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“I know,” said Laing. “I’ve read it. The man’s ... unusual.”

In the summer of 1983 Martin was posted to the job of British staff officer assigned to the Sultan of Oman’s Land Forces HQ at Muscat. He went straight into two more years secondment, keeping his Para badge but commanding the Northern Frontier Regiment, Muscat. He was promoted to major in Oman in the summer of ’86.

Officers who have served one tour in the SAS can come back for a second, but only on invitation.

Hardly had he landed back in England in the winter of ’87, when his uncontested divorce went through, than the invitation came from Hereford. He went back as a squadron commander in January ’88, serving with Northern Flank (Norway), then with the Sultan of Brunei and six months with the internal security team at Stirling Lines at Hereford. In June 1990 he was sent with his team of instructors to Abu Dhabi.

Sergeant Sid knocked and poked hi

s head around the door.

“The brigadier asks if you’d care to rejoin him. Major Martin is on his way up.”

When Martin walked in, Laing noted the sun-darkened face, hair, and eyes and shot a glance at Paxman. One down, two to go. He looked the part. Now, would he do it, and could he speak Arabic as they said?

J.P. walked forward and took Martin’s hand in his bone-crushing grip.

“Good to see you back, Mike.”

“Thank you, sir.” He shook hands with Colonel Craig.

“Let me introduce these two gentlemen,” said the DSF. “Mr. Laing and Mr. Paxman, both from Century. They have a—er—proposition they would like to put to you. Gentlemen, fire ahead. Would you prefer to have Major Martin in private?”

“Oh, no, please,” said Laing hastily. “The Chief is hoping that if anything results from this meeting, it will definitely be a joint operation.”

Nice touch, thought J.P., mentioning Sir Colin. Just to show how much clout these bastards intend to exercise if they have to.

All five sat down. Laing talked, explaining the political background, the uncertainty as to whether Saddam Hussein would get out of Kuwait quickly, slowly, or not at all unless thrown out. But the political analysis was that Iraq would first strip Kuwait of every valuable, then stick around demanding concessions that the United Nations was simply not in a mood to concede. One might be looking at months and months.

Britain needed to know what was going on inside Kuwait—not gossip and rumor, nor the lurid stories flying around the media, but rock-hard information: about the British citizens still stuck there, about the occupation forces, and if force had eventually to be used, whether a Kuwaiti resistance could be useful in pinning down more and more of Saddam’s otherwise frontline troops.

Martin nodded and listened and asked a few pertinent questions but otherwise stayed silent. The two senior officers gazed out the window. Laing concluded just after twelve.

“That’s about it, Major. I don’t expect an answer immediately, right now, but time is of the essence.”

“Do you mind if we have a few words with our colleague in private?” asked J.P.

“Of course not. Look, Simon and I will trot back to the office. You have my desk number. Perhaps you’d let me know this afternoon?”

Sergeant Sid showed the two civilians out and escorted them down to the street, where he watched them hail a taxi. Then he climbed back to his aerie under the roof beams behind the scaffolding.

J.P. went to a small fridge and extracted three cold beers. When the tabs were off, all three men took a swig.

“Look, Mike, you know what’s what. That’s what they want. If you think it’s crazy, we’ll go along with that.”

“Absolutely,” said Craig. “In the Regiment you get no black marks for saying no. This is their idea, not ours.”

“But if you want to go with them,” said J.P., “walk through the door, so to speak, then you’re with them till you come back. We’ll be involved, of course. They probably can’t run it without us. But you’ll be under them. They’ll be in charge. When it’s over, you come back to us as if you’d been on leave.”

Martin knew how it worked. He’d heard of others who had worked for Century. You just ceased to exist for the Regiment until you came back. Then they all said, “Good to see you again,” and never mentioned or asked where you had been.

“I’ll take it,” he said. Colonel Craig rose. He had to get back to Hereford. He held out his hand.

“Good luck, Mike.”

“By the way,” said the brigadier, “you have a lunch date. Just down the street. Century set it up.”

He handed Martin a slip of paper and bade him farewell.