‘Yes,’ he said quietly. He could hear the whirr of cicadas on the hillside below.

‘On his way. Alone so far.’

‘Okay. Keep me posted.’

He watched patiently, until far below him he saw dust kicking up in small clouds from the track, then a moving dot that gradually turned into a car, a Mercedes, grey with dust. The noise of its tyres grew louder as it came quickly up the track, and braked with a small squeal next to Templeton’s car.

A moment later, an Arab in a smart light-grey suit appeared at the top of the stairs. He was in his forties, trim and thin, his hair short but expensively cut, and even in the heat his shirt was crisply pressed, the collar uncreased. Seeing Templeton, he came over to the corner, his eyes alert.

‘Salam aleikum, Abboud,’ said Templeton as he stood up to shake hands. He spoke classical Arabic, learned in six months’ intensive tuition at the language school in the hills outside Beirut, then honed to fluency by twenty years of postings in the Middle East.

‘Aleikum-as-salam,’ the man named Abboud replied, then switched to English. ‘We are alone, I take it.’

‘Entirely,’ said Templeton. He gave a small smile and nodded at the chapel. ‘The brothers are all at prayer.’

They sat on the ledge, Abboud peering warily down the mountainside. Templeton said, ‘You must have something important to tell me.’ Their next meeting had not been due for a month, but the message from Abboud – Jaghir – had been unambiguously urgent.

‘I do,’ said Abboud. He took a cigarette case from his pocket, waving it towards Templeton, who shook his head. Lighting a Dunhill with a gold lighter, Abboud inhaled deeply, then blew smoke in a long snow-coloured stream over the ledge. A hundred yards out a hunting kestrel hovered high over the mountainside, its wings fluttering slightly to steady itself against the movement of the thermals. ‘I was in Damascus last week. Tibshirani called me back.’