'Nurse Perry said she's heard long, low sighs in the middle of the night.'

'What does Bellamy think?'

Her practical Scottish nature came to the fore. 'Wee signs of hope, Sean, that's all he will say. It could be worse, though.'

'Absolutely.' He kissed her cheek. 'I'll be seeing you.' At Talbot Place, Justin's bedroom had been adapted as much as possible to hospital standards. His double bed had been replaced by a single to facilitate the nursing. He wore a hospital smock and there was a saline drip on the pole beside the bed, a portable machine on the other side measuring heart and pulse rates. Ryan had stitched both the entry and exit wounds, assisted by Murphy, and Justin, heavily bandaged around his waist, was propped up, the top of the bed inclined behind him.

Ryan had used local anaesthetic for the stitching, and Justin sat there, drinking glucose through a straw and looking surprisingly well. Murphy was sitting beside his bed when Jean came in.

'Go and get something to eat. I'll spell you,' she said, and Murphy got up and left.

She leaned down and kissed Justin's forehead. 'It's not so sweaty,' she said. 'Larry's done a first-class job on you.'

'Don't worry, I'll see he's taken care of.'

It was a careless and throwaway remark and in a way typical of him. 'He's taking a great chance, Justin. It's a criminal act in the eyes of the law. He could be struck off, his career ruined.'

'Okay, Mum, I take your point. Dammit, he did enough for men on the run during the Troubles, so now he's doing it for me.'

'When I hear you talking like that, I think I never really knew you. You use people, Justin, then throw them away.'

'That's a nice turn of phrase.' He smiled. 'Don't tell me you're turning against me, too? I mean, here I am, the wounded hero-'

She cut right in on him. 'Don't give me that, Shamrock, because I only see the young British and American soldiers you've killed – and for what? Because Justin Talbot enjoys war in all its blood and gore more than anything else in this life. When I look at you, I see the body count, and if that wasn't enough, I see Mickeen Oge Flynn lying under a car and that car collapsing on him.'

'It was an accident,' Justin said.

'That was no accident.' She shouted the words, carefully spacing them. 'I've spoken to Jack.'

A moment later, the door burst open and Murphy came in, Jack Kelly behind him. 'Is everything okay?' he said.

'No, it's not. Apparently, you've been shooting your mouth off, Jack,' Justin said to Kelly. 'We can't have that. I think you're maybe forgetting your place.'

'Justin, for God's sake,' Jean said. 'After everything Jack's done, to talk to him like that.'

'It's all right, Jean,' Kelly said. 'I always worried there was too much of his grandfather to him. He was Colonel Henry to the life for a minute there.'

He went out. Justin said, 'So now you'll go after him and say sorry? Well, I'm damned if I will.'

She took a deep breath, turned and went out, leaving the door swinging. Justin reached and opened the locker on his right side and found his rucksack. The pain on his left side was intense. He cursed, found the half-bottle of brandy and turned the cap with his teeth.

Murphy had closed the door and stood watching. 'You were dying when you got here and Doc Ryan's done a marvellous job, just about pulled you back from the brink. You could still die – I'd be failing as a nurse not to tell you that – but one thing is certain. Drink that stuff and you might as well order your coffin.'

'Is that so?' Justin Talbot said, and swallowed deep.

Murphy showed no emotion. 'Like they say, it's your funeral, Major. I'll go down to the kitchen now and see what they've got for you to eat.' In London, Shah was methodically going through the newspapers when the text light blinked on his mobile on the desk. He picked it up at once and his world turned. The message said: The winds of heaven are blowing and you must fly with them as does the Eagle. May Allah go with you.

It was advice he had hoped never to receive, and from the highest level of Al Qaeda, the word that meant the game was up and his cover blown. If there was no escape for him, the only alternative was death. He thought quickly. He had three passports under different names. Many Muslims used the airports in Yorkshire or Lancashire, he'd blend in better there. At least he could try.

He quickly packed a holdall with basic requirements: the passports, a toilet bag, a Koran and a couple of law books. He had always kept two thousand pounds in the zipped base of the holdall, had never touched it, so that was all right.

He looked around him. So this was how it all ended. The house in which he had been born, in the West Hampstead street where he had played as a boy, in the great city with one of the finest universities in the world where he'd been privileged to work. He suddenly felt incredibly sad, as if all this couldn't be happening.

He shook himself out of it, let himself out of the front door and went to the Toyota saloon parked in its usual place. He opened the driver's door and got in, but when he started it up, the car wouldn't move. He got out and saw the case: all four tyres were flat. As he stood there looking at the car, Billy Salter got out of a red Alfa, one of a line of cars parked on the other side of the street. Shah recognized him instantly.

Billy called, 'Have a nice day,' then produced his mobile, called Roper, and Shah went back in the house.

Roper said to Billy, 'Did you hear anything to make you think he was going to try to leave the country?'

'No, I checked him out, chatting up people in the local newsagent and cafe. He never uses his car since he had a bump a year ago. He's a taxi man. I just thought it would be a good idea to make the car useless to him, just in case.'

'And he saw you?'

'Too damned right he did.'

Ferguson's voice boomed. 'You've forced my hand, of course. We'll have to lift him now. Stay there, make sure he doesn't try to sneak out of the back.' Shah sat at his desk as despair overwhelmed him. For the first time, he realized the price he was going to have to pay, his eminence as a lawyer, his professional standing. He had come to this: someone to be despised. And for what? It was all Talbot's fault, the fiasco of the Khufra affair. Damn him! A complete loose cannon. He thought back to what the girl, Fatima, had said. If she was right and Talbot's life hung in the balance, it would be nice if somebody gave him a nudge. Shah thought he had the very man. Jack Kelly was in the estate office at Talbot Place, angrily clearing his desk, for what had passed between him and Justin had been hard to take. 'Jack Kelly,' he barked.

'Why, you sound angry, Mr Kelly. You should be, after Justin's role in the Algeria debacle. He's not well, I understand. I gather Sean Dillon put a bullet in him.'

'Who the hell is this?' Kelly was aghast.

'Talbot knows me as the Preacher.'

Shah's front doorbell rang. He got a pillbox out of a small drawer in his desk, took what looked like a lozenge out of it and slipped it into his pocket. He walked to the bow window, taking the desk phone, looking through the glass at Ferguson, who was standing there with Billy and Harry Miller.

Kelly was shouting, 'Answer me, damn you, what's going on?'

'Well, I've just looked out to see Major General Charles Ferguson at my door with two henchmen. I fear my end is near.'

'Does he know that Justin is Shamrock?'

'Not that I'm aware of, but I haven't time for a prolonged discussion. I just wanted you to know, as an old PIRA hand, that Major Justin Talbot lied to you and your friends at Kilmartin, lied to his own mother. Many years ago, he moved from the Grenadier Guards to the Twenty-second SAS at Hereford. He took part in more than twenty covert operations over a number of years.'