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man slumped over. Marchant pressed himself closer to the earth, breathing hard, searching around for better cover, calculating where the shots had come from. He slid across to a bush, keeping his eyes on the horizon. And then he saw it, hovering up over the crest of the hill. The Roc bird rose into the sky.
    He knew at once that it was Russian-built, an Mi-8, its distinctive profile silhouetted in the dusk light. It was white, but there were no UN markings. The shots had come from the machine-gun mounted beneath the cockpit. Marchant was dead if the pilot had seen him, but the helicopter turned, nose down, and rose into the star-studded sky, heading towards the Algerian border.

9
    The doubt that had been sown in the young sensor operator’s mind grew stronger with each passing second. She had tried to tell herself that she was just seeing things, that she was suffering from exhaustion, too many late nights reading God’s word, but there was no escaping the yellow shape that the heat of the bodies had formed. Although the hut only had a canvas roof of some kind, it was impossible to tell precisely how many people there were inside, as the bodies were bunched so closely together – too close for Taleban.
    â€˜Sir, there’s something abnormal about the target imagery,’ she said, turning to her pilot.
    â€˜Would you care to elaborate?’ Spiro said, before the pilot had time to reply.
    The analyst paused, struggling to conceal her dislike of Spiro. ‘They’re too close together.’
    â€˜Perhaps they’re praying. What’s the local time anyhow? I’ll put money on it being the Mecca hour. If we have no other objections, I say we shoot.’
    Spiro directed his last comment at the base commander, who was on the phone to the Pentagon. Spiro knew the commander needed the break just as much as he did.
    â€˜We’re green-lit,’ the commander said, replacing the phone. Spiro could tell he was concealing his excitement. He just had to make sure the USAF didn’t get to take any credit.
    â€˜Then let’s engage, people,’ Spiro said, putting a hand on the pilot’s shoulder. The pilot flinched, and Spiro withdrew it. He knew at once that it had been an inappropriate gesture. These pilots were under pressure, too. There was talk on the base of combat stress, despite their distance from the battlefield. Unlike a fighter pilot, who pulled away from the target after dropping his payload, the Reaper pilots stayed on site, watching the bloody aftermath in high magnification.
    â€˜Sir, given the subject is static, I’d appreciate a second opinion,’ the pilot said, catching his colleague’s eye. ‘If she’s not happy, neither am I.’
    â€˜Are you not happy?’ Spiro asked the analyst. No one in the room missed his sarcasm. ‘The Pentagon’s happy, I’m happy, your commander here is goddamn cock-a-hoop. Salim Dhar, the world’s most wanted terrorist, just spoke on a cell from the target zone, and you’re not happy. As far as we know, nobody has gone in or out of that lousy shack apart from a pack of crazy Afghani dogs. This is paytime, honey. And we’ll all get a share, don’t you worry your tight little ass. I’ll see to it personally.’
    As Spiro’s words hung in the air, a phone began to ring. The commander picked it up and listened for a few moments, nodding at the pilot. ‘Could you stream it through now? I’d appreciate that. Channel nine.’
    The pilot leaned forward and flicked a switch. Moments later, Salim Dhar’s voice filled the stuffy room. It was only a few words, a short burst from someone who seemed to know the risk he was running by speaking on a cell phone, but no one was in any doubt. They had all heard his voice too many times in the last year, seen his face on too many posters.
    â€˜Fort Meade picked it up a few seconds ago,’ the commander said. ‘Same