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Northern Ireland, should have at the forefront of their mind. The outline of the human body was so distinctive that its shape must always be broken. Shadows were an aid, and should be hugged. The biggest giveaway, unprofessional and unforgivable, was the silhouette . Any kit surface , the bulk of binoculars or the length of a spotter ’scope, must be broken up. When a team moved, spacing was critical. The last of his six bullet points was smell : he’d talked of how long it lingered on open ground if there was no wind, and not just fags, toothpaste and weapons oil but the insect repellent you needed to keep man-eating Iraqi mosquitoes at bay. They were terrific, those young fellows, and they gave him respect.
    He’d ended the outside session with a popular theme: how useless the Americans were – and the story of the FBI agent in the hunt for a red-neck abortion-clinic bomber in the mountains of North Carolina. The agent was supposed to be on a covert lie-up and had freaked out because he couldn’t take the darkness or the silence. Another, from Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, had started to shriek because he wasn’t permitted, in his hide, to smoke his daily ration of Marlboro Lite . . . And a sheriff’s deputy, gone for a week’s duty in a forest, had broken his spectacles on the first day out: he hadn’t brought a spare pair and could barely see his hand in front of him for the rest of the stag. If Foulkes had been talking to an American audience, then FBI, ATF and the deputy would have become British, and if it had been Germans, the miscreants would have been Poles. It had been a good dinner and he had felt valued. At the table, they called him by the name he’d been given a couple of decades earlier: he was ‘Foxy’ Foulkes.
    He’d wandered away from the group, had faced a fading print of paras in the heat of Aden, snapped more than forty-five years earlier before any of his hosts were born. He’d taken the call and felt perplexed by its brevity, the lack of information, but elated. The mood had stayed with him during the rest of the evening, but there was an early start and he needed some sleep before the wake-up call and the long drive. Now he thanked them, grimaced, and said something about an old dog needing its rest. A major asked him for his card: ‘Difficult to get hold of you, Foxy, through the proper channels. Prevarication and obfuscation at every corner. We’ve really benefited from your time and would like you back. The boys enjoyed it hugely, and learned a great deal.’
    ‘Delighted to.’ He took out his wallet. He fingered in the pouches for his card and a photograph floated down to the carpet. A lad crouched, picked it up and glanced at it. There was an admiring nod as it was handed back to him. ‘That your daughter, Foxy? Pretty girl.’
    He flushed, then pride caught him. ‘My wife, actually.’
    ‘Lucky you. Congratulations.’
    Foxy Foulkes warmed. ‘Yes, we’ve been together seven years – second time round for me and the same for her. Frankly, we make a good pair. She works in navy Procurement in Bath. I think we can say, no hesitation, we’re both happier than we’ve ever been. I’ve felt blessed every day since I met Ellie. We complement each other. As you say, I’m lucky to be with her. Anyway, time for bed, if you don’t mind.’
    He wouldn’t call her that night – she didn’t like to be disturbed late if he was away. He would call her in the morning. Truth was, he yearned to call her and drop a hint that it was secret business he was wanted for, but she’d be sharp with him at this time. She would have been impressed, of course, if he’d called her with his news, but it was too late. He couldn’t imagine why he was wanted by Six at short notice and at an airfield. What for? Where?

Chapter 2
    A man with an angular face and a weary voice had greeted him. He seemed to have the organisation in hand and had told him, ‘I understand people call you ‘Badger’. If