. Hunter knew that he had kept his side of the bargain but the thought of returning empty-handed filled him with deep dismay.

Realistically, his options were limited. The boy could be just about anywhere within a radius of a thousand miles. Moreover, it wasn't as if Hunter could just hang around indefinitely, making his enquiries in the hope that something would turn up. But, still, he couldn't shake the nagging sense that he had not looked hard enough.

Zal gently touched him on the shoulder. 'Wait here. Let me see if I can find the car.'

Osman and Hunter watched as the Peshmerga headed towards the busy road.

'Did you make a decision yet?' the American asked.

'A decision about what?'

'A decision about coming to work with me?'

Hunter raised an eyebrow. 'I thought it was supposed to be a partnership?'

'It is, of course. Kinda.'

'I'm still thinking about it.'

'Take your time.'

'I will.'

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a car speeding towards them, tires squealing. Hunter looked up in time to see a black Porsche hurtle across the junction, almost taking out another SUV, whose driver scythed down Zal as he vainly sought to take evasive action.

'Oh shit. That certainly wasn't on the schedule.' Osman instinctively ran towards his fallen comrade. Hunter reluctantly followed after.

'Sal–'

Ignoring the Brit, Osman knelt down by the Kurd's body and felt for a pulse.

Releasing the safety on his AK-103, Hunter scanned the junction. In the immediate chaos of the accident, most people were focused on the Porsche, which looked to have demolished a roadside shop. For the moment, no one was paying them any attention.

He looked enquiringly at Osman.

Grimacing, Sal shook his head. Getting to his feet, his gaze alighted on the SUV, which had come to a halt at a crazy angle in the middle of the road. The driver had already disappeared but a familiar figure was struggling out of the front passenger seat.

'Hey, man, that's my t-shirt.' Mick pointed a shaky finger at Osman's chest, 'I hope you purchased that from an authorised vendor.'

Osman's face broke into a grin as he upholstered his pistol and shot him in the face. Even before Mick had hit the ground, the American was marching over to the car. 'Quickly,' he hissed, 'that's our guy.'

Damien shot forward as Salford slammed on the brakes, smacking his face into the headrest in front before bouncing around in the back of the SUV like a rag doll. Next to him, the prisoner, still in a state of shock, showed no reaction. Closing his eyes, Damien started to pray. He wasn't praying to anyone in particular but the plea was clear.

'I want to go home.'

From outside came the sound of voices, followed by a single gunshot. Flinching, Damien pushed his head between his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible.

Maybe I should run for it?

He was just about to reach for the handle when the car door was thrown open. The next thing Damien knew, he was being dragged from the vehicle by a man in a black baseball cap. A second man covered the first, scanning the junction with his automatic rifle.

'Hey!' He tried to break the man's grip but it was too strong. Stumbling into the road, he almost fell over Mick's body. 'Don't kill me,' he wailed, 'please don't kill me.' Standing in a congealing pool of the dead executioner's blood, he lifted both his hands in surrender. 'I'm British.'

Is there anybody in this fucking town who's a local? Hunter wondered.

'Get out of the way.' Shoving past the snivelling kid, Osman reached inside the car and grabbed Vonkel by the arm. 'It's okay, sir, we're here to get you home.'

His eyes glassy and unfocused, Vonkel offered a completely incoherent response. Gagging at the smell, Osman pulled the journalist out of the car before administering a few meaty slaps. 'C'mon sir, let's get with the programme. We need to get moving here.'

Holding on to the car, Vonkel swayed unsteadily.

'Has he been drugged?'

'He's in shock,' Hunter pointed out. 'He needs medical attention.'

'The zombie bastard is really going to slow us down.'

Letting his hands fall to his side, Damien stepped forward and took hold of Vonkel's arm. 'I can help you get him out of here. Take me too.'

From somewhere on the other side of the SUV came the sound of two shots in rapid succession.

An execution. Hunter tightened his finger on the trigger. 'C'mon we need to move. Now.'

Osman grabbed Vonkel by the other arm. 'Sorry, kid, you're on your own. Your choice to come here; I'm sure no one said anything about a return ticket. If you've decided you don't want to a trip to heaven to bang an endless supply of virgins, that's up to you, but we can't afford another passenger.'

'But I want to go home!' The boy's face crumpled and he started blubbing like a baby. 'My mum's waiting for me in Turkey.'

Hunter and Osman exchanged glances.

'What's your name?' Hunter demanded.

'Damien,' the boy snivelled. 'Damien Wilson.'

'Are you fucking kidding me?' Osman let out a low whistle. 'Well, I'll be damned. The fucking Omen boy. What are the odds?'

Hunter stared at the kid. He didn't show an immediate similarity to either of his parents. 'Is that the truth?'

'Of course.' Still clinging to Vonkel, the boy wiped his face with the back of his free hand. 'Why would I lie?'

'You'd better not be fucking lying, kid, or I'll shoot you myself.' Osman turned to Hunter. 'Looks like we've won the lottery double rollover.'

'Better to be lucky than smart.' Hunter was conscious of angry voices, coming closer. They were starting to attract attention; another couple of minutes and they would be trapped.

'Better to be both, baby,' Osman cackled. 'I knew this shit would sort of itself out.'

'Let's go.' Hunter gestured back in the direction from which they had arrived.

'Yeah,' Osman nodded. 'I think it reasonable to assume that we're going to have to find our own ride.'

Hunter gestured for the kid to bring Vonkel. 'Go between me and Sal. I'll bring up the rear.'

Nodding, Damien pulled him away from the car.

'Let's move.' Eyes scanning the buildings on either side. Osman started leading them down the now deserted side street. 'What a result,' he chuckled. 'You know it was never in doubt, my man. When Sal Osman says he'll deliver, he delivers. You'll have to sign up with me now, Danny boy. When we get back–'

Before he could finish the sentence, there was a popping sound and his head disappeared in an explosion of red mist.

'Get down!' As a rapid stream of bullets began flying past his head, Hunter swung round to see two militiamen with AK-47s, standing by the hood of the SUV. One of them had clearly taken out Sal with a lucky shot for most of their efforts were going high and wide. Dropping behind a concrete lamp post, he took careful aim, firing a succession of short, controlled bursts at each man in turn. As they dropped to the ground, a third man appeared behind them, pistol in his hand.

'Fuck this shit.' Not wanting to find out how many more of the bastards were coming after them, Hunter adjusted his aim, sending a series of rounds slamming into the bodywork of the SUV.

'C'mon, c'mon.'

After three or four seconds of sustained fire, he finally hit his target. The petrol tank exploded with a satisfying roar, sending the vehicle skyward in a ball of yellow flame.

That should slow down the chase for a couple of minutes.

The screams coming from the vicinity of the burning car were almost immediately drowned out as the latest call to prayer started blaring from loudspeakers mounted on lamp posts on either side of the street. In the chaos, it took Hunter several seconds to find Damien and Vonkel, who had crouched down between a pair of parked cars. He hauled the dazed American to his feet and gestured for the boy to follow. 'Now we really do have to move.' He directed Damien down the road. 'Keep going that way. Don't stop for anyone or anything. Once we get a reasonable distance away from here, look for somewhere we can get off the street.'

Realising this was not the time to chat, the boy didn't ask Hunter what he meant by a "reasonable" distance. Instead he grabbed Vonkel and began leading him away from the carnage. Hunter took one last look at the SUV, which was still burning brightly. Grabbing a grenade, he pulled the pin and tossed it towards the burning car, following the dull thud of the explosion with a further burst from the AK-103 before following after his charges.

It took them the best part of five minutes to cover a couple of blocks, their speed reduced by Vonkel's apparent inability to move much faster than walking pace. Behind them, a series of explosions suggested that the SUV had set off a chain reaction of some sort; the plume of black smoke rising into the blue sky suggested that the fire was set to continue for some time.

In the resulting chaos, no one seemed to be on their tail. Still, Hunter was acutely aware that he had a limited window of opportunity. Walking down what seemed to be a residential street, he scanned the properties, looking for a temporary refuge.

'What about there?' Damien pointed towards an arched doorway to their right. A battered wooden door stood open, leading to an internal courtyard.

'Might as well give it a go.' Hunter let the boy lead Vonkel inside. Following after them, he pulled the door closed and bolted it shut.

The courtyard was surrounded by a three story building, with balconies on each floor. There was no sign of life.

Still holding onto Vonkel, Damien looked at Hunter. 'Shall I take him inside?'

'Wait here. Let me check it out.'

CHAPTER 55

The building contained six apartments. All of them appeared to have been hastily abandoned. The usual jumble of family life – clothes, photos, books – lay waiting for their owners to return. However, the rotting food in the kitchens told its own story: no one had lived here for a while.

Directing his charges to a second floor apartment at the back of the building, Hunter watched as Damien carefully lowered Vonkel into an armchair. 'What is this place?'

Looking around, the boy scratched his head. 'The people who lived here will have fled. Either that, or they're dead. The building will end up being used to house foreign fighters. I live – lived – in something similar on the other side of town. The family who owned it are now in a refugee camp apparently.'

Placing his rifle on the dining table, Hunter placed his hands on his hips as he contemplated this skinny kid who had caused so much trouble.

'What?' Damien asked, flinching under his gaze.

'I came to get you. Your mother sent me.'

The boy's eyes grew wide. 'Really?'

'Yeah. Well, technically, your father is paying–'

'My father,' Damien whined, 'why would he pay to get me back? My mum and dad haven't spoken for years.'

'That's something you'll have to ask him yourself.'

'I'm surprised he even knew I was away.'

'You've created quite a stir.'

'Yeah?' Damien started to grin. Seeing the expression on Hunter's face, he quickly let it fade.

'If nothing else, you've facilitated a rapprochement of sorts. I met your mum at the border. She wanted to come here too.' Hunter ran the palm of his hand across his damp brow. 'Just as well that didn't happen, under the circumstances.'

'Yeah.' Fat tears began rolling down the boy's cheeks.

Hunter groaned. Now was not the time for a counselling session. 'Man up, Damien.'

'This is all my fault,' the boy snivelled.

'We all make mistakes.' Although on a scale of one to ten… 'The time for inquests will come later.'

Looking away, the boy wiped his nose on his arm. 'Will they send me to jail?'

'No idea,' Hunter admitted. 'Maybe not. You'll have to deal with that later.' Re-establishing eye contact, he held the boy's gaze. 'You do want to go home, don't you?'

'Yes,' the boy said eagerly.

'The dream's over, huh?'

'It's just boring.'

Hunter gestured at Vonkel, who now seemed to have fallen asleep. 'Even when you're trying to chop people's heads off?'

'That wasn't me,' Damien said defensively. 'I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was Mick's thing.'

'RIP Militant Mick.'

'Did you kill him?'

'Not me, Sal. The other guy.'

'I'm sorry about your friend.'

'He was just doing his job. He knew the risks.'

'Was he trying to rescue me, too?'

'Yeah.' Hunter didn't have the time or the energy to get into a detailed explanation of all the players in this convoluted soap opera.

'Water…'

They turned to see Vonkel sitting upright in the chair, eyes open.

'Water,' the American repeated.

'I'll go and see what I can find.' Damien headed for the door.

'See if you can get him some fresh clothes too. We need to get him out of that bloody orange outfit before we leave.' Catching a whiff of Vonkel's odour, Hunter wrinkled his nose in disgust. 'And maybe get him hosed down too.'

'Will do.' Damien disappeared into the next room.

'What happened?' Vonkel's eyes narrowed as he lent forward in his seat. 'Who are you?'

'Daniel Hunter.' He extended a hand.

Vonkel looked at him suspiciously, making no effort to shake.

'I was sent here to get you out.'

Vonkel looked around the room, as if seeing it for the first time. 'On your own?'

'I'm the only one that's left. Me and the boy.'

'He's one of them,' Vonkel shuddered.

'Not anymore. He's going to help us get out of here.'

'We're doomed,' Vonkel groaned.

'Not yet,' Hunter insisted.

'Doomed.' The American smiled sadly. 'Coming here was a stupid idea, wasn't it? I was never going to get out alive.'

How could this impact sales? Maybe make official product launch coincide with the funeral?

Sally Zimbio despatched her text to Hamit Koraltan and looked up from the sofa in time to see a sweating Bovar Fandi barrelling through the door.

Flushed in the face, the Mullah looked like he was melting under his heavy robes. 'My deepest condolences. Such terrible news. Poor Mick.' He made a half-hearted attempt at a sympathetic smile. 'Sorry I'm so late in getting here.'

Late for what?

'I got here as quickly as I could.' Fandi looked round nervously, searching for the woman's odious pet.

'Don't worry,' understanding the cause of his discomfort, Sally gestured towards the hallway, 'Russell is in the bedroom, he can't get out.'

'Good.'

'I wish you would leave him alone.'

'It's nothing personal,' Fandi snapped.

'It is for Russell.'

'It is the law.' How the hell had the conversation taken such a turn? The woman had just lost her husband and they were arguing about a dog. 'Anyway, that is a matter for another time. Like I said, I would have got here sooner, only someone stole my car.'

'The Porsche?'

Fandi nodded.

'What a pain.'

'Tell me about it.' His voice adopted a wistful tone. 'I loved that car.'

'It's great.' Although she had only ridden in it a couple of times, Sally was in full agreement. The Cayenne was Fandi's only redeeming feature. Once the merchandising money started to roll in, she fully intended to get one for herself.

'Was great.' Now the Mullah looked as if he might start to cry. 'The bastard who stole it drove it straight through a junction and into a burqa shop.' He left out the bit about crashing into Mick's car, leading, indirectly, to his execution. 'It's a total write-off. Getting another one will be insanely difficult.' Fandi ground his teeth in frustration. 'I mean, it's not like there are that many Porsches left in Raqqa these days.'

'No.' Sally knew that Fandi had confiscated the car from an antiquities dealer who was fleeing the city with his family. All the other luxury vehicles within a fifty-kilometre radius had similarly been sequestrated by senior members of the new regime. 'It must be very annoying.'

'If the guy who wrecked it wasn't dead already, I would have killed him myself.'

What was it about men and their cars? Bored and irritated, Sally decided it was time to play the grieving wife. Letting the phone fall to the floor, she placed her head in her hands and began moaning gently, in the hope that such an open display of female emotion would unsettle her unwelcome visitor and send him packing.

Instead of fleeing however, Fandi plonked himself down on the sofa and gave her a consoling pat on the knee. 'I'm sorry, that was insensitive of me. Now is not the time to be talking about death, even if it is all around us.'

'It's alright,' Sally sniffled. 'I just need a bit of time and space.'

Edging closer, Fandi moved his hand up her thigh. 'You are showing amazing resilience under pressure; a hero of the revolution.'

Sally winced at the fingers pressing gently into her flesh. 'Mick was the hero. We knew this day would come.' Giving up on the distraught widow act, she lifted her head out of her hands and wiped the tears from her face. 'The Americans were always going to take him out, sooner or later. He welcomed the chance to give his life for the struggle.' She lifted her gaze to the ceiling, as if searching for her dead husband. 'He had a saying: "Our words are dead until we give them life with blood". That was his motto.'

'Very moving,' Fandi agreed. 'There was more than a touch of the poet about Mick.'

'I think the saying came from someone else originally, but he made it his own. I imagine it was going through his brain as he faced death.'

I don't expect that there was very much going through his brain.

'It would look good on a t-shirt, don't you think?'

'Huh?'

'The slogan: "Our words are dead…" I'm getting Hamit to check on whether there are any copyright issues. I see that as my mission on this earth now – to protect and enhance Mick's legacy.' She gave a wistful smile. 'And to wreak vengeance on the bastards that killed him, of course.'

'The man who shot him is already dead. He was some kind of American forces special operative. We do not have a name yet. That will take some time, but we will get it.'

'And the others?'

'Initial reports suggest there were maybe fifteen or twenty in the assault group. They killed Mick and grabbed the American journalist who he had been due to execute.'

'How could that happen?'

A pained expression crossed Fandi's face. 'They got lucky. Rest assured, they won't get far. Our people have spread out across the city to hunt them down. If needs be, we will search every house in every neighbourhood. And, when we catch them, we will skin them alive, burn them–'

Enough, I get the picture. She held up a hand for him to stop. 'Mick would appreciate all that you are doing for him.'

'Yes.' Fandi's eyes shone with expectation. 'For him and for you.'

Sally smiled sadly. 'My needs are minimal. Mick would want me to be strong.'

'Yes, yes, of course.' Still Fandi kept his hand on her leg. Resisting the temptation to punch him, Sally took comfort in the fact that she would be able to take the cleric down if he pushed his luck too far. Before leaving England, she had spent three years going to self-defence classes. Expert in Krav Maga, a system developed by the Israeli Army, she was fairly confident that she could kill the creep with her bare hands if she had to. As a back-up, there was always the pistol that Mick had left in the bedroom table drawer.

'I need to continue with my work here. But it's all such a shock. I feel so weird. I don't think it has really sunk in yet.' Getting to her feet, she finally escaped the cleric's grip.

'It will take time.' Fandi fought to keep his exasperation in check. 'If you need to see a doctor–'

'I'm fine,' Sally said hastily. 'I just need a little time to grieve, alone.'

'That is perfectly normal.'

'I mean, it's not as if I wasn't aware of the risks – so was Mick – with his job and all that. But you still really can't imagine what it's going to be like to become a widow.'

'At such a terribly young age, as well.' Fandi leaned back on the sofa and yawned expressively. 'What do you think you'll do?'

'Well,' out of the groper's reach, Sally brightened somewhat, 'I've been speaking to our business partner in Istanbul and–'

'I was thinking more in terms of the funeral,' Fandi said tartly.

Sally looked at him blankly. 'What about it?'

'Arrangements will have to be made.'

'Isn't that your area? You're the religion guy.'

'I could help with that.'

'That would be great, thanks.'

'According to Islamic law, the body should be buried as quickly as possible.'

'I don't want it to be too quick. Hamit has to – I mean, there are things we have to sort out first. I need to tell his mum and stuff. I mean, she won't be able to come or anything but she should know.'

'Of course,' Fandi smiled. 'Anyway, as a hero of the revolution, we'll want to give him a good send-off. A multi-media spectacular, live on TV and the internet. The media will need to be informed. No doubt that will take a bit of time to organise.'

'Thank you, Bovar, I appreciate it.'

'It is nothing. However, I will need to call in some favours.'

'I appreciate it.'

'You do?'

'Of course.'

A crooked smile spread across Fandi's lips. 'So, in the meantime, while I am doing all this, what can you do for me?'

Still keeping her distance, Sally folded her arms. 'What did you have in mind? A share of the proceeds from the merchandising?'

Fandi let his hand drift across his crotch. 'That wasn't quite what I was thinking.'

How can you be so shameless about it? Sally felt her cheeks burn. My husband is dead, like, a few hours, and you want to get into my knickers?

'Bovar–'

'Think of it as intense bereavement therapy.' The cleric leapt from the sofa but Sally was too quick for him. Rocking back on her heels, she launched into a perfectly executed right hook, catching him squarely on the chin.

'Oufff!'

As the cleric staggered backwards, she brought her knee up between his legs, forcing Fandi's testicles back into his body and sending him sagging to the floor like a leaking balloon.

'Take deep breaths.' Bouncing on the balls of her feet Sally stood poised to deliver a further blow but all the fight seemed to have gone out of her attacker. His face had gone the colour of beetroot and, although his lips were moving, no words were coming out. 'There shouldn't be any permanent damage. Once the pain subsides, you can see yourself out.' She headed for the door. 'Oh, and don't worry about the funeral, people have funerals round here all the time. I'm sure I can sort everything out myself.'

CHAPTER 56

This has gotta stop. Looking down at possibly the smallest cock she had ever seen in her life, Luciana Dreedle tried to remember the name of the guy lying semi-comatose on her bed, naked from the waist down. The latest prize conquest she had dragged home from the bar; Luciana remembered something about him trading interest rate swaps for some firm in Jersey City but what was his damn name? Her mind refused to cough it up. I've gotta give up the one-night stands, she told herself. And the booze, too.

Wasn't that a song?

Luciana giggled at the voice in her head.

'What's so funny?' Lifting his head from the pillow, her mystery man gave her a crooked grin.

'Nothing.' Luciana dragged her gaze up to somewhere approximating the guy's eye-level.

'Got any coke?'

'I don't do drugs.' Luciana looked at the guy's clothes, sprawled out on the carpet, expensive brands, badly looked after. She lifted up the bottle of wine in her hand. 'Only booze.'

'Too bad.' Mr Mysterious gestured towards his groin with his chin. 'You gonna blow me?'

You want me to put that in my mouth? It's not even clear if the damn thing is erect. She wiggled the glasses in her other hand. 'Let's have a drink first.'

The guy started to protest but Luciana allowed herself to be distracted by her mobile as it started vibrating across the bedside table. Carefully placing the wine and the glasses on the table, she grabbed the phone. 'Sorry, I gotta take this – work.'

Her guest responded with a small fart of disappointment before reaching for the bottle and one of the glasses. 'Don't be long,' he counselled. 'I'm hot to trot.'

'Sure thing.' Hitting the receive button, Luciana lifted the handset to her ear as she fled into the living room.

'Hello?'

'Hey, pretty lady, its Maksim.'

'Maksim.' Closing the door behind her, Luciana let out a small cry of gratitude. Maksim Nurov was the East Coast Bureau Chief for Russia Today, an occasional employer of some of Luciana's up-and-coming clients who were cheap and couldn't be too choosy about the gigs they took.

'Are you okay?'

'Yes, yes,' Luciana said hastily, 'fine.'

'Sorry it's so late.'

'Not at all. Perfect timing. What can I do for you? You in the market for another newsreader?'

'Elliot Vonkel.'

Feeling slightly dizzy, Luciana lowered herself into a chair. 'He's not dead, is he?'

'No. I don't think so.'

Luciana rubbed the back of her neck with her free hand. 'Thank God for that.'

'I just want a quote about him,' the Russian explained. 'I'm stuck in an edit suite downtown getting the obituary ready. You know that we're going to need it soon.'

'Don't say that.'

'Come on, you know there is only one possible ending for this story.'

'I suppose.' Luciana felt her eyes welling up. It's the booze talking, she told herself sharply. Vonkel was always an ungrateful egomaniac; always a client, never a friend. 'Poor old Elliot.'

'Those are the risks we take,' said Maksim philosophically. 'Anyway, we're just getting his obituary up to date. And I'm doing a companion piece about how the Americans always abandon their people.'

'My friend is on death row and you want a quote from me on the shortcomings of American foreign policy?'

'A quote about your client.'

'Sounds like the same thing, the way you tell it.'

'We just want a quote about Elliot, the journalist. On background is fine. We'll call you a close colleague.'

'Erm, okay.' Luciana glanced nervously towards the bedroom. Inside, her guest had started singing something indecipherable.

'Have you got company?'

'It's just the TV.' She struggled to push her addled brain into gear. 'Why don't you just say, he went into danger doing the job he loved, taking risks, his luck ran out, and so on … something like that.'

'And he was abandoned by his government.'

'He went there of his own free will.'

'But he would have had some expectation that Washington would have made some effort to get him out.'

If he did, he was an even bigger fool than even I would have taken him for. Luciana didn't have the energy to argue. 'Technically speaking, I suppose.'

'That's perfect,' Maksim said cheerily.

'Don't mention my name.'

'Of course not. By the way, we've got a Capitalism in Crisis special coming up. I'll need someone to front it.'

'The usual?' Luciana knew that Maksim's preference was for willowy brunettes, straight out of journalism school.

'Sure, why not? And if Elliot ever gets out of Syria alive, we'll give him a job, too.'

'Really?'

'Yeah. Some kind of roving reporter gig.'

'We'll bear it in mind. He's still hoping to go back to BNN.' At least she was still talking about him as if he were still alive.

'Dream on,' Maksim scoffed. 'I hear that the son is in deep trouble.'

'Junior?'

'Da. The sexual harassment claims are mounting up. If he goes to jail, who knows what will happen with the network.'

'I suppose that's the advantage of being bankrolled by the Kremlin,' Luciana said drily, 'you never have to worry about going bust.'

'Everyone has to work for someone,' Maksim mused. 'But I'm serious about Elliot. In the highly unlikely event that he gets out, the offer is there.'

'I'll bear it in mind,' Luciana chuckled. 'Now I've got to go, though. I've got to try and get a naked man out of my bed.'

'Sounds fun.'

'It's not.'

CHAPTER 57

'Do you know how to drive?' Hunter pointed at the small red Nissan hatchback standing by the side of the road.

'Nah.' Damien looked at the vehicle in dismay. 'I never learned.'

Kids today. 'I don't suppose you know how to steal a car then either?'

'I can drive.' Kitted out in a moth-eaten jumper and pair of jeans that were at least half an inch too short, Elliot Vonkel had regained some of his pre-execution vigour. He gestured at the vehicle. 'It looks like a piece of shit, though.'

'Do you see a lot of choice around here?' Hunter invited him to contemplate the empty street. 'Plus, it's an older model; less security, easier to start.'

'If we get involved in a chase, we're fucked.'

'If we stand around here shooting the breeze, we're fucked.'

'Curfew ends in just over an hour,' Damien chipped in. 'Now is the time. We have to go.' Stepping over to the car, he grasped the pistol that Hunter had given him and smashed open the driver's window. Unlocking the door, he invited Hunter to get inside. 'You'll have to be quick.'

'No problem.'

Five minutes later, they were heading through the suburbs at a steady thirty kilometres an hour. In the pre-dawn gloom, nothing else moved. It almost seemed as if a peace of sorts had descended on the troubled city.

Ensconced in the driver's seat, Vonkel hunched forward, gripping the steering wheel tightly. 'Are you sure this is the best route?'

From the back seat, Damien gestured at the villas on either side of the road, hidden behind high walls. 'We are less likely to get stopped here. This is where the important men of the revolution live. Apart from the odd patrol, the security is all inside. They don't want anything on the street that might be picked up by American satellites. So far, this neighbourhood has not been bombed and they want to keep it that way. At the same time, anyone who lives in Raqqa knows it is a forbidden zone. No one with any sense would take this route if they were trying to leave the city.'

'That's reassuring,' Vonkel groaned. 'What if we hit a checkpoint?'

'Just keep driving until I tell you different.' With his assault rifle resting on his lap, Hunter constantly scanned left and right for any sign of movement. As they moved along the road, further from the centre of the city, the villas became larger, the spaces between them greater.

'Even if we do get to a checkpoint,' Damien reasoned, 'they'll all have gone to bed.'

'Let's hope you're right.'

Leaning forward, Damien pointed at the road ahead. 'Keep going for another couple of minutes then take a right. We'll take a road out of the city heading away from the border and swing round in an arc on dirt roads. It's basically the route I took to get here.' He paused. 'The route we took.'

'What happened to the other kids you came with?' Hunter asked, trying to remember their names.

'Amir's dead. He got shot.' Glancing at Vonkel, Damien decided not to go into the details. 'Sandra was getting on okay, though. She liked it; even joined the religious police. She'll never go back.'

'Not like you,' Vonkel pointed out.

'Not like me,' Damien agreed. 'I made a mistake.'

'We all make mistakes, kid. Take it from me. We get out of here, dust ourselves down and then go to make some more.' Lifting a hand from the wheel, Vonkel tapped at one of the dials on the dashboard. 'I just hope we've got enough gas to get us there.'

'As long as we can get to within twenty kilometres of the border, we'll be fine,' Hunter reassured him. 'Chances are we're going to have to do the last bit of the journey on foot anyway.'

'Great.'

Increasingly irritated by the American's whining, Hunter snapped: 'You should be dead already. Every day is a bonus.'

'That's one way of looking at it.'

'Think of it as more material for your story.'

'What story? They took all my pictures. What would have been Militant Mick's last interview before his oh so timely death.' Vonkel stifled a sob. 'All gone.'

'I'm sure you can squeeze something out of it,' Hunter reasoned. 'After all, it's been quite a trip.'

'I suppose so.' Vonkel glanced over at Hunter. 'Have you got a phone?'

'You wanna make a call? Now?'

'I need to speak to my agent. She'll want to know I'm alright.'

'I think that can wait.'

'But–'

Vonkel was interrupted by Damien tapping him on the shoulder. 'Up here. Take this right.'

'This one?'

'Yeah.'

Hunter was amused to see that Vonkel was careful to signal before making the turn.

'Aw, shit.'

Less than twenty yards in front of them was a ramshackle barrier consisting of half a dozen tires and a rusting oil drum which had been placed in the middle of the road. Next to the oil drum, a soldier sat in a deckchair, an AK-47 at his feet. Seeing the Nissan, he picked up the rifle and struggled to his feet.

'Want me to run him over?'

Hunter placed a hand on Vonkel's arm. 'Just be cool. Let me talk to him.'

'No, let me talk to him.' As the car rolled to a halt, Damien pushed open the back door, grabbed his pistol and jumped out onto the crumbling tarmac.

'Albu, it's me. Damien.'

Still half-asleep, Albu Kamal squinted in the gloom, trying to get a proper look at the two guys behind the dusty windshield of the car.

'What are you doing here?'

Damien gave him a friendly smile.

'What are you doing here?'

'What do you think,' the Swedish fighter yawned, 'they put me on guard duty, didn't they?'

Damien looked around the empty street. 'On your own?'

'Of course. We foreigners always get the worst jobs. Second class citizens.'

'Tell me about it.'

'So what are you doing?'

Damien gestured at the car with his gun. 'We're, er, just transporting the American journalist to a safe location. You heard that they tried to snatch him, right?'

'Yeah.' As Kamal took a step towards the car, Damien edged into his line of vision.

'They want us to put him somewhere safe. A place on the outskirts.'

'Where?'

'I could tell you but I'd have to kill you.'

'And they got you to do this?'

'Me and this other guy. Another Brit called, erm, Smith. He arrived last week. Big mate of Salford's apparently. Salford told us to take the American to the safe house and wait there.'

'Is the American driving the car?'

'Well, as it happens, we don't drive. And we didn't have anyone else.' Damien winced at how lame his story sounded but he blundered on. 'They recaptured the American but everyone is still out looking for the men who tried to rescue him.'

Kamal edged towards the car. 'I'd better take a look.'

'Sure.' Damien slipped his finger around the trigger of the pistol. 'Actually, it's good that I bumped into you. Sandra was asking me about you.'

The boy stopped, turned, gave Damien a shy smile. 'She was?'

'Yeah. I think she fancies you.'

Kamal blushed from ear to ear.

'You know she's desperate for a husband. And she's waiting for you to give her a call.'

'She is?'

'Yeah. Have you got her number?'

The boy shook his head.

'I've got it here.' Damien tapped the phone in his jacket pocket. 'I'll text it to you.'

'That would be cool. Thanks.'

'What's he doing?'

'Be cool. They're just talking.' Hunter released the door lock, with one hand, taking a firm grip of the AK-103 with the other.

'I don't like it.' Before Hunter could stop him, Vonkel stomped on the accelerator and the car shot forward, sending the guard flying over the hood with a shocked cry.

'Bloody hell.' By the time Damien realised what had happened, the car had knocked over the oil drum and skidded to a halt. Albu Kamal was lying face down in the road, his legs splayed out at a funny angle. He looked around. No one seemed to be responding to the commotion. Hunter jogged towards the body.

'Is he dead?' Not waiting for an answer, he bent down and felt for a pulse. 'Quick, give me a hand. We'll put him in the trunk. Grab his gun as well.'

Damien did as he was told. Thankfully, Kamal was as light as he looked. Together, they dumped the body in the car with a minimum of fuss. Damien dropped the rifle in on top of the body.

'Not in there,' Hunter snapped. 'Put it in the car. And check for a mobile.'

Retrieving the rifle, Damien quickly rummaged through Kamal's pockets, coming up with an ancient-looking BlackBerry. Closing the trunk, he jumped into the back seat. Hunter rolled the oil drum back into position and stood it upright before sliding into the passenger seat. Vonkel moved off.

'Keep it around forty,' Hunter glanced in the rear-view mirror, 'no one's chasing us.'

'Yet. Is he dead?'

'He's still breathing. Just about.' Hunter turned to Damien. 'Did he have a phone?'

'Yeah.' Damien handed over the BlackBerry.

Vonkel bit his lower lip as he stared at the road ahead. 'I'm sorry. I just–'

'He was suspicious,' Damien said flatly, 'we would have had to do something.'

'Just keep driving. We can have an inquest later.' Pulling the back cover from the BlackBerry, Hunter removed the battery and the sim card. 'You know him?' Opening the window, he tossed the sim card into the street.

'Yeah. He's from Sweden. He fancies Sandra.'

Almost before anyone noticed it, the housing came to an abrupt end and they found themselves in open countryside. Hunter hurled the battery in the direction of a row of bushes. 'Is he a mate?'

'No, not really.'

Dropping the remains of the BlackBerry at his feet. Hunter nodded. 'Just as well.'

CHAPTER 58

For the first time in a while, Middleton Terrace was swarming with journalists. Carmen Somerville stood in the gloom of her front room, staring at the framed photograph of her son, Jarvis, which stood on the mantelpiece, above the fake gas fire. The picture was probably only six or seven years old but it seemed to belong to a different era; a different universe, even. The boy, fresh from a trip to Staunton's barbershop on Carling Road, smiled back at her, the crest clearly visible on the breast pocket of his school uniform. A copy of the pictured had appeared in every national newspaper in the last twenty-four hours; every TV station had run it in their news bulletins. The story of Jarvis Somerville – aka Militant Mick – had reached its natural conclusion and the media had its snout in the trough for one final feed.

Taking a drag on her cigarette, Carmen started to cough.

'Are you okay?' PC Chaplow looked up from squinting through the gap in the curtains, a look of genuine concern on his face.

Carmen waved away his concerns as she brought her coughing under control. 'I'm fine, Terry, don't you worry about it.'

'The crowd's getting bigger.'

'At least it's the last time.' Carmen tried to affect an air of annoyance at all the attention. 'This is the end.' Under her breath she cursed Steve Levene. Her fifteen minutes' of fame were almost up and all North East London's Leading Legal Eagle had managed to get for her was a double-page spread in the Walthamstow Gazette. The buggers hadn't even paid for her bus fare. When she had complained, Levene had launched into a diatribe about how the market was flooded with the stories of jihadi families and how even Militant Mick was old news. To add insult to injury, the lawyer then tried to present her with a bill for £2,300 + VAT for "media handling services". When Carmen had refused to pay up, he stormed off, muttering something about the small claims court.

'One more round of interviews, then they will leave us in peace. And you can get back to your normal job.'

The policeman looked less than enthused at the prospect. 'What about the funeral?'

'What funeral?' Carmen scoffed. 'The Foreign Office has made it clear that I won't be getting him back.' She took another drag on her smoke. 'I can't even put him to rest.'

'It must be such a strain.'

'It is.'

The conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway. 'At least,' Chaplow said, dropping his voice to barely a whisper, 'you've got a silver lining.'

I wouldn't say that. Carmen turned to face Mohammed Zamewi in the doorway. Dressed in a vintage C&A pinstripe suit from Oxfam, an off-white shirt and a navy tie, Mick's father shot her his best American smile.

At least he didn't bring the stripper with him, Carmen reflected. Mo had turned up on her doorstep a couple of nights before, a matter of hours after Jarvis's death had finally been confirmed by the British government. Overriding Carmen's objections, he had installed himself in Mick's room and gone shopping for a new wardrobe.

Mo ran a hand across his two-day old stubble. 'Do you think we have time for a cup of tea?'

'I could get the kettle on,' Chaplow offered.

Carmen stepped in front of the officer before he could head for the door. 'I don't think we've got time for that.'

'No,' the young policeman looked slightly crestfallen, 'I suppose you're right.'

'Carmen's always right,' Mo smirked. 'That is one of her many charms.' Irritatingly, he looked almost exactly the same as Carmen remembered when he ran off to America. Here I am gone through two lifetimes and you're hardly a day older. The cigarette was still smouldering between her fingers; for a second she imagined stepping forward and stubbing it out in his face. Probably not a smart move with a copper in the room.

Chaplow retreated to the window and took another peek between the curtains. 'There's a lot of media out there.'

'Shouldn't you be out there guarding them or something?' Mo asked.

'I thought he would be safer in here,' Carmen said tartly. 'Maybe you could go and offer your assistance.'

'That's why I'm here,' Mo glanced down the corridor but made no effort to move towards the front door. 'To help where I can.'

To try and make a few quid, more like, Carmen thought sourly. Maybe I'll introduce you to Steve Levene and you two can try and make a killing. Perhaps he could do a better job for you than he could for me.

Looking uncomfortable under the inquisitorial gaze of his ex-partner, Mo fiddled with the knot of his tie. 'Does this look okay?'

Ignoring the question, Carmen took a final drag on her cigarette and put out the stub in an ashtray sitting on the mantelpiece, next to the photograph of their son.

Mo took the snub in his stride. 'Shall we go out and face the press, then,' he asked, 'before we have a cuppa?'

'Why not?' Carmen scowled. 'Let's get it over with.'

On the TV, Mick's mum and dad were giving a press conference on the steps of their house. The mother looked tired and washed out, all hunched shoulders and dead eyes. By comparison, the father looked super-animated, answering every shouted question with long, garbled answers. Dressed in an old-fashioned suit and tie combo, the man looked like something out of a fifties gangster movie.

'We will not take this lying down,' the man asserted, wagging his finger in front of the nearest camera. 'How can this be allowed to happen to our son? Why did no one stop him? I have taken professional legal advice and we will be suing the police and the government for compensation. His blood is on their hands.'

'Good luck with that,' Bovar Fandi chuckled. 'You seem to have missed the bit where your boy chopped the heads off a bunch of foreign journalists. He was hardly an innocent victim.' From down the hallway came the sound of a door opening, followed by a dog's bark. Reaching for the remote, Fandi hit mute just as Russell ran into the room and jumped onto the sofa.

'Gerrof.' The Mullah pushed the dog roughly away, aiming a kick at its hindquarters as it disappeared into the kitchen.

'What are you doing here?' Appearing in front of him, Sally Zimbio made no effort to hide her dismay at his reappearance. 'I thought I made myself clear last time round.'

Fandi winced at the memory. 'Have you seen this?' he pointed at the TV with the remote. 'Mick's parents' press conference. They seem a bit of an odd pair.'

'I sent the mother an email.' Keeping her eyes on Fandi, Sally placed a small plastic bag of groceries on the floor. Pulling off her headscarf, she dropped it on the back of the sofa, revealing a tight grey t-shirt.

At least it doesn't have Mick's ugly mug on it, Fandi reflected as he stared shamelessly at her chest.

'I didn't know the father had turned up. Maybe this tragedy has brought them back together. According to Mick, the guy's been in America for years.'

'It would have been better if he's stayed there,' Fandi snorted. Dropping the remote on the sofa, he slowly got to his feet. 'He's making a complete ass of himself, talking crap.'

Sally took a step backwards. 'People struggle with grief in different ways.'

You seem to be coping just fine. Fandi glanced at her hand. At least she was still wearing her wedding band.

'Why are you here?' Sally repeated.

Fandi ran a hand through his beard. 'I just wanted to give you an update on the hunt for the rest of Mick's killers.'

'They've escaped.' Sally all too eagerly beat him to the punch. 'And they've got the famous American journalist too. They're probably back in Turkey by now.' Seeing the look of dismay on his face, she added: 'Salford told me. He's been a big help to me in my time of need.'

'Salford, good.' Fandi made a mental note to have the loutish Mancunian deployed to the front line – any front line – with immediate effect. The last thing he needed was anyone else trying to make a move on the widow.

'Given that I am fully up to speed, I don't think I need to detain you any longer from your very important work.' Reaching for her shopping, Sally couldn't resist adding. 'Harassing defenceless animals and stuff.' Pulling a small brown paper packet from the bag, she waved it at the cleric, taunting him. 'Lucky for old Russell, he's got me to look after him. And I've got him a nice treat for his tea.'

At the mention of his name, the dog appeared in the doorway, his tail wagging vigorously from side to side in anticipation of food.

'You are going to feed the animal meat?' Fandi felt a mixture of outrage and envy in equal measure. When was the last time he had enjoyed a steak? It had to be months, at least. 'When people are starving?'

'Nothing's too good for my Russell,' Sally said smugly.

'It is an outrage,' Fandi fulminated, 'a crime against our revolution.' Pulling a pistol from his robes, he pointed it at the dog.

'Hey!' Sally threw herself at the cleric as he pulled the trigger. As the shot exploded round the room, Russell ran back into the kitchen with a yelp. Fandi watched as the woman slipped to the floor, her blood already turning the t-shirt black.

'We could have been such a great couple.'

Looking up at Fandi, her face drained of all colour, Sally struggled to muster a reply as she tried to place a hand over the gaping wound in her stomach.

Fandi scratched his nose. 'How quickly the dream dies.' Stepping away from the dying woman, he picked up the packet of meat and placed it in the plastic bag. Still out of sight, the dog had started barking incessantly. Lifting the gun from his side, Fandi moved cautiously towards the kitchen. 'Where are you, Russell, my friend,' he hissed. 'It's time for you to join your owner.'

CHAPTER 59

'So where the hell are we?' Elliot Vonkel stood on a rocky outcrop, scarf pulled over his head to protect him against the sun, staring into the distance. 'It all looks the same to me.'

Damien pointed off to the American's left. 'The main highway to the border is over there, about ten kilometres.'

Let's hope you're right. Drinking from a plastic bottle of water, Hunter stared at the Nissan. The car had given up the ghost when Vonkel had driven it off the track they had been following and into a small ravine. At least it was fairly well hidden; the ravine ran through a shallow hollow, maybe thirty feet deep, which rendered them invisible to all but air reconnaissance. All the same, their window of opportunity was closing. After four hours on the road, their pursuers presumably realised that they were no longer in Raqqa. It would be obvious that they would be making a dash for Turkey. Everyone would be looking for them; patrols would be tightened.

'I can't see anything,' Vonkel whined.

'Trust me.' The boy sounded less than convincing.

'How long to the border?'

'On foot? Maybe a day?'

'Too long. We'll never make it.'

'The road is too dangerous. Even if we were to get another car, there's at least three roadblocks before we get to the border.'

'We got through one, didn't we?'

Hunter and Damien exchanged glances. Without saying anything, the boy walked over to the car. Opening the hatchback, he lifted his pistol and fired a single shot.

Hunter looked on impassively as the thought crossed his mind that maybe taking the kid home wasn't such a good idea. God alone knew how he would readjust to life back in England.

'What the hell?' Vonkel appeared genuinely shocked by the casual act of killing.

Haven't you learnt anything over the last few days? Hunter wondered. 'We couldn't leave him there. And we couldn't take him with us.'

'But–'

'Who ran him over in the first place?'

Damien shoved the pistol in the waistband of his jeans as he walked towards them. 'He came to fight for the revolution. He came to die for the revolution. He got his wish.'

'I suppose that's one way of looking at it.'

'He should have stayed in Sweden.'

'Enough of the requiem.' Hunter gestured over his shoulder in the vague direction of Turkey. 'Are you ready for a long walk?'

Vonkel stood, hands on hips, making no effort to move. 'What's that?'

Damien frowned. 'What's what?'

'Ssh! Listen.'

'Shit.' Hunter raised the AK-103 to his shoulder, tracking the sound of the engine as it came closer at a steady pace.

Damien reached for his pistol as Vonkel let out a stifled wail. 'They've caught us.'

'Get down.' Hunter gestured towards the Nissan. 'Behind the car.' Holding his ground, less than ten yards from the lip of the hollow, he waited for the cab of a small van to bounce into view.

The two men in the cab were laughing and joking and didn't see Hunter until they were almost on top of him. With an assault rifle pointed at his head, the driver needed no further encouragement to bring the vehicle to a halt.

'Looks like we've got a new ride.' Damien scrambled out from behind the Nissan to cover the guy on the passenger side.

Sheepishly bringing up the rear, Vonkel peered at the Turkish script on the side of the van. 'How did you know they weren't jihadis?'

'They were coming from the wrong direction and they weren't exactly being quiet about it.' Hunter gestured with the gun for the two men to get out.

'So who are they then?'

'That's what we're going to find out. Check what's in the back.'

Vonkel made his way to the back of the vehicle, glancing at the driver who was now standing in front of the van with his arms in the air and a big smile on his face.

'American?'

Hunter grunted.

The driver gestured towards his companion, who looked a lot less friendly.

'We friends.' The driver stepped forward. Keeping one hand in the air, he tentatively offered the other to Hunter. 'What the hell are you doing here?'

Dying on an empty stomach was a horror he had never previously contemplated. Vonkel realised that he had never expected to eat another meal again; in prison they had given him nothing but inedible slop – his only sustenance had been an occasional cup of dirty water. Now, the simple pleasure of food on his tongue was so intense that he wanted to cry. Wiping thick gobbets of chicken fat from his hands, Vonkel reached across and grabbed another bread roll, breaking off a chunk and shoving it into his mouth. The impromptu spread of meats and cheeses that had been spread out in the shade of the van was the first proper food he had seen in days.

'So you're a smuggler?' he asked through a mouthful of semi-masticated bread.

'I'm a businessman – an entrepreneur.' Hamit Koraltan drank from a litre bottle of water before using the bottle to gesture at the selection of t-shirts lying on the ground nearby. 'Mainly clothes and fashion items but other stuff too. I have to come across the border like this or I will get taxed at every roadblock.' He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. 'Everyone wants a cut. Taxes, taxes, taxes. If I were to pay, I lose a fortune. You don't have to be Donald Trump to know that.' He grinned at Vonkel. 'Do you know Donald Trump?'

'I've met him a few times. Charity events. Things like that.'

'Really?' Hamit's eyes grew wide.

Vonkel reached forward and grabbed a couple of apricots from a plastic shopping bag. 'Maybe half a dozen times. He's an interesting guy. Big heart. I wouldn't believe all of the crap that gets written about him in the press.'

Hamit elbowed his partner, who was sitting sullenly beside him. 'Do you hear that, Yasin, this gentleman knows Donald Trump! The most famous American in the world! Isn't that cool?'

Looking less than impressed, Yasin Payan grunted something non-committal.

'Yasin's my chief designer,' Hamit explained. 'I apologise for him but you know what creative people are like – intense, focused, poor social skills. Plus, his English isn't very good.'

'Neither's his designing,' Damien laughed, 'if this is anything to go by.' He held up a green t-shirt with the slogan Our words are dead until we give them life with blood on the front. Some of the lettering was already peeling off.

'It was a rush job for a client,' Hamit said apologetically.

'Where's the slogan from?' Hunter asked, getting to his feet.

'No idea, I just produce what the market wants.'

'Well the client is going to have to wait. You're going to take us back to Turkey.'

'For a friend of Donald Trump, no problem,' Hamit smiled at Vonkel. 'Do you think you can get me a meeting with Mr Trump? I have so many great ideas.'

'I can certainly try.'

CHAPTER 60

'We've found you a new car.' Ivan Botlan, a French fighter, offered up the fat key as if it were a ripe plum.

'About time.' Fandi grabbed the key and weighed it in his hand. 'Is it a Porsche?'

'A Mercedes.' Botlan took a step backwards and gave a small bow. 'C-Class. We found it in the garage of a doctor who fled a few weeks ago.'

Bloody French, Fandi thought, they can't get anything right. His mildly irritated expression suggested that the Merc would do – for now. 'Is it outside?'

'Yes,' Botlan smiled, relieved that the cleric appeared satisfied with his efforts. 'And I had it cleaned.'

'Good, good,' slipping the key into his pocket, Fandi waved him away. 'I'll take a look at it in a minute, once we're finished here.' As the Frenchman slipped away, he looked up at the man standing in front of him and announced:

'Salf–' Shit, that wasn't the guy's proper name. Fandi quickly glanced at his notes. 'Peter White, having carefully considered all of the available evidence, the court finds you guilty of the killing of Sally Zimbio. You are also guilty of failing to carry out the court's appointed sentence in relation to the American, Elliot Vonkel, as well as being culpable in allowing his escape. Each of these crimes is extremely serious. The sentence for each is death.' Picking up a gavel, he slammed it down on the table. 'There can be no appeal. The sentence is to be carried out within twenty-four hours.' He would leave it to the prison governor to decide how best to kill the same man multiple times. 'Take him away.'

Seemingly resigned to his fate, Salford glared at Fandi but said nothing as he was led away by a trio of guards.

As the small knot of onlookers in the public gallery dribbled away, Fandi gathered up his collection of papers. 'A good morning's work,' he muttered. 'Ties up all the loose ends nicely.' He was pleased with himself for coming up with such an elegant solution to all his problems. The investigation into the dead woman was now over. By the end of the day, the troublesome Mancunian would be no more. It was a far better solution than sending him to the front line where there was a chance, however small, that he might survive. Getting to his feet, Fandi felt a surge of wellbeing spread through his body. Efficiency had always been one of his key skill sets but, even by his standards, today's efforts had been exceptional.

Shoving his papers under his arm, he headed for the door at the back of the courtroom. 'Now,' he said brightly, 'let's go and see what my new car's like.'

Standing on the sidewalk, Sandra watched as a series of unmarked vans lumbered down the centre of the road. Cars on either side pulled up to the kerb to get out of the way of the convoy.

'Are we late?'

Sandra glanced at her watch. 'No.' She gestured in the direction of the court building. 'We will be on time. Maybe a few minutes early.'

'Oh. I thought–'

'I know.' It was a bit early for the prison run. Mullah Fandi must have been in a hurry today. Sandra knew that there were plenty of people who muttered about Fandi and his hard-line approach. She paid them no heed. Justice was always controversial; all that mattered was that you were on the side of those dishing it out.

In the second-to-last van, Sandra caught sight of a familiar face. They made eye contact before she quickly looked away.

RIP Salford. Everyone had heard of the charges. The outcome had never been in doubt.

'What is it?'

'Huh?' She turned to see a look of genuine concern on Radwan's face.

'Nothing, I just–'

'You're not having second thoughts, are you?'

Her stomach did a somersault at the thought. Never. 'Not at all, you?'

The boy fixed her with a guileless look. 'No.'

'Good.' Smiling from ear to ear, she waited for a break in the traffic before stepping out onto the road and marching defiantly across, leaving him to catch up. 'Let's go and get married, then.'

CHAPTER 61

The road sign read Adana 45km. Sitting in the cab of Hamit's van, Vonkel turned to Hunter, a tear running down his cheek. Hunter gave him a brief nod that said: It's over.

'Almost home,' Hamit smiled.

'Not exactly home,' Hunter replied, 'but good enough. More than good enough.'

'I told you I would get you back,' Hamit came up behind a dawdling saloon and casually weaved around it, 'no problem.'

'No problem,' Hunter agreed.

The moonlit journey back across the border had been remarkably smooth, with no interference from jihadi patrols or the Turkish Army. After several hours bumping along barely identifiable tracks, they turned on to a well-maintained two-lane blacktop as dawn broke.

'Welcome to my beautiful country!' Hamit exclaimed.

Vonkel looked doubtful.

'I do this many, many times, my friend. Trust me. You are in Turkey.'

The American muttered something under his breath.

'I get you home and you get me Donald Trump. That is the deal, yes?'

'That is the deal,' Vonkel agreed.

Hamit lifted a hand from the steering wheel and they shook on it.

A car appeared in the distance, coming towards them. Vonkel groaned.

'Don't worry, no one is going to stop us now.' Hamit gave him a reassuring pat on the thigh. 'You are totally safe.' He pointed at the large sign in front of them. 'We should be in Adana in about an hour.'

The next few minutes passed in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Cresting a gentle incline, Hamit eased the van off the road and brought it to a halt in front of a clump of thorn bushes.

'What are you doing?' Vonkel asked, his voice immediately flooding with concern.

Reaching under his seat, Hamit flailed around for a few moments before coming up with a roll of pink toilet paper. 'Comfort break.' He waved the toilet paper in front of Vonkel and giggled. 'Last chance to go before we hit the city.'

While Hamit retreated a respectful distance, Yasin and Damien dropped out of the back of the van.

'Are we there yet?' Yawning, Damien wiped the sleep from his eyes.

'About an hour to go,' Hunter explained. 'Nice to see you're getting your rest, in the meantime.'

'It's quite comfortable, lying on those t-shirts,' the boy grinned. 'Since we got on a decent road, at least.'

Hunter cast his gaze in the direction of Adana. 'You need to start thinking about what you're going to say to your mother.'

'Oh gawd.' Damien kicked at a stone and missed.

'I don't think that's going to cut it.'

'What should I say?'

'I dunno. I would start with the most grovelling apology you can think of and take it from there.' Hunter held out a hand. 'And you better give me the pistol; your gunslinging days are over.'

Damien hesitated then pulled the gun from his waistband and handed it over. Hunter was horrified to see that the safety was switched off. It was a miracle that the boy hadn't shot his nuts off. Saying nothing, he thumbed it back on, belatedly making the weapon safe.

'What about Albu?'

'Who?'

'The guy from the roadblock. The one we left in the car.'

Placing the gun in his pocket, Hunter thought about it for a moment. 'Were there any others? I mean, was that a one-off?'

Damien's mind flashed on the café owner who he had beaten to a pulp in an argument over water. 'That was the only time. I don't know what happened.'

That would have to be someone else's problem. 'Keep it to yourself,' Hunter counselled. 'I won't mention it.'

'What about him?' Damien gestured towards Vonkel. Standing with his back to them, legs apart, the journalist was pissing liberally over one of the bushes.'

'Don't worry about him. I'll speak to him.'

'Okay. Thanks.' The boy looked genuinely grateful.

'See if you can hold that expression for when you meet your mum, right?'

'Right.'

'Maybe add in a dollop of remorse and you'll be fine.'

Zipping himself up, Vonkel turned around and walked over to where they were standing.

'Have you got a phone?'

'Now?' It occurred to Hunter that he had no idea what he was supposed to do with the American now that his life was no longer in danger. He gestured down the highways. 'We'll be back amidst it all, soon enough.'

'But I need to call my agent,' Vonkel whined.

Damien pulled a handset from the back pocket of his jeans. 'Here, take this. I don't know if you'll get a signal though.'

'Thanks.' Vonkel took the phone and began tapping at the screen. 'What's the code?'

'1-2-3-4,' Damien explained.

'That's really secure.' Tapping in the numbers, Vonkel suddenly had a vivid flashback to the Peker Hotel in Istanbul.

'I get locked out of the damn thing all the time.'

Alfons Berghofer carefully typing in the security code to his iPhone.

'1-2-3-4. It's the only thing I can ever remember.'

It seemed like years ago, whereas, in reality, less than a week had passed.

As the screen sprang to life, Vonkel looked at the boy. 'Where did you get this?'

Damien bit his lower lip. 'I found it.'

The journalist stepped closer. 'Did you take it from the German guy I was with, Alfons?'

Head bowed, the boy held his ground. 'He was dead, I swear.'

'Jeez.' Vonkel clicked on the video player and began flicking through the clips that Berghofer had recorded in Raqqa's museum, minutes before his untimely death at the hands of the Americans. 'It's all here,' he cackled. 'I'm back in business.'

Confused, the boy squinted at the grainy images on the screen.

'The interviews with Mick and that other guy–'

'Mullah Fandi.'

'Right, right.'

'It's not great quality.'

'That just adds to the authenticity,' Vonkel grinned. 'Once I get into a decent edit suite, I'm sure a decent technician can make something of it.' He waved the phone in the air in delight. 'Militant Mick's last interview, saved for posterity – an important moment in US TV history. Monkseaton Chamberlain Junior eat your black heart out.'

'Who?' the boy frowned.

'Never mind.' Vonkel slipped the phone into his pocket. 'You will get a credit, of course. And a finder's fee.' He turned to Hunter. 'What kind of production facilities do they have in, er, wherever we're going?'

'No idea,' Hunter sighed, 'but I'm sure we can find out, easily enough.' He added it to the list of things to discuss with Carlos Rangoon, the fixer. From behind the bushes, Hamit emerged with the remains of his toilet roll and began walking slowly back to the van, a satisfied look on his face.

'Looks like the pit stop is over.' Hunter gestured for Vonkel to get in the back with Damien and Yasin. When the American started to protest, he cut him off with the words "security precaution" and kept walking.

CHAPTER 62

Finishing one cigarette, Ann dropped the stub into an empty coffee cup and immediately fired up another. During her stay in Turkey her habit had steadily escalated, to the point where she was comfortably smoking thirty or more a day. Taking a nervous puff, she reflected on how chain-smoking was the only thing keeping her sane while simultaneously vowing that this one would be her last – at least until later in the afternoon.

Sliding off her chair, she slipped her bag over her shoulder. Retrieving the cup, she mooched across the café floor and handed it to the crumpled middle-aged bloke behind the counter. Cem, a cousin of the owner's wife, seemed to work sixteen hours a day, every day. During her increasingly frequent spells of daydreaming, Ann would speculate about whether he slept under the tables.

Fishing a few coins from the pocket of her jeans, she placed them on the bar; less a tip, more an apology for using the cup as an ashtray. Cem gave her a nod of recognition – reflecting both her generosity and her current status as a temporary regular – before tossing the contents of the cup into a large waste bin.

'Thanks you.'

'No problem,' Ann smiled.

'Tomorrow?'

'Tomorrow.'

The barman pointed towards the table she had just vacated.

'Phone.'

'Shit, yeah. Thanks.' Stepping away from the bar, Ann reached for her phone just as it started vibrating across the table. With a shaking hand, she grabbed the handset and fumbled with the buttons. To her dismay, the text was nothing more significant than a marketing message, in Turkish. Cursing to herself, she deleted the message.

A hand brushed her shoulder and she almost jumped in the air.

'Hello, Mum.'

Wheeling around, she let out a gasp of delight. 'Damien!'

The boy gave her a sheepish grin. 'I wondered if you'd still be here.'

Standing on her tiptoes, she hugged him tightly. A million questions started flooding her brain; she struggled to put them in some kind of order.

'Hey,' the boy instinctively tried to pull away. 'You're hurting me.'

'I knew you'd come back.' Reluctantly, Ann released her grip. The boy looked gaunt and dirty and the smell of BO was almost overpowering.

'When did you last have a wash?' she demanded, tears rolling down her cheeks.

'Dunno.' The boy gestured towards the cigarette between her fingers. 'Can I have a cig?'

'No you bloody can't.' Wiping away a tear, Ann vowed to give up on the spot. She gestured towards the bar, from where Cem was watching them with interest. 'Are you hungry, do you want something to eat?'

'I'm good.' Damien glanced nervously towards the door where Hunter was waiting with Carlos Rangoon.

'Why didn't you tell me you were coming?'

'Um.' Damien bit his lip. In all the excitement, the thought hadn't crossed his mind. 'I wanted to surprise you,' he improvised, taking a step backwards in case she tried to give him another hug. 'We should get going.'

'I was just heading back to the hotel.' Refusing to let her son get away, Ann slipped her arm in his and led Damien towards the door. 'And I'd better ring your dad.'

'It's alright,' Damien said airily, 'he already knows.'

'He does?' A sense of profound irritation flared in her breast.

'Yeah, Carlos told him.'

'Oh.' She felt the anger subside before asking: 'so you haven't spoken to him yet?'

'No.'

'Okay.' Ann tried not to sound too pleased about that. 'Well you'll have to thank him.' She beamed at the two men waiting patiently for them. 'After all, he was the one who found Mr Hunter for us.'

'I will.' The boy squirmed free of her grip. 'But let's get going. Carlos is throwing me a party.'

'We've organised a small celebratory dinner and then we can sort out the various loose ends.'

Hunter gave a tired nod. As far as he was concerned, the job was done. All he wanted to do now was get some sleep and then head back to London.

As they approached the villa, the gates opened and their small convoy was waved through by two armed policemen.

'The Turks are keen for everything to be as low key as possible.' Rangoon flicked a piece of lint from his jacket. 'That means a speedy departure and no media.'

'Fine by me,' Hunter stifled a yawn, 'but I think I know someone who might have other plans.'

'That's the Americans' problem,' Rangoon sniffed. 'They are happy to play ball, at least until Mr Vonkel is repatriated to the land of the free. The news of his release has been kept tightly controlled.'

'It'll leak.'

'Of course it will. Indeed, it probably already has. That doesn't matter as long as it remains unconfirmed and we can avoid a media circus, which we can because no one will be able to find him.'

'What makes you so confident of that?'

Rangoon's eyes twinkled with mischief. 'Because we brought him here.'

Inside, it looked as if Vonkel had started the party on his own. Next to an untouched buffet sat a litre bottle of vodka, which was the best part of a third empty. Sitting on a sofa, the famous reporter had a drink at his feet and Alfons Berghofer's iPhone in his hands.

'Coverage here is terrible,' he muttered, not looking up from the screen, 'don't you have Wi-Fi?'

'Thank God he doesn't know how to use social media,' Rangoon whispered, 'or the whole world would know he's out by now.'

'How long can you keep him here?'

'Not long, but it's for his own good. He's been looked over by a doctor; physically, he's okay but he's got some form of post-traumatic stress disorder. The doctor gave him a splendid selection of pills.' Rangoon gestured towards the glass at Vonkel's feet. 'You're not supposed to drink alcohol with them, of course.'

'He needs some serious rest.' What long-term psychological problems might Vonkel face? Regardless of the possible damage, Hunter couldn't help feeling that it was still a better than losing your head. 'He was in quite a bad way when we found him.'

'It was a miracle that you got him out.'

'It was luck,' Hunter admitted.

Rangoon showed no interest in debating the point. 'Rashid isn't very happy about it,' he said, lowering his voice even further.

Here we go. Hunter sensed a fee negotiation looming. 'He isn't happy about what?'

'The mandate was to extract Damien–'

Right on cue, the boy bounced through the door and began attacking buffet with gusto.

'Which is what I did.'

'Mr Zubair feels that his son was put at risk by bringing the American out too.'

'They came as a pair,' Hunter explained. He watched as Ann appeared at the buffet table and began scolding her son for eating slices of meat with his fingers. 'If we hadn't been looking for Vonkel, we would never have found Damien at all.'

'Of course.' Rangoon gave Hunter a look that said I'm only the messenger. 'But Rashid feels that he hired you on an exclusive basis; the fact that you took on this additional work means that he will want to review the success fee arrangement.'

'So he wants to stiff me?' Hunter gave a weary chuckle.

'He wants to negotiate.' Rangoon began moving towards the food. 'But all that can wait. You must be hungry. Let's eat.'

Hunter looked at Vonkel, still tapping away on his phone, seemingly oblivious to the people around him. 'What am I supposed to do with him?'

'Don't worry,' Rangoon smiled. 'I've got that taken care of.' Grabbing an apple from the table, he led Hunter though the back of the house and into a surprisingly lush garden. Sitting under a palm tree, sipping from a can of Pepsi was a squat, bald guy of indeterminate age, his eyes hidden behind an outsized pair of aviator sunglasses. Seeing the two men approach, he placed the can on the ground and got to his feet.

'You must be Daniel Hunter.' The man extended a hand.

Rangoon made the introduction. 'This is Zachary Keeble from the US consulate in Adana.' Taking a bite from his apple, he watched as the two men shook hands.

Keeble had an iron grip. A military man. Hunter resisted the temptation to rub his hand.

'You did a great job, Mr Hunter.'

'Thank you.'

Keeble glanced at Rangoon who took that as his cue to head back inside the house. 'We're very grateful for all your efforts here. Getting Mr Vonkel back sends a strong message to the terrorists that we will look after our people.'

If you say so. 'I did what I could.'

'You and Sal were a good team.'

'We got the job done.'

'He's currently designated MIA. We are not going to alter his status publically until this whole thing dies down.'

Well he's going to stay that way unless he manages to grow a new head. 'What about his family?'

Keeble shook his head. 'No family. Which kinda makes it easier.'

'I suppose so.'

'It's a damn shame, he was a good man.'

'Did you work with him?'

'Nope, I only knew him by reputation,' Keeble rubbed his chin, 'but that was quite a reputation.'

'Well, he died doing what he loved.'

'Yes, I suppose he did.'

'Now how many people a can say that?

'Not many.'

'So don't be sorry for Sal, he died happy.'

'That's a good thought.' Keeble pointed at the house. 'Maybe we should go inside and raise a toast.'

'Why not?' Hunter smiled. 'Do you like vodka?'

CHAPTER 63

'To Sal.'

'Sal.' Hunter downed his drink and immediately offered to refill Keeble's glass. 'Another?'

The American shook his head. 'Not while I'm on duty.'

'Fair enough.' Hunter looked around the empty room. While he had been out in the garden, everyone had disappeared to other parts of the house. 'Not much of a party.'

'No, but, still, it's better than you might have hoped for twenty-four hours ago.'

'That's certainly true.'

Keeble stared into his empty glass. 'We would like to do a debrief.'

Now there's a surprise. 'Here?'

'We thought Istanbul. This place is too small to keep things under wraps for long. There we can keep it nice and relaxed. Vonkel can play around with the movie he wants to make and the boy and his mum can do a bit of sightseeing. You too, if you want.'

'I'm not really the tourist type,' Hunter smiled, 'but sure, why not?'

'Thanks. On the ground intel is like gold dust.'

'I'm not sure I can tell you all that much. Most of the time we were in Raqqa we were in an empty mental hospital.'

'We will take whatever we can get,' Keeble said philosophically, 'and it will also help with the getting to know you process. Inevitably, there will be more projects in the future.'

'Always happy to listen to offers.' Weighing the glass in his hand, Hunter let his gaze drift towards the vodka bottle before quickly admonishing himself. Now was not the time to be getting drunk.

'And, of course, we will share any relevant material with your guys.'

'My guys?'

'The British security services.'

'I'm sure they'll want to speak to us as well.'

Keeble placed his glass on the table and picked up a handful of potato chips from a bowl. 'They will,' he agreed, shoving the chips into his mouth and chewing noisily, 'but we appreciate your co-operation.'

'In return, you can do something for me – put in a good word for Damien. He helped me get Vonkel out. He's not a terrorist, he knows he made a mistake.'

'A big mistake.' Keeble wiped a crumb from the corner of his mouth. 'I'll certainly make representations but I can't promise anything.'

'Of course not.'

'If he was an American,' Keeble reflected, 'he would probably end up in a high security prison for the rest of his natural life. A few years ago he would have been waterboarded in Guantanamo. Whatever the Brits do to him, he will get off relatively lightly.' He reached for some more chips. 'By the way, do you know what happened to the other kids he ran away with?'

'One is dead, apparently. I don't know about the other one.' Amir Rasool and Sandra Baig. Hunter knew he would have to face their parents when he got back to England.

Keeble waved a chip in the air. 'Damien's lucky, a – to be alive; and b – to be going home.' The chip disappeared into his mouth as he ruminated on the wisdom of what he said. 'Even if he is facing some jail time.'

CHAPTER 64

Vonkel waved the phone at Damien. 'Any idea how I update my Facebook page?'

Sitting in an airless edit suite at Studio Ottoman, Damien looked at him with a mixture of weariness and dismay. 'Do you know your password?'

'No idea,' Vonkel admitted.

'So how did you update it before?'

'My executive assistant did it … I think.'

'How many followers do you have?'

'Um, no idea.'

'Let me set you up on Honk, it's way more cool.'

'Honk?'

'It's a new social networking site,' Damien explained, 'new-ish anyway. Everyone in Raqqa is on it. I've got more than ten thousand followers.'

'Have you told them you're out?' Vonkel asked.

'Not yet.' The boy held out his hand. 'Gimme the phone.'

'It's okay, I'll sort it out later.' Vonkel pined for the days before the internet had ever been invented. Not only was it destroying journalism; the sheer effort of just trying to keep up with every new fad was totally exhausting.

'But I want to update my status,' the boy whined.

'Later. We've got work to do. And, anyway, we're supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember?' Tossing the phone on the desk, Vonkel turned his attention back to the image of a grinning Mick on the monitor in front of them. Berghofer's material was proving harder to edit than he had hoped, not helped by the fact that Semure, the picture editor, spoke limited English and insisted on going up on to the roof for a cigarette break every twenty minutes.

He gestured at the screen. 'What do you think?'

Still miffed, Damien made little effort to feign interest. 'I dunno. Looks good, I guess.'

'We're going to need more material.' Vonkel pointed towards the ceiling. 'I would like to do an interview. If we go on the roof we can get the city skyline in the background.'

'With me?'

'Sure. You were there, remember? An eyewitness report is just what I need to jazz it up a bit.'

Damien shifted uncomfortably in his seat. 'What would you want to ask me about?'

'Well, for a start, why wasn't I beheaded in that rubbish dump?'

'The camera didn't work.' Damien grimaced at the memory.

Vonkel ran hand across his neck. I always thought that the guy in Nineteenth Street Photo & Video sold me a pile of crap. I really should be grateful.

'That's why Amir got shot – he was supposed to be working it.'

Picking up on the boy's unease, Vonkel took a step backwards. He could see his story going off in different directions but he couldn't rush things. He had time. No one even knew that he was out yet. Leaning forward in his chair, he gave Damien a reassuring pat on the knee. 'I know that these things are difficult to discuss. We don't have to do this now. Maybe you should go and see some of the sights with your mum, relax a bit.'

'It's okay. She wants me to stay here and get some work experience. I can use this on my CV right?

Vonkel scratched his ear. 'That's, like, your resume, huh?'

'Yeah. It's just that while I was away my exam results came out and they weren't quite as good as everyone had hoped. I need a few fancy things to add to the application form to help make it stand out for the university.'

University? Shouldn't you being going to jail? Ignoring that uncharitable thought, Vonkel adopted what he presumed was a paternal tone. 'Which university are we talking about?'

'Oxford,' Damien grinned.

'Ah, the dreaming spires, Brideshead Revisited, the Bashingham Club.' He smiled. 'Such great memories. I was a postgraduate there you know. With Bill Clinton.'

The boy looked at him blankly.

'Well, not exactly at the same time as Bill,' Vonkel admitted. 'I'm not that old. I was about fifteen years later, but the same kind of thing.'

Gotta stop with the fictional stories, he admonished himself, that's what got you into this mess in the first place.

'If I get in, I will be only the third kid from my school to go there in the last thirty years – assuming my Dad pays the fees.'

'I'm sure he'll be delighted.' A germ of an idea began sprouting in Vonkel's head. 'You know, maybe I could do a follow-up piece. The kid who beat the odds – from jihad to Oxford. That's a great story, kid.'

'If I get in.'

'Don't worry, kid. I'll get you in. Elliot Vonkel will see to it. I can always call up Bill if I have to.' The screen on the iPhone lit up with a text from Hamit Koraltan. Why did I give the guy this number?

With a sigh, Vonkel opened the message.

Any news on Donald Trump? Also, any idea what I can do with 10,000 unwanted t-shirts?

Deleting the text, Vonkel got to his feet. 'I think I'll go and bum a smoke from Semure.'

Engaged in an intense phone conversation, the film editor scowled when she saw the American journalist appear on the roof. Lowering her voice, she turned her back on Vonkel and retreated to the far side of the building.

'You're not the only one with calls to make,' Vonkel huffed, tapping Luciana's number into the iPhone as he looked out over the city. Listening to the phone begin to ring, he wondered about the time in New York – maybe it was a bit early over there? He dismissed the thought with a wave of his hand. They were in a 24/7 business, his agent was supposed to be on call at any time of the day or night.

Just as he was expecting the voicemail to kick in, she picked up.

'Dreedle Associates, how may I help you?'

Vonkel stifled a titter at her attempted English accent. 'It's me.'

There was a pause.

'It's me,' he snapped, exasperated by the lack of immediate recognition, 'Elliot.'

'Elliot?' Her voice immediately retreated back across the Atlantic. 'Oh my God! You're alive?'

'Alive and kicking,' he said, trying to sound cheery about it.

'I got unknown number.'

'This is a new phone. You're the first person I've called.' He felt a stab of pride that he had been able to dredge the number from his memory.

'Your head's still on your shoulders, then,' Luciana observed drily. 'Everyone thought that you were a dead man. How did you manage to get out?'

'It's a long story.' Vonkel realised that he had yet to construct a detailed narrative surrounding his escape; something that was credible but creditable at the same time. 'I can't go into any of the details yet. No one's supposed to know I'm out, so keep it to yourself for the moment.'

'Yes, yes, of course.' Luciana considered how best to exploit this gobbet of information.

'We'll do a big media tour when I get back to New York, probably next week. I just wanted you to know that I'm safe and sound.'

'That's a big relief. Where are you now?'

'Istanbul. I'm editing my film.'

'You got your interview?'

'Yes. More or less.' He quickly talked her through Berghofer's footage. 'It looks a bit raw but that kind of adds to the quality of the thing.'

There was silence from the other end of the line.

'Luciana?'

'You're wasting your time,' she said finally. 'That video has been all over the internet for days. Even the lost tribes of Papua New Guinea will have seen it by now.'

'But my exclusive–' Vonkel felt a pain grow in his chest.

'Sorry, Elliot, but that ship has sailed.'

Breathing deeply, he waited for the discomfort to subside. 'But how?'

'Have you heard of something called Honk?'

'The social networking site?'

'Very good. Someone put it up on there. It spread like wildfire for twenty-four hours before the ISPs started blocking it on the grounds that it glorified terrorism.'

'Glorified terrorism? But it's–' Vonkel struggled to find the right words, 'it's hard news.'

'It doesn't matter how hard it is,' Luciana sniggered, 'it's old news now. That's the worst kind.'

'But I'm building a bigger package,' he wailed, 'lots of additional colour, the inside story. A massive exclusive from the man himself – me. BNN will love it.'

'Elliot, I hate to sound, well, harsh, but you would have got more airtime if they had chopped your head off.'

'But I'd be dead.'

'There is that. But you know what this game is like. It's all swings and roundabouts.'

'BNN will love it,' he repeated, the confidence leaking from his voice.

'BNN aren't interested.'

'Did you speak to Junior?'

'Yes,' Luciana lied smoothly. 'He won't consider having you back.'

'Is that what he said?'

'How shall I say, he put it rather more expressively that that. Even if he was willing to accept the return of the prodigal – which he isn't – the cupboard is bare. Apparently, he's just given Enya Quinn a five-year contract worth forty million dollars. There's no going back there.'

'That bitch!' Vonkel screamed, causing Semure to turn around and give him a bemused look. 'She always wanted to fuck me over.'

'Calm down, that's life. Anyway, I think you know better than most, she gives much better head than your dear self. What can you do? These things happen in journalism. You've got to move on.'

'Move on?' Vonkel hissed, pacing up to the roof's edge before quickly retreating. 'I almost got myself killed–'

'So what? Do you think Junior cares about that? Anyway, I think I've got you something else–'

'What?' Vonkel asked eagerly. 'Fox? ABC?'

'Not exactly. You know Maksim Nurov?'

'Nurov?' Vonkel tried to pull the name from his bulging mental rolodex. 'The ballet dancer? What's he got to do with anything?'

'No, no, no,' Luciana sighed. 'That was Nureyev, completely different guy; nothing to do with TV at all. Maksim is the East Coast Bureau Chief for Russia Today. He wants to put you on their roster.'

'Russia Today?' Vonkel felt his knees buckle. 'You want to pimp me out to the damn commies?'

'They're not commies anymore, Elliot. The Russians are more capitalist than we are these days. They pay top dollar, too. A lot of my clients do work for them.'

'Yeah, people that no one's ever heard of.'

Luciana ignored the snide remark. 'Maksim can promise you a good gig. Basically you can do whatever stories you like, starting with your little Middle Eastern adventure.'

'But if I go and work for the commies, it'll destroy my reputation.'

'What reputation?' Luciana shot back. 'You managed to trash that all by yourself, remember?'

'That was–'

Look, I've got to go. Think about it. And well done on not getting decapitated. I am genuinely pleased not to be having to plan your memorial service; it would have been so hard to get a decent turnout.'

'I don't think–'

'Text me your new number and I'll call you back later.' She clicked off, leaving Vonkel to contemplate his terribly reduced circumstances.

Nobody cares.

I could have been killed and no one cares in the slightest.

He cautiously peered over the building's edge.

Maybe I should just jump.

'My boss did that a couple of months ago.'

'What?' Vonkel turned to see Semure lighting up a Marlboro. Inhaling deeply, she blew a stream of smoke into the sky and offered him the packet.

What the hell. He pulled out a cigarette and took a light.

'He jumped.' The film editor gestured vaguely into space. 'It was a terrible mess. You can still see a mark on the sidewalk if you look closely.'

Taking a cautious drag on his cigarette, Vonkel moved away from the edge. 'Why did he do it?'

Semure pushed out her lower lip. 'No idea.'

Hunter walked into the edit suite to find Vonkel trying to smash Damien's head into an LCD monitor.

'Hey, hey, hey.' Standing in the middle of the room like a referee in a wrestling match, he pulled them apart. 'What's going on here?'

'He put my video on the internet,' Vonkel panted, his face wreathed in sweat. 'Everybody's seen it already.'

'They deleted it pretty quickly.' Damien flopped back into a chair, seemingly unperturbed by the attempted assault.

'Not quickly enough,' Vonkel harrumphed, 'no one's going to buy my story now. I'm screwed.'

'I'm sure you can sort something out.' Hunter directed the American to take the other seat. 'I just wanted to come to say goodbye. I've done my session with the spooks, so I'm heading back to London.'

'What about me?' Damien asked.

'I think that Agent Keeble will want to spend rather more time with you,' Hunter smiled, 'but I would have thought you'll be home in a few days.'

'And then? What will they do to me?' A look of genuine concern clouded the boy's face. 'Will they let me go to university?'

'Not if I have anything to do with it,' Vonkel muttered grimly.

Hunter placed a consoling hand on the journalist's shoulder. 'Look, I'm sure Damien is sorry for what happened. And you have to remember he did help save your life. Keeble is gonna be supportive. Under the circumstances, it would be good if you could put in a good word too.'

Vonkel stared at his lap. 'I'll see what I can do.'

'Look at it this way,' Hunter grinned, 'whatever happens it will make a great story.'

CHAPTER 65

Hunter caught a glimpse of a familiar figure walking out of the gallery and disappearing down Cork Street.

'Was that Carlyle?'

'The one and only,' Dominic Silver said wearily. The police inspector had been a close friend and ally over many decades; the pair enjoyed a close relationship on the basis that it was never entirely clear who was using who.

'I would have said hello.'

'He was in a hurry.' Silver flipped the Closed sign and locked the door. 'He's got himself in a bit of a fix, as usual.' Not wishing to elucidate, he stared thoughtfully at one of the images hanging on the wall, a large colour photograph of a Nigerian policeman pointing his rifle at a man while a riot went on in the street around them. The man had his arms in the air in surrender. To Hunter's mind, he looked remarkably sanguine for a man looking down the barrel of an AK-47. The image was part of a series from a group of Dutch photographers that Dom was currently exhibiting.

'What did he want?'

'What does he always want? A favour.' Still staring at the picture, Dom shook his head. 'I would have thought we would have sold this one by now.'

Cognizant of the price tag, Hunter kept his own counsel.

Turning away from the photograph, Dom contemplated his security chief. 'And how are you? This must all be a bit boring compared to recent events.'

'Not at all,' Hunter smiled. 'I'm pleased to be back.'

Dom shook his head. 'Don't kid a kidder.'

'Seriously. You can have too much excitement. Anyway, I'm too old for that game.'

'That's crap. You're good. And you know you're good. Age doesn't come into it at all.' Shoving his hands in his pockets, Dom perched on the end of the reception desk. 'Back in the day, I would have killed for a guy like you on my team.'

Back in the day – when you were a big-time London drug dealer. Knowing the boss's backstory, Hunter knew that he was talking literally.

'That was then,' Dom continued. 'Things are a lot different now. You know that I'm very pleased to have you around but I won't try and stop you from doing other things.'

'What other things?' Hunter gestured towards the street. 'I haven't exactly got more Rashid Zubairs queuing out the door.'

'They will come. Trust me, they will come.'

Hunter raised an eyebrow. 'Via you?'

'Via me. Via Rashid. Via the good inspector. There is always demand for your … exotic skill set. And the supply is extremely limited. You will be able to name a good price.'

'I'm not bothered about the money.' They both knew that was true; when Rashid Zubair had refused to pay his "success fee", Hunter had just accepted it with a shrug. Carlos Rangoon professed to be mortified; Ann Wilson had been outraged on his behalf, but Hunter had found it impossible to care too much one way or another. Apart from anything else, his needs were extremely limited; the original fee was sitting in the bank, gaining interest at the rate of 0.19 per cent per annum.

From the inside of his jacket pocket, Dom pulled out a letter and handed it to Hunter. 'So you won't want this then?'

The pearl-coloured envelope was addressed to Hunter, c/o the Molby-Nicol Gallery. It had been neatly opened along the top with a paper knife.

Silver gestured at the empty chair behind the desk. 'Apologies, the receptionist opened it by mistake yesterday.'

'It's okay.' Inside were two sheets of paper. The first was a neatly typed letter from Agent Keeble who appeared to have relocated from Turkey to Washington DC. It informed Hunter that he was the sole beneficiary of the life insurance policy of the recently deceased Salvatore A. Osman.

Bloody hell, Sal.

Upon his instruction, the US government would transfer $2.35m to a designated bank account. Just like that. What was that? £1.5m? A mild sense of panic rippled through Hunter's brain. What the hell was he going to do with a million and a half quid?

On the bottom of the letter, Keeble had scrawled a P.S.: You did a great job. More work coming down the pipe. Will be in touch.

It looked like Dom was right – he had belatedly stumbled upon a market for his services. Handing the letter to his boss, Hunter scanned the second missive, a few lines scribbled on a grubby piece of notepaper that bore the logo of a deluxe Beirut hotel.

If you're reading this, I guess I'm dead, which probably sucks but maybe doesn't. Well done on getting back and thanks for joining me on my final gig. I know you don't want the cash but I can trust you to find a good home for it. We had fun didn't we? Next time you're out there, kill some more bad guys for me.

Attila

'That's a lot of cash.' Dom carefully re-folded the letter. 'I can sort this out for you. 'I'll get it placed into the gallery's US account and then we can transfer it into any currency that you like.'

'Thanks.' Folding Sal's note, Hunter placed it in the back pocket of his jeans.

'What are you going to do with your windfall?'

'I'll have to think about that.'

'Take your time.' Pushing himself off the desk, Dom began walking towards his office. 'Maybe,' he chuckled, 'I can interest you in a nice print or two?'

CHAPTER 66

Reporting behind enemy lines – the search for truth in the digital age. Sitting in the bar of the Happy Traveller, part of a chain of budget hotels, Elliot Vonkel looked at the empty screen of his MacBook and sighed. He was due to give the inaugural Alfons Berghofer Memorial Lecture in less than a week. So far, all he had was the title and he hadn't even come up with that himself. Rather it had been bestowed on him by the rather unctuous Professor of Media Studies from Berlin's Free University who was hosting the event.

'Why did they do it?'

'Huh?'

'These kids that run off to Syria. Why do they do it?'

Happy to be distracted from his laptop, Vonkel turned to face his producer. 'To get girls. It's the only way that they can get laid.'

'The boys, yeah,' Melanie Lambert agreed, 'but what about the girls?'

'No idea,' Vonkel shrugged. How had he ended up on the road with this spotty English girl? It made him almost nostalgic for the days when he had to do everything on his own.

'I mean,' Mel tapped a sheaf of notes with her index finger, 'this girl, Sandra Baig; five A stars in in her exams. Why do all that work and then run away?' Taking a sip of her orange juice, she gestured at the darkening sky outside. 'I mean, she did far better than Damien.'

'His grades were okay. Better than the other kid.'

'Amir Rasool?' Mel laughed. 'He didn't pass a single exam.'

'So, what have we got? Three kids of differing academic abilities, go off on a half-assed adventure. One gets killed, one stays over there, one comes home. Seems to me that Damien should be celebrated. Not only did he realise his mistake, he did well enough academically to get into Oxford University, one of the world's leading academic institutions. Not to mention my own alma mater.'

She looked at him blankly.

'It's a great turnaround story. Which is why we're here.'

'His results weren't good enough to get in to Oxford under normal circumstances,' Mel pointed out. 'He's only here so that the government can use him as a poster boy for their ability to rehabilitate returning jihadists.'

'Which just makes it more of a story.'

'So, it hardly seems fair.'

'Life isn't fair,' Vonkel offered blithely. 'Damien's done very well to turn things around. Everyone deserves a second chance.'

'There are plenty of people who think that he should be in prison, rather than hosting a debate about the appeal of terrorism to the youth of today.'

'Is that a line in our script?'

'Yeah.'

'Has Maksim approved it yet?'

'Not yet, I can't get hold of him in New York.'

'Make sure he's happy,' Vonkel instructed, 'he wants the right emphasis in the piece on the shortcomings of British foreign policy and the inability of the authorities to engage with disaffected youth before they head off to the Middle East.'

'Thank you,' Mel huffed, 'but I write my own scripts, thank you very much.'

'Not with this gig, you don't. Anyway, I think you'll find they're my scripts.'

'I'm the one who has to write them.'

'Yes, but still–'

'Come on Elliot,' she protested, 'you've got to show a bit of independence.'

'Hm.' The girl clearly wasn't going to last long at Russia Today.

'I originally broke this story, you know.'

Yeah, right. Vonkel returned his gaze to the blank screen; twelve words down, six thousand to go.

'I got the first interview with Damien's mother, way back when. It was one of the articles that helped me win Young Journalist of the Year.' Her face darkened. 'I was all set to get a job at the BBC and then the government slashed the licence fee. Five hundred journalists thrown out on the street and my job vanished before I even started. That's how I ended up at RT.'

'Interesting,' Vonkel yawned.

'I thought she was a bit stuck-up.'

'Ann Wilson? She seemed okay to me.' A thought crawled into his brain. 'Do you think she'll be here tonight?'

'Maybe.'

'Keep an eye out; if we could grab a word with her that would help us flesh out the piece.' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw their cameraman appear in the doorway. 'C'mon, we'd better get going.' Closing his laptop, he rose from his chair, vowing that he would make a proper start on the lecture when they returned.

Sweating under the camera lights, Damien Wilson appeared rather more nervous than when they had been fleeing for their lives. Vonkel wondered if the stern-looking blonde girl standing just out of shot had something to do with that. Kate Asti-Hope, heiress to some banking dynasty or other, had pounced on Damien in Freshers' Week. The pair had already been anointed by the student newspaper as the power couple of the year. Conscious that he was punching way above his weight, the boy had the nervous air of someone waiting for his luck to run out. Hopping from foot to foot, he waited for the cameraman to attach a small microphone to his jacket.

'Is your mum here tonight?' Mel asked from somewhere behind the camera.

'She should be.' The boy frowned. 'Why do you ask?'

'We just thought we might get a few words,' Vonkel said soothingly. 'She must be very proud.'

'I don't want you speaking to her. That wasn't the deal.'

'Yes,' Vonkel replied, 'but–'

'But that wasn't the deal,' the boy repeated. 'Let's just do this thing. I haven't got much time.'

'Okay, okay.' Vonkel waited while they tested the sound, before bowling his interviewee an easy opener. 'Damien Wilson, you've made it all the way from Raqqa to Oxford, one of the world's leading universities. How does it feel to be here?'

Taking a deep breath, the boy launched into a well-rehearsed soundbite. 'Well, Elliot, I'm super excited to have made it all this way. Excited and humbled. To be given this opportunity after making such a terrible mistake, well, I am extremely fortunate to have been given this second chance. I think that–'

'Traitor!'

'Hey, we're trying to do an interview here.' Vonkel turned to face a squat guy, sporting a wispy beard and a jacket that looked at least two sizes too big. On one lapel was a name badge that said Jordan Sterling.

'You're just a fooking traitor.' As Sterling lunged at Damien, his jacket fell open to reveal a t-shirt bearing the legend Our words are dead until we give them life with blood.

Where I have seen that before? Vonkel's attention immediately went to the belt around the man's waist, a trio of small packets attached by a series of wires. 'Are you getting this?' he shouted at the cameraman as the screams of Kate Asti-Hope started ringing in his ears. Even before the words had left his mouth, they were engulfed by a throaty roar. As the blast lifted him off his feet, he had the strange sensation that his entire body was on fire. I must call Luciana, he thought. This will make a good story for the after dinner circuit.

THE END

Coming soon from Fahrenheit Press…

The Sweetest Morsel (Book 2 in The Daniel Hunter Series)

An Absolute Duty (Book 3 in The Daniel Hunter Series)

Also available by James Craig…

A Slow Death (Book 1 in The Max Drescher Series)

COPYRIGHT

This edition first published 2016 by Fahrenheit Press

www.Fahrenheit-Press.com

Copyright © James Craig 2016

The right of James Craig to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by his in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Table of Contents

- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16
- CHAPTER 17
- CHAPTER 18
- CHAPTER 19
- CHAPTER 20
- CHAPTER 21
- CHAPTER 22
- CHAPTER 23
- CHAPTER 24
- CHAPTER 25
- CHAPTER 26
- CHAPTER 27
- CHAPTER 28
- CHAPTER 29
- CHAPTER 30
- CHAPTER 31
- CHAPTER 32 '
- CHAPTER 33
- CHAPTER 34
- CHAPTER 35
- CHAPTER 36
- CHAPTER 37
- CHAPTER 38
- CHAPTER 39
- CHAPTER 40
- CHAPTER 41
- CHAPTER 42
- CHAPTER 43
- CHATPER 43
- CHAPTER 44
- CHAPTER 45
- CHAPTER 46
- CHAPTER 47
- CHAPTER 48
- CHAPTER 49
- CHAPTER 50
- CHAPTER 51
- CHAPTER 52
- CHAPTER 53
- CHAPTER 54
- CHAPTER 55
- CHAPTER 56
- CHAPTER 57
- CHAPTER 58
- CHAPTER 59
- CHAPTER 60
- CHAPTER 61
- CHAPTER 62
- CHAPTER 63
- CHAPTER 64
- CHAPTER 65
- CHAPTER 66