Tony Villiers sat behind a boulder with Dillon and Billy, drank tea and topped it up with Bushmills whiskey from a bottle provided by his servant Ali.

'This suit you, Dillon?'

'Perfectly.'

'Not me. I don't drink,' Billy told him.

Villiers said to Ali in good Arabic, 'I'd offer you one, but I know the Prophet forbids it.'

'But the Prophet, whose name be praised, is always understanding,' Ali told him. 'And the night is cold.'

'Then two whiskey sups,' Villiers said. 'One for you and the other for the radio operator.' He nodded to Aziz.

Ali passed the bottle to Aziz, who restricted himself to one swallow, then passed it to Ali, who wiped the neck and had a drink.

Above them there was another scream. It faded away. Billy said, 'What are they doing?'

Ali said, 'The skin – they slice the skin, Sahb. His masculinity they take later.'

The screaming started again.

'I could do with another,' Dillon said. Villiers splashed Bushmills into the Irishman's cup. Billy said, 'It's enough to make me ask for one, but I won't. What I'd like to do is put a bullet in Paul Rashid.'

Villiers said to Ali, 'You know the Sahb up there is twenty-two years?' 'A baby, Colonel.'

The radio crackled. Aziz listened, then turned. 'Visitors, Sahb, a British General named Ferguson and two others.'

'Excellent. Make sure your people are alerted.' Coming up the hill in a Jeep, Ferguson, Blake and Harry Salter wore combat gear and Arab headcloths. The Jeep paused in the shadows and the three men got out. Billy went forward and his uncle put an arm around him.

'So you made it, you young bastard? I hear it was a load of shit. You must be rivalling Billy the Kid.' 'You look interesting.' Billy smiled. 'You didn't get that lot in Savile Row.'

'Billy, I feel like I'm an extra in a Christmas pantomime at the Palladium.'

'Blake Johnson, Colonel Tony Villiers,' Ferguson said, and there was a cry of agony from above. Ferguson was horrified. 'Who's up there?'

'Cornet Richard Bronsby, of the Blues and Royals, Second Lieutenant in the Household Cavalry. He could have been riding around London in a breastplate and helmet. Instead, he's out here being tortured to death by Rashid Bedu.'

The scream that followed was prolonged and appalling. Villiers added, 'I wish we could interfere, but there are too many of them and they have the high ground.'

And up there, Paul Rashid, Kate, George and his men waited beside their own fires, and beyond, in the shadows, Cornet Richard Bronsby lay stretched out and endured torment.

Aidan Bell sat beside the fire, shivering, drank whiskey and smoked a cigarette. Paul Rashid crouched beside him.

'I want you out of here. The staff will expect you at South Audley Street. The Russian Premier arrives in London next week. I'll be hard on your heels. Work something out.'

'Jesus, wasn't Nantucket enough for you? Wasn't this?'

'No, not until I get my revenge. Not until I am satisfied. Land Rovers will take you. Leave now and work fast. I want a plan ready when I get there.'

He stood up and walked away and joined Kate and George at the fireside. She was upset; the screams from Bronsby were hard to take.

'Paul, is this necessary?'

'My people expect it, Kate. It is hard, but it is what they expect.'

She sat there, unhappy, upset. Bronsby cried out again, quite dreadfully, on and on before stopping.

Ali said, 'I think he has gone, Sahb.'

Villiers sat there brooding about it. Ferguson said, 'Dear God.'

Dillon turned to Blake. 'Well, there you go. It must remind you of the joys of the Vietcong in the Mekong Delta.'

Harry Salter said, 'And we let people like these into the country.'

Dillon managed a hard smile. 'Why, Harry. You're a racist.'

Villiers picked up an AK. 'All right. That's enough, Ali, let's take a look. I've waited long enough.'

Dillon said, 'Would you mind some company?'

Villiers hesitated, then said, 'I suppose that at the end of the day we are from the same side of the street. Let's do it.'

They went up the hill, Villiers, Dillon, Billy, Harry, and Blake, and they found Cornet Bronsby pegged out. He was quite dead, his skin peeled down from the chest, his private parts stuffed in his mouth.

'There was no need for that, Sahb,' Ali said. 'I am ashamed. There is no honour in this.'

He was carrying an old British Lee Enfield bolt action rifle. As he turned to lead the way, he stumbled, tripped and fell over, the rifle flying from his hands. Dillon helped him to his feet and Villiers picked up his rifle.

Ali held his arm. 'Ah, it's bad, Sahb, maybe broken.'

'We'll see,' Villiers told him. 'We'll go back to the camp. Tell half a dozen men to carry him down, but tell them to be careful.'

'No need, Sahb. The triumph up on the hill is in what they have done. They will kill no more. We are of the blood. I know.'

'Well, I'm not,' Dillon said.

They brought Cornet Richard Bronsby down the mountainside to the camp and loaded the corpse into a body bag and onto a Land Rover.

Ferguson had a look. 'Why on earth would they do such a thing?'

Villiers said, 'This kind of mutilation is a warning. With all respect to Dillon, I've seen as bad in Ireland.'

Dillon lit a cigarette. 'He's right, but he's wrong in one respect. I was IRA for more than twenty-five years. I killed soldiers, I killed Loyalists, but always as a soldier, never like this.' He turned to Villiers. 'They'll taunt you as the sun comes up, you know that.'

Villiers nodded. 'And that will be five hundred metres away. It's a funny thing, Dillon. I was never much good with a rifle. That's why I used Ali. Now, he's cracked his arm, and in the morning, they'll stand up, scream and shout, and give us a hard time.'

Dillon smiled. 'I hope they do, Colonel, I hope they do.' He picked up Ali's Lee Enfield. 'My grandfather used one of these in 1917 in the trenches of Flanders. He was awarded a medal for bravery in the field. It's a bolt-action, single-round, Three-oh-Three.'

Tony Villiers lit a cigarette and passed the packet across. 'I also remember that the preferred weapon of IRA snipers in South Armagh was the Lee Enfield.'

'Well, I'm from County Down myself, but I would agree with you,' Dillon said.

In the morning, Dillon, Ferguson and the others drank coffee as light filtered through. The orange globe of the sun slowly arose, suffusing the dawn light.

Suddenly, six figures appeared on the hill five hundred metres away. Dillon looked through the Zeiss glasses. Paul Rashid sprang into view, George and three Bedu and Kate with him.

'Guess who,' Dillon said and passed the glasses to Villiers.

Villiers said, 'Christ.'

One of the Scouts was behind him holding Ali's Lee Enfield. Dillon snapped his fingers and said in Arabic, 'Now.'

On the hill, Paul Rashid looked through his own glasses. 'It's Dillon,' he said. 'Tony Villiers and Ferguson, Billy Salter and his uncle.'

One of the Scouts passed Dillon the Lee Enfield. Dillon secured its belt around his wrist. And then, for some perverse reason, he fired to miss, kicking up sand between Paul Rashid's feet. Rashid dived for cover, pulling Kate with him. Then Dillon shot the man on the end of the line, then shot another one.

Ferguson said, 'They're running scared, Sean. We'll have a go back home in London. Leave it.'

'Like hell I will. I've just shot those two. I'll make it four. Watch.'

He took number three, then four, and four was George Rashid.

It was quiet, and on the ridge Kate fell on her knees in horror. Paul said, 'Leave him,' and grabbed her hand. 'Come with me now.'

They made it to a Land Rover and departed. Villiers led the way up the hill. The four Arabs were all very dead, eyes staring, arms outstretched.