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tidal wave caused by an earthquake.
    The map disappeared, replaced by two earnest newsreaders: a middle-aged man with blow-dried hair, and a woman ten years younger showing just enough cleavage to suggest that it wasn’t solely her ability with the autocue that had got her the on-camera job. The man explained that a massive earthquake in the Andaman Sea had caused a tidal wave, which had hit beaches in Indonesia, Thailand and Malaysia. Thousands had been killed.
    The Saudi went to a bank of payphones. He slotted in some coins and called the mobile number of his people in Phuket. A female Thai voice spoke for ten seconds, then repeated the information in accented English. The number was unobtainable.
    The Saudi went to another television set and joined the throng of travellers watching the news. Another headline flashed up next to the CNN logo: DEATH TOLL ESTIMATED AT FIFTEEN THOUSAND.
    Fifteen thousand? thought the Saudi. He had hoped to kill a few hundred at most, but nature had beaten him to the punch and killed thousands instead, including, probably, his four operatives. But nature would take credit for the death toll, not al-Qaeda. An act of terrorism that might have ignited a religious war in the south of Thailand had been replaced by a natural disaster that would unite the world in relief efforts. And, as always, the Americans would lead the charitable donations. It would do them no good in the long run, the Saudi knew. The Americans would always be hated for their arrogance, for the way they treated the world as if it were theirs by birthright, for the way they rode roughshod over cultures and civilisations millennia older than their own. But in the short term the news beamed round the world would show earnest American politicians pledging to do all they could to rebuild the region, American helicopters dropping supplies, American bankers offering financial aid.
    The Saudi smiled wryly. He could do nothing to change what had happened. The Thais had a saying for it: Jai yen . Cool heart. Go with the flow. Nature had conspired to destroy his plans in Thailand. So be it. He couldn’t fight nature.
    As he reached the gate, passengers were already lining up to board the Qantas 747. The Saudi had never understood the urge to be first on to a plane. Even the first-class cabin wasn’t an environment in which he was tempted to linger, but it was always those in Economy who seemed most eager to cram themselves into an uncomfortable seat in an aluminium tube where they would eat processed food on cue, watch poor-quality movies on a screen guaranteed to cause eyestrain, and breathe recycled air. The Saudi sat patiently until the last few passengers were boarding, then handed over his boarding card and passport to be checked and headed for the plane.
    The seat next to his was empty. Most first-class passengers were seasoned travellers who would keep conversation to a minimum, but there were always exceptions and the Saudi was in no mood to make small-talk. He had a lot of thinking to do.
    He was so deep in thought that he was barely aware of the huge plane powering along the runway, climbing into the sky and banking left over Bangkok as it headed south.
    ‘Champagne, sir?’
    The Saudi jerked as if he’d been stung. A blonde stewardess, wearing too much make-up, was holding a tray of filled champagne glasses. The Saudi thanked her and took one. He sipped. It wasn’t a good vintage but, then, tastebuds lost most of their sensitivity at thirty thousand feet. The Saudi wasn’t averse to alcohol. He had tried most drugs, out of curiosity rather than need. He ate pork: his favourite dish was the famous full English breakfast, complete with bacon, sausages and black pudding, ideally served at his regular table in the Grill Room at London’s Savoy Hotel. So far as the Saudi was concerned, Islam wasn’t about food choices, or whether one enjoyed a glass of champagne or a good malt whisky. Islam was about politics. And power.
    The