Dillon said, “This marshland, what would be the situation there?”

“It’s owned by the National Trust. The bird life is unique. Curlew, redshank and brant geese from Siberia, that sort of thing.”

“Are bird-watchers a problem?”

“Zion House has unique features. High-security fencing on top of the wall, and if you tried to get over that, you’d fry.”

“Sounds a bit harsh.”

“Warning signs everywhere, security cameras. We can’t do more. There’s never been a problem with any attempts at unlawful entry in the twenty or more years that I’ve been responsible for it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “Anything else?”

“There’s a concrete airstrip there at the side of the marsh from SOE days. We could fly the Rashids down from Farley, and any of you lot.”

“It would certainly clear the decks,” Dillon said. “Who would you send?”

“Greta has good contacts with the family. If Levin and Sergeant Chomsky went with her for starters, that would make it a Russian affair.”

There were nods all round. “Sounds good to me,” Dillon said. “Let’s get moving, and sort it with the Rashids.”

“You and Greta come with me, the rest stay. Roper in charge.” Ferguson led the way out.

THEY SAT IN the sitting room at Gulf Road with Caspar, Molly and Sara, and Ferguson explained patiently what the situation was. Greta stood by the window.

“So what is it you’re trying to tell us?” Molly Rashid demanded. “That Hussein is here in England?”

“We believe very strongly that he’s on his way,” Ferguson said. “Hazar to Algeria, stealing the floatplane to Majorca, then Rennes in Brittany. Look at it on the map and it speaks for itself.”

She sounded desperate. “He’d be mad to come, and what for?”

Sara stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go into the garden. Whatever you decide suits me. Zion House sounds fun.”

“This does concern you, darling,” Caspar said.

“Not really,” Sara said calmly. “Hussein won’t do anything to harm me.” She went out and Greta followed.

Molly Rashid started again. “I think you have to realize, General, we’re trying to live as normal a life as possible for Sara’s sake.”

Dillon got up. “Your decision. I’ll just go out on the terrace for a smoke. It’s up to you, General.”

Sara was moving slowly around the garden. Across the road, a sweeper in yellow had noted the arrival of Ferguson ’s Daimler and its occupants and managed a shot with a special camera donated by Khan.

Dillon lit a cigarette and approached Sara and Greta. “Hello, Mr. Dillon, what do you want?” Sara asked.

“I’m interested in what you said about Hussein. How can you be so certain? He’s a very violent man.”

“I suppose you mean all this Hammer of God thing.” She shrugged. “In Baghdad it was in the papers and on television, but not with photos, so I didn’t know it was Hussein. He always looked after me. Made sure people treated me properly.”

“Did he change then?”

“Not really. At the oasis at Fuad in the Empty Quarter, when Ali ben Levi, the bandit, manhandled me, knocked me down, Hussein shot him.”

“How did you feel about that?”

“Ben Levi was a truly evil man. He was whipping a priest for being a Christian. I told him that so was I. That’s when he treated me as he did.”

Dillon smiled bleakly. “In those circumstances, I’d probably have shot him myself. Tell me, I’ve no business asking you this, but what about this Muslim thing and being promised in marriage when you’re of age?”

“That’s nonsense,” she said. “I never took that seriously and I told Hussein so.”

“And he accepted that?”

“He was told. I could do no more.”

Dillon took a deep breath. “You’re a truly remarkable young lady.”

Caspar came out onto the terrace and called, “Come on, Sara, it’s all decided. We’re going to Zion House, flying down.”

His wife appeared. “For a week-seven days only, so come and pack.”

The girl joined them and they went inside and she went upstairs. Ferguson appeared. “I’m going back to Holland Park. You two stay while they pack. I’ll send the People Traveller to pick you all up and take the Rashids to Farley. I’ll arrange for Levin and Chomsky to meet you there.”

He went off and Dillon said, “Sara’s quite a girl.”

“What do you expect, she’s half Bedouin,” Greta told him. “Come into the kitchen and we’ll have a coffee.”

IN HIS SHOP near the corner of Gulf Road, Ali Hassim was acting as middleman for Professor Khan, overseeing a network of sweepers, hospital porters, cabdrivers and even young girls, office personnel at the local hospitals. The sweeper assigned to the Rashid house phoned in.

“They’ve had visitors. Two of them were in the photos Professor Khan showed us. The General and the man Dillon. There was also a woman. The General left in a Daimler car. I’ve got pictures. Dillon and the woman are still there.”

“Any sign of the family?”

“Only the girl, Sara. She was in the garden talking to Dillon.”

“I’m going to send Jamal on his motorcycle just in case they go somewhere. He’ll be with you in minutes.”

The sweeper waited and then the People Traveller turned up, paused at the electronic gates until they opened. It moved inside and the sweeper caught a glimpse of the front door, Caspar Rashid with two suitcases emerging, his wife behind him, then Sara, Greta and Dillon.

At that moment, Jamal arrived on his motorcycle, rode down by the canal and into the trees. “What’s happening?” he called.

“They’re leaving. It looks to me as if they’re all going. I saw suitcases. You must follow.”

“That’s what I’m here for, you fool.”

Jamal waited, his engine turning over. The gates opened and the People Traveller emerged and turned right, and he followed in traffic so heavy it was possible for him to get really close on more than one occasion so that he soon established who was inside.

At Farley Field he had to turn into the public car park as the van paused at the security entrance and was admitted, but he watched its progress to the terminal building, saw them get out and meet with Levin and Chomsky.

A sign at the gate said MINISTRY OF DEFENCE, FARLEY FIELD, RESTRICTED AREA, but in the car park it amused him to see plane spotters. Probably any kind of security breach would have been classed as a violation of their human rights. “Only the English,” he said to himself. “That’s why we will win.”

He took out a pair of Zeiss glasses and spotted an old Hawk, although he didn’t know it. He did get a photo.

On the airfield, Dillon waited for the plane to take off, then got back in the People Traveller and told Sergeant Doyle to take him to Holland Park.

Jamal waited until it had gone, then mounted his motorcycle. There was nothing he could do except return to Ali Hassim at the shop.

Ali hauled him into the back room. “You’re sure they have gone?”

“Definitely. The suitcases mean for some time and the airplane, somewhere far away.”

“So no means of finding out the destination?”

“No way of getting in. I’ve told you, it’s a restricted area. Security guards everywhere. You wouldn’t even get through the gate.”

Ali was upset. “So we really have no idea where they’ve gone?”

“Only that they have gone. I saw this with my own eyes and their house is empty; tell Professor Khan that.”

Ali sighed. “He won’t like it. Anyway go and make yourself a coffee in the kitchen while I give him the bad news, and leave your camera so I can check the photo for the type of plane.”

It didn’t take long and he found it quite quickly in a handbook of small planes: a Hawk, eight-seater, twin engines.

He started to go through a number of photos taken by the sweepers watching the comings and goings at the Rashids’ house since their return, not that there had been many. The most interesting was the man who had turned out to be the archaeologist from Hazar, Professor Hal Stone. Friends to the Brotherhood, academics at London University, had confirmed his identity. A fellow at Corpus Christi College in Cambridge. He had called at the house in Gulf Road in a taxi, which had waited for him and taken him on to King’s Cross Station. Jamal had followed him and watched him board a train for Cambridge. Obviously returning to his work.