All in all, not good news, and he phoned Khan and told him so.

HUSSEIN SAT IN FRONT of the makeup table in Darcus Wellington’s bedroom, naked to the waist. The mirror was very bright with all those small bulbs around it, and the profusion of makeup itself was something alien to Hussein. He found the smell of it distasteful.

Khazid was sitting on a settle by the window, smoking a cigarette. Hussein said, “Open it, then go and find something to do.”

“But I want to watch.”

“And I don’t want you to. Go away.”

Khazid went reluctantly and Darcus put a large towel around Hussein’s shoulders. “The mark of a true actor, love. Makeup is such a private affair. Not something to share. Knowing who you are, that’s the thing.”

“And who am I?” Hussein asked himself. “Hussein Rashid or the Hammer of God?”

Rain fell heavily outside the open window, bringing the smell of rotting vegetation, and Darcus went and closed the window. “If you don’t mind, love, it smells as if the whole world’s dying.”

“Perhaps in some ways it is?” Hussein said.

Garish in his auburn wig, Darcus stood there, arms folded, chin on one hand, and observed him. “The Che Guevara look. Was that a conscious decision on your part?”

“Not that I know of.” Hussein was beginning to feel uncomfortable.

“A true romantic, Guevara, he really looked the part. In a way, he gave people what they expected. It was all in the look, love. Was that what you tried to do-give the people what they expected?”

“Where would this be leading?”

“It’s also a question of knowing what you are and still liking yourself. Most actors, of course, would rather be someone else.”

“I am what I am. What I need from you is a new face.”

“Frankly, I have a suspicion that I can achieve that best by removing the mask that’s already there.”

Hussein said, “If that means good-bye, Che Guevara, so be it.”

“And what else must go with that?”

“I don’t know. We’ll have to see.”

THE CORRIDOR DOOR SLIGHTLY AJAR, Khazid watched, in a kind of horror, as the man he had served for so long changed before his eyes. Darcus worked at the hair, cutting, thinning particularly, shaping into an entirely different style and much, much shorter.

Then he lathered the entire face and took a cut-throat razor to it, shortened the sideburns, thinning the eyebrows and very carefully removing the fringe of beard and the mustache.

“I’d like you in the bathroom now, love. Don’t be alarmed, you just need a shampoo.”

Khazid dodged into the kitchen and Darcus led the way.

Afterward, back at the mirror and using a hair dryer, he shaped the hair more carefully, took the scissors to it again, then turned Hussein in the swivel chair and did some more work on thinning the eyebrows and used a little dark pencil.

Hussein sat staring at himself, yet not himself. “God almighty, you look so young,” Darcus told him. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And now you look it and that’s the difference. Put your shirt on.”

He scrabbled around in various drawers and finally found what he was looking for, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses, not prescription but clear glass.

“Try these.” Hussein did. “Good, it gives you a hint of the intellectual; you could be a schoolteacher or something.”

“Not the Hammer of God.”

“See for yourself.” Darcus opened a copy of the Times with the original photo in it. “Who could possibly recognize you as you look now from that.”

“Even I don’t,” Hussein said slowly and walked through to the kitchen.

Khazid was waiting for the kettle to boil, standing there, looking out at the rain. He turned and his sense of shock was obvious.

“Merciful heaven, where have you gone?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure it’s you anymore.”

“And maybe it isn’t.” There was a strange smile on Darcus’s face. “Who knows? Remember Pandora’s box?”

“What do you mean?” Khazid said.

“Greek mythology,” Hussein told him. “When the box was opened, it released all sorts of unpleasant things.”

Khazid, uneasy, frowned slightly, and Darcus said, “I’ll make some coffee.”

“And I’ll phone Dreq Khan,” Hussein said to Khazid. “Work out our next stop.”

“Hampstead?” Khazid asked.

“It would seem obvious. After all, as no one knows we are here, one should seize the moment.”

“If you say so, but I think we need to talk, and privately.”

“Of course.”

“You can use the study,” Darcus said, but in the end it was outside on the porch, the door open, the rain pouring down.

“Is there a problem?” Hussein asked.

“Hampstead, Sara, her parents. Surely our primary task, the most important to our cause, is the assassination of General Ferguson and this man Salter, if possible. If we go to London with that in mind, we could succeed because, as you rightly point out, the authorities have no idea that you’re in England. In light of this, I’m in favor of us going to London, but not of a visit to Hampstead. Sara and her parents are a sideshow, cousin. What would you do, shoot her parents? I shouldn’t imagine she’d thank you.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Hussein told him.

“Or break in the house, kidnap her? Then how would you smuggle her out of the country?”

“Professor Khan, the Army of God, the Brotherhood, they all would offer their services. Between us we would find a way.”

“Do you honestly think the fate of this young girl is of the slightest importance to these people? No, but Ferguson ’s head on a platter, the British Prime Minister’s most valued security adviser. That would be a triumph.”

Much of what he said made sense, but Hussein was unable to let go. “I’ll phone Khan now and see what the situation is, then it will be my decision.”

IN ANSWER TO ALI HASSIM’S CALL, Khan had gone round to the shop to discuss the latest development, and it was there that he received the call that he had, if truth be known, been dreading for some time.

He put a hand over his coded mobile and whispered to Ali Hassim, “It’s him, Hussein Rashid himself, and he’s in England.”

“Allah be praised,” Ali said.

Khan returned to the phone. “Where are you?”

“ Dorset -Peel Strand with one of the Broker’s people. A cottage called Folly Way. Khazid and I landed this morning. We intend to come to London.”

“Can this be wise? Your face’s in so many newspapers.”

“That’s been taken care of, no one will recognize me. Trust me in this. Now tell me what the situation is with the Rashids.”

“We monitored them closely, my network of sweepers and informants, even used a motorcycle unit so that cars which left their house in Hampstead could be followed. Because of this, I have the address of the enemy’s safe house in Holland Park. We know where Ferguson and Dillon live, which would obviously be of importance to you.”

Hussein cut in on him. “Get to the point. You appear to have some bad news for me. Spit it out.”

So Khan told him the worst.

Hussein said, “They’ve gone, spirited away you don’t know where and the circumstances indicate only security classified travel?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“You didn’t mention the plane.”

“Ali looked it up-a Hawk.”

“A good old workhorse of a plane. I flew one in the badlands in Algeria. I think if they’d been venturing very far, say cross-Channel, they’d have used more than that. I would say the Hawk indicates relatively local travel. Somewhere in the countryside, a reasonable distance from London.”

“Which would be impossible for us to discover,” Khan said.