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stone between ISAF and the ANA go to Hell. This sort of thing saps Afghan morale and ISAF confidence. Assaulting an ANA officer – that has political implications, plays into the hands of all the sceptics back home. It’s not helpful and that is why you’re in front of me.’
    Kershaw’s gaze flicked to the Yank seated behind.
    ‘The last thing ISAF, Whitehall and the White House want right now is yet another scrap with Kabul. So I’m afraid they’re taking rather a hard line on it.’
    The Task Force commander’s frustration with what he was having to say was plain. His expression softened.
    ‘This is very delicate, Buckingham.’
    But Tom was fighting a losing battle with his own anger. ‘Unlike Sergeant Dave Whitehead’s murder, sir. Nothing delicate about that.’
    Kershaw reddened. ‘Sergeant Whitehead’s death is deeply regretted. Your comments on the matter have already been noted.’
    ‘Noted, sir?’
    The brigadier slammed both hands on the desk, sending papers flying in all directions. ‘Don’t be an arse, Tom. Can’t you see I’m giving you an exit? Qazi is an ANA hero. He’s also a cousin of the ANA five-star in Kabul. Their fathers fought together with the Muj. When we get the hell out of here it’s the likes of him who’ll have to pick up the pieces. The fact is that, as you know, Sergeant Whitehead was killed by insurgents.’
    Tom could feel his own face burning as well. For a moment neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the fan and the Yank’s foot tapping his chair.
    ‘Who let them in? Who got them past the sentries?’
    Kershaw waved the question away. ‘All this will be examined.’
    ‘What are the media saying?’
    ‘They don’t have the story – and it’s staying that way.’
    Tom felt a jolt of outrage course through his body. He fixed the one-star with a venomous glare.
    ‘Wind your neck in, Sergeant. As I said, I’m giving you an exit here. Do not fuck that up. You’re booked on the next transport to Brize.’
    ‘The fuck—?’ Tom couldn’t help himself.
    Kershaw’s face was purple now. Again, his eyes flicked across to the American and back to Tom. ‘Carry on like this and you’ll need a new career.’
    Tom got to his feet. The American opened the door and held it. Outside, a convoy of salvage vehicles was taking away the charred carcasses from the night’s inferno.
    Tom looked at the American, his expression masked by the dark glasses. ‘After you. Sir.’
    Deaf to his sarcasm, the Yank shook his head. ‘You Brits! Always so polite.’
    As the American disappeared into the brightness, Kershaw coughed. ‘This isn’t my way of doing things. It came down from Kabul. Welcome to the snake pit.’
    Tom reached into his pocket and took out a small plastic bag. He turned and placed it on Kershaw’s desk.
    ‘What’s this?’
    ‘A memento, sir.’
    Inside was a scrap of bloodstained fabric.
    ‘A piece of Qazi’s ACU. You might want to get someone to check whose blood that is.’

8
    Pimlico, London
    The solitary police van started to rock. It was surrounded and prone, like an animal separated from its herd, with half a dozen uniforms trapped inside. Several of the mob wore white robes. With each shove the van tipped further until it teetered tantalizingly in the balance, then crashed onto its side. A huge roar went up from the mob in the street and the spectators on the balconies of a nearby block of flats. The back doors of the van sprang open as some of the occupants tried to make their escape. Flames erupted from underneath.
    Sarah Garvey aimed the remote and froze the picture. ‘Jesus Christ.’
    She slumped back on the sofa. Her eyes were sore and gritty from three days of semi-sleepless nights. She reached for the glass on the coffee-table and downed the remains of the Evian.
    Roger Spate leaned against the fireplace. ‘I do advise you to keep going, Home Secretary.’
    ‘I think I’ve got the gist.’
    ‘We can stop, of course, if