'Well, I don't think you'll find it funny when you plunge into that wilderness at dawn tomorrow,' Roper said. 'Take care.'

He switched off, and Dillon said, 'I'll go and spell Holley.'

He went into the cockpit and Holley came out, got coffee from the kitchenette and joined Miller. 'There's something I meant to mention to you and Sean.'

'What's that?' Miller asked.

'I learned Arabic when I was in that training camp – became pretty fluent. Hamza told me it was a good idea to keep quiet about it.'

'Why did he say that?'

'Because people give themselves away when they think you don't understand. Once I was given a job to handle a consignment of guns to County Down and deliver fifty thousand pounds in a suitcase. The fools in the boat's crew discussed which way they would murder me, in Arabic of course.'

'What happened?'

'I shot a couple of them dead – to encourage the others, you might say. It did the trick. You speak a little Arabic, I understand?'

'Military short course. Very basic.'

'And I know Dillon speaks it very well. Ali Hakim knows about my ability, but he doesn't know about you two.'

'You'd rather Dillon and I keep quiet?'

'I think it would be a good idea.'

'So that we can hear them discussing how to murder us?'

'Absolutely,' Holley said. 'One thing I learned during my five years in the Lubyanka was how frequent it was that totally absurd and impossible things turned out to be true.'

'I take your point. Dillon and I don't speak Arabic.'

'Exactly,' Holley said in perfect Arabic. 'So if you would pass me the sandwiches, I would be very grateful.'

'Sorry, old man,' Miller replied in English, 'I don't understand a word you're saying.' In the heart of the marshes was the small island of Diva. Hamza's house and trading post were substantial, and built on firm land, but with extensions all around, wooden shacks supported by pilings driven into ground below the water. There were seven or eight of those, with boats ranging from canoes to inflatables with outboard motors tied up to them. One old sport fisherman was painted dark green, and Hamza, who wore a sailor's peaked cap, jeans and a reefer coat, was sitting in the stern having a beer when his mobile buzzed.

'Omar Hamza, this is Shamrock. Half an hour to go.'

Talbot spoke in English, and Hamza replied in the same. 'You've come a long way. Let's hope you find it's worth it.'

Hamza climbed a short ladder to the jetty above and ducked into a large dark room with rough tables, chairs and a long wooden bar. Bottles of every description were crammed on the shelves, and an open archway revealed a shop crammed with goods.

A drunk was sleeping in the corner, mouth open, while three Arabs in soiled white smocks and battered straw hats played cards at one of the tables. A young woman in black, her head covered, but her handsome olive face revealed, came in from the store and spoke to him in excellent English.

'Was that him, this Shamrock you are expecting, Father?'

'So it would appear, Fatima. I'll go get him.' He sounded grim and shook his head.

'You're not happy?'

'I've involved myself in this matter because of my position here and also because of you. This is a favour for Colonel Hakim, so I can't say no. I want things to remain as they are, nice and stable. If the police ever decided to come down heavy on us, and we were forced to move on, it would be a tragedy at my age. Your mother, may she rest in peace, would have understood this.'

'And you think I don't? Hakim is all right, and he likes me. Ever since his wife died, I have known this.'

'You are too young for him.'

'One is never too young for an older man with money and social standing. But we are wasting time. I will go with you and take the wheel of Stingray while you handle the pole.' The salt marshes were like a green miracle sprouting out of the desert, saltwater channels flushing through great pale reeds up to fifteen feet high. Chuck Alan had taxied the Citation right up to the edge and stood there looking at it. He picked up a stone and hurled it into the marsh, and immediately birds of every description flew up, creating pandemonium with their noise as they called to each other.

Behind him, Justin Talbot emerged from the cabin. He wore the dark blue turban and face veil of a Tuareg, and a three-quarter-length dark blue robe open to reveal a khaki shirt and trousers. He had a belt round his waist carrying a holstered Browning, an AK47 slung over his left shoulder, and held the military rucksack in his right hand. He made a hugely dramatic figure.

Chuck Alan said, 'Jesus, boss, are you going to war or something?'

It was extraordinary how Justin seemed to fit into that landscape, everything shimmering in the intense heat.

'I think I hear an engine,' he said, and was right.

There was a movement in the reeds, and the boat emerged, Hamza in the prow clutching a long pole. Stingray came to a halt, the front easing up on the sand. Justin looked up at the woman at the wheel high above. She said something in Arabic.

'Sorry, no can do,' Justin said. 'English only, I'm afraid. Comes with all those years of Empire, you see.'

He was the English public school man to the life, and Hamza roared with laughter. 'You sound just like a man I met in the French Foreign Legion many years ago. He'd been cashiered from an English Guards regiment.'

'What rotten luck.' Justin turned to Chuck. 'Off you go, old son.'

'I'll be waiting, boss.'

Alan went back to the plane and climbed into the cabin, pulling the airstair door up behind him. Justin turned and said, 'Omar Hamza?'

'That's me, and this is my daughter, Fatima.'

'Charming,' Justin said, 'nice to meet you.'

She looked uncertain, as if not knowing what to make of him, and he climbed on board and moved to the stern, where he put down his rucksack and the rifle. He looked up at her at the top of the short ladder as she switched on the engine.

'Can I join you?'

'If you want.'

As the engine started into life, Hamza climbed over the prow rail and shoved off. They reversed, pushing into the curtain of reeds, and then turned and ploughed forward, emerging into a waterway which was only as broad as the boat itself.

'An amazing place. How long have you lived here?' Justin asked.

'I was a child when we came, twenty years ago. My father had problems in the desert so we moved here. He has the trading post, so we have a good living, but it's hard. My mother died last year. There are many people here for whom it is the final stopping place.'

'It's certainly striking, and some of the flowers are incredible,' he said.

'It also has snakes of many types in the water, and the bite of some bring instant death. Not to mention the malaria and other diseases.'

'But you still stay. Why?'

She shrugged. 'Because there is nowhere else to go.' The boat emerged into the lagoon, revealing Diva Island and the trading post and the shacks on pilings; they coasted in, and a small boy caught the rope Hamza tossed and tied it up. Fatima said, 'I'll take you in and show you where you will sleep.'

He followed her up the ladder and into the trading post, and Hamza, still on the boat, was speaking to Hakim. 'Well, I've got him. He was waiting by the plane dressed as a Tuareg, turban, face veil, the lot. Took me back to my days in the legion in the deep Sahara. Just looking at them frightened people to death. What news of the others?'

'I had a call from Holley saying they should be landing in an hour.'

'So they'll spend the night with you at Dafur and the police incursion in the launches will start at dawn. Wouldn't it be simpler to cut their throats while they're sleeping?'

'No. In the world's eyes, they must have died at the hands of the bandits who infest the Khufra, especially Holley who, on paper at least, is an Algerian of some importance.'