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don’t want this to drag on one minute longer than necessary.’ He walked him to the SUV. There were two men in the front, MI5 heavies. Shepherd knew they were both armed. The rear passenger windows were impenetrably dark. He opened the offside back door for McGovern to get in. ‘You’ll be fine, Larry. Cable TV, decent food, and your booze bill is on us.’
    ‘Hookers?’
    Shepherd laughed. ‘You’re dead, Larry. You won’t be needing hookers.’
    McGovern climbed in and Shepherd slammed the door. The SUV drove off through the forest. Shepherd pulled out his phone and replayed the video. It looked convincing. He just hoped it would convince the O’Neill brothers.
    It was a five-hour drive north along Route 6 from Palmyra to Tel Abyad. There had been three white SUVs. Mohammed al-Hussain had sat in the middle vehicle, armed IS fighters front and back. They had switched vehicles in Tel Abyad after stopping at a café down a quiet alley where al-Hussain had been given time to use a foul-smelling bathroom with an open toilet that was nothing more than a hole in the ground. After he had washed as best he could, an old man appeared with a pair of scissors and an open razor and spent twenty minutes carefully trimming al-Hussain’s beard until it matched the photograph in the British passport. Afterwards al-Hussain and the other men had prayed on threadbare carpets, then eaten a quick meal of chicken, hummus and flatbread, with iced water, sitting at a table, while above them an old wall-mounted TV showed an Al-Jazeera news programme with the sound muted.
    After the meal they had given al-Hussain fresh clothes to change into. They were clearly used but had been cleaned. There was a denim shirt, faded jeans, socks, underwear and almost-new Nike trainers. His old clothes were taken from him and put into a black plastic rubbish bag. He kept the British passport that Commander al-Lihaib had given him, his prayer beads and his wristwatch, a TAG-Heuer that had been an eighteenth-birthday present from his parents.
    ‘I need to see the watch,’ said the fighter who headed the security team. He was in his late fifties, his skin the colour of teak, his right hand covered with scar tissue. His name was Ahmadi but everyone called him Al Am, the Uncle. His orders were obeyed without question.
    Al-Hussain took it off and handed it to him. Al Am looked at it and turned it over. As he did so, al-Hussain remembered the engraved inscription on the back: ‘To a wonderful son, from his proud parents. May Allah protect him.’ Al Am looked at him and shook his head.
    ‘I understand,’ said al-Hussain.
    ‘And the bag. We must take it from you now.’ He held his hand out for al-Hussain’s backpack. He took it off and held it for a while, like a newborn baby, cradled against his chest, his head resting on the top. He didn’t want to let go of his weapon, but knew he had no choice. If he was discovered with a sniper’s rifle, his cover would be destroyed and he’d be shot or worse. The notebook had to go. In fact everything, every single thing, that connected him to his former life had to be handed over to the IS fighter. To keep anything that gave away his true identity risked exposing him and ending the mission. And the mission was all that mattered.
    ‘You will take good care of my bag,’ said al-Hussain, as he took it off. ‘You will take it back to Commander al-Lihaib. You are to give it to him and no one else.’
    ‘I will do that,’ said Al Am. ‘ Inshallah .’ If Allah wills.
    Al-Hussain held out the bag. His fingers stayed touching the nylon material for several seconds and he sighed audibly as it was taken from him. ‘Now tell me your name,’ said Al Am.
    ‘My name?’
    ‘Who are you?’
    Al-Hussain frowned. ‘I am Mohammed al-Hussain.’
    Al Am shook his head. ‘You are not. From now on you are Hammad Rajput. From England. Until this mission is over you must put all thoughts of Mohammed al-Hussain out of your