It was six months since they had last seen England, a long six months, especially for Danny. Six months in which answering to his assumed name had become second nature; six months in which the constant fear of ambush or attack had gradually subsided; six months in which he had got used to living an anonymous life; six months in which he had dreamed of returning home every single day.

But that was impossible – for now, at least.

For now, they had to wait. And watch. And take the same precautions Fergus had learned during his years in the SAS. For now, they would live a lie as Frankie and Dean. They would cook and make endless mugs of tea and coffee while listening to other people’s conversations. About football. About the weather. About terrorist attacks in the heart of London.

‘The thing is, Paul, the world’s changed since nine/eleven,’ said Benny, continuing the heated discussion with his friend. ‘Terrorism has taken on a new dimension. Look at those other suicide bombers – you know, those Chechen Black Widows: they’re not just prepared to die for their cause, they want to die for it. It’s a holy thing for them – it’s a… a…’ He was floundering for the right word.

‘A jihad,’ said Frankie, looking up from the hotplate.

‘That’s it, that’s the word,’ said Benny. ‘Jihad.’ He looked at Frankie. ‘What d’you reckon about all this then, Frankie?’

‘Don’t ask me,’ said Frankie, going back to his hotplate. ‘I just cook.’

‘But you got to have an opinion,’ snapped Paul, slamming his empty tea mug down on the trestle table. ‘I think it’s disgusting. Worse than that, it’s inhuman. It’s murder, cold-blooded murder. They should round the lot of ‘em up and shoot ’em.’