Greta suddenly said in Arabic, “What nonsense is this? The analysis on Major Roper’s flow machine fits no Arab I ever knew. It’s there now.”

Rashid said in good Russian, “Oh, I’m Arab enough, although I prefer Bedouin. I’m a member of the Rashid tribe, based in the Empty Quarter.” He continued in English. “My father was a London heart surgeon from a wealthy family in Baghdad. Money meant nothing to him.”

“And you forswore your faith? Renounced Islam?” Greta asked. “I can’t believe it.”

“My parents moved back to Baghdad nearly thirteen years ago. My marriage to a Christian was a terrible shame for them. Unfortunately for them, I had been left a fortune by my grandmother, so I was independent. She’d even left me the Hampstead house I was born in.”

It was Dillon who said, “And all this without provoking any blow-backs from your fellow Muslims?”

“Many and often. I became what someone once called a Christmas Muslim. Once a year. The kind of electronic engineering I specialize in is linked to the modern railway. I’m well known in my field as an expert. I visit many Muslim areas. I’ve been subject to pressure from extremist colleagues on many occasions at the university and on my travels. I know of things happening in places that would probably disturb you.”

“Such as,” Roper said.

“I will not say. Not until my terms are met. I will only say that eight months ago when I was in Algiers for a week and my wife was on a heavy operating schedule, my daughter was abducted from her prep school at lunchtime, driven to a flying club near London and flown out of the country by agents of the Army of God, backed by al-Qaeda. She was delivered to my father’s villa at Amara, north of Baghdad.”

“Good God, there’s a war on,” Greta said. “Why would he be there instead of getting the hell out of it, a man like him?”

“He’s seen the light, is dedicated to Osama. He allowed Sara to speak to us on the telephone once, but said I would never see her again. Since then, I’ve tried everything and I’ve gotten nowhere.”