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section of the razor wire, then waved for al-Hussain to join him. Al-Hussain went up the ladder carefully and sat on the top of the wall. He helped lift the second ladder up and the fighter at the top placed it on the other side. He went down first, then waved for al-Hussain to follow him.
    He stepped carefully over the top of the wall making sure not to catch his shirt on the razor wire, then hurried down to join the other man, who was already jogging over to the final barrier, a wire fence again topped by razor wire. It was only eight feet high but they didn’t intend to climb over it: the fighter already had his wire clippers in his hand and bent down to cut a hole.
    Al-Hussain stood with his hands on his hips and surveyed the scene ahead. He stiffened as he spotted a dark SUV. He shifted his head from side to side, trying to get a clearer view, and realised two figures were standing at the rear of the vehicle. He bent down. ‘Are they waiting for me?’ he whispered.
    ‘Of course,’ said the man. He snipped another strand of wire. In less than three minutes he had cut enough to force a hole in the fence big enough for both men to slip through. He held the wire back for al-Hussain. ‘Be careful,’ he said, holding al-Hussain’s arm. ‘There is a ditch.’
    They went down slowly into the sandy ditch and crawled up the far side, then hurried to the SUV. The fighter with al-Hussain exchanged a few words with the men, then hugged them both. ‘This is the cargo,’ he said, waving his hand at al-Hussain. ‘It is to be protected at all costs.’
    The SUV had four doors and a man opened one of the rear doors for al-Hussain. ‘There’s food in the back, and water,’ said the man, ‘with a blanket and a pillow, if you wish to sleep. We’ll be driving for some time.’
    Al-Hussain thanked him and climbed in. The door slammed behind him. As he watched through the window the three men outside embraced again, then the IS fighter headed back to the border. Two minutes later the SUV was bouncing along the rough ground. The driver and the second man had both donned night-vision goggles and kept the headlights off. There was a cloth package on the seat next to him, which al-Hussain unwrapped. Inside he found a small loaf of hard bread, some olives and soft goat’s cheese. Another, smaller, package contained a bundle of khat . Al-Hussain put aside the food and started to chew the leaves.
    Omar Hassan lived in Salford, just five miles south of the park where he was to meet his contact. It would have taken just twelve minutes by taxi but he travelled by bus, tram and then on foot. The journey took him almost an hour but gave him plenty of opportunity to check that he wasn’t being followed.
    The instructions detailing where he was to go and whom he was to meet had been placed in a mail folder in a Yahoo account. It was the way he had communicated with his Islamic State handlers for more than five years, ever since he had returned from a training camp on the Pakistan border. Hassan had flown to Islamabad in 2010 with four of his friends from Greater Manchester, ostensibly to attend a wedding, then to spend time getting to know the culture of the country their parents had come from. All five were British-born, the sons of parents who had emigrated to the UK during the fifties and sixties.
    They had been teenagers when they had made the long trip to Pakistan, and Hassan’s parents had expressed their reservations. Hassan was the youngest of five, four boys and a girl, and was the only one who had ever expressed any interest in connecting with his Pakistani heritage. The local imam had come to see his parents to ask their permission for him to go. What they didn’t know was that the imam was a recruiter for al-Qaeda, selecting men suitable for jihadist training. He was a kindly man, well known in the area for his charitable works, and he had sat in the Hassan house for more than an hour drinking hot mint tea as he explained how