Templeton nodded. Tibshirani was the deputy director of Idarat al-Mukhabarat, one of Syria’s dreaded secret services, and Abboud’s direct superior. He was a man who mixed intellectual sophistication (he had been a postgraduate student at Berkeley in California) and peasant brutality.

‘What did he want?’

‘We are having some problems with the Turks. They arrested one of our agents last month in Ankara. It could have consequences – especially here in Cyprus.’ He took another drag on his cigarette. ‘But that is not why I wanted to see you. I had dinner with Tibshirani on my second night. In the old quarter. No wives, though there was some other female entertainment.’ He gave the briefest flicker of a smile. ‘Afterwards Tibshirani started talking about another operation. I thought he was just drunk and being indiscreet – he’s known me since I joined the service – but then the next morning in his office he briefed me formally about it.’

He paused for a moment, looking down the mountain, then stood up to gain a better view. Satisfied that nothing was coming up the track, he sat down again on the ledge, throwing down his cigarette and grinding it out with the heel of his tasselled loafer.

He said, ‘You’ve heard about these talks between my country and the Americans.’

‘Yes,’ replied Templeton. It was a sore point in Whitehall, since the British had been excluded from the discussions.

‘It’s commonly thought they are going nowhere – without Israeli involvement, it’s said, the Americans cannot agree to anything. If they do, the Jewish lobby will just block it in Congress. That’s what the media says, at any rate.’