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vest each for Magda and Moha Hassan. Firepower came in the form of an LMG and a Glock pistol with a suppressor, which I had specifically asked for. There was also a combat knife.
    We all confirmed the destination point on our satellite phones and fixed the position. The decision on how we would travel was one we had already made. I was to drive the saloon with Magda in the passenger seat and Mick on the backseat. Cakes, Banksy and Moha Hassan would follow together in the transit van with Cakes driving. This meant both vehicles contained an Arabic speaker and an equal division of soldiers.
    ‘Put these on,’ I said.
    ‘What are they?’ Magda asked.
    ‘There’re ballistic vests,’ I said. Magda’s eyebrows lowered. ‘...bulletproof vests,’ I explained. ‘Wear them under your clothes, so they’re out of sight. Fit them over your heads and then tighten them at the sides like this.’ I demonstrated on Moha Hassan. Magda watched and then fitted hers herself.
    We were set to go.
    Moha Hassan attracted our attention. He waited until we were all turned and looking at him. ‘Thank-you,’ he said.

3          The road that has no turning is long.
     
    Jeremiah “Jerry” Lombroso had the screen fixed with a thoughtful gaze like a man studying a secret map of buried treasure. Despite rising from his bed two hours earlier, he remained dressed in his pyjamas, dressing gown and slippers. Beside him on the kitchen table was a coffee percolator, an empty cup, and his phone.
    On the screen were individually coloured dots that moved on a map. It was a map of Tripoli. Along the bottom of the screen was a line of icons that opened real-time satellite imagery. Jerry clicked on one and a bird’s eye view appeared. He zoomed in and the roofs of two vehicles came into sight together with a group of people.
    Rosemary Lombroso walked into the kitchen in slippers wearing a short nightdress and a wrap over her shoulders Navajo-style.
    ‘You were up early,’ she said. ‘Did you forget it was Saturday?’ When her husband failed to answer or even acknowledge her presence, she went over, picked up the coffee percolator and looked at the screen. It was his work, of course. The satellite image interested her. ‘Where’s that?’ she asked and ran her fingers through the back of her husband’s thick, dark hair. When all she got in response was a pinch, she went to make fresh coffee. ‘Today, I’m going to run naked down Knightsbridge to see how many wolf-whistles I get from the cab drivers,’ she said.
    ‘Mm, what’s that, darling? I wasn’t listening.’
    Rosemary Lombroso knew very well that she had a good figure. She would get plenty of whistles, and not just from cabbies either.
    ‘I’m making toast. Do you want some?’ she said.
    ‘Oh, yes. Toast sounds good, and some more coffee,’ Jerry said without taking his eyes from the screen. His phone rang. After checking the caller ID, he answered. ‘Lombroso,’ he said.
    ‘Jerry, it’s Andrew, Andrew Beresford,’ said the friendly voice. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing your Saturday morning.’
    ‘No, no, I was just having breakfast with my wife,’ Jerry said. ‘She’s thinking about running down Knightsbridge naked to see how many wolf-whistles she gets.’
    Hearty laughter filled Jerry’s ear as Andrew Beresford chortled at what he obviously considered a hilarious witticism. He had never met Rosemary. The laughter abruptly ceased. ‘Very amusing,’ he said. ‘Seriously, though, Jerry, something’s come up.’
    ‘Oh, what’s that?’ Jerry said.
    ‘I’ve received a communication from our embassy in Tripoli. It seems an incident has occurred.’
    ‘Oh, yes,’ Jerry said.
    ‘Yes, armed men have attacked a police compound in the city and freed a prisoner.’
    ‘Oh,’ Jerry said. ‘Was anybody hurt or killed?’ Rosemary filled her husband’s empty cup with steaming coffee from the percolator and then ignoring the phone kissed him on the