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Henry Talbot. Old Ulster family, Protestant to the bone. Henry was an MP at Stormont and they made him a Grand Master in the Orange Lodge. I always said he was to the right of Ian Paisley.’
    ‘And now?’
    ‘Retired. The grandson’s the Managing Director — he’s the one who really runs things. Major Justin Talbot — Grenadier Guards, you’ll be pleased to know — got shot up on his last tour in Afghanistan and felt it was time to go. He goes where I can’t. I managed to make it to Islamabad last year for discussions with the Pakistan government, but that was it. I’m too old for that kind of thing. It’s bloody roughthese days. All sorts of illegal arms traffic passing over the Afghan border.’
    ‘Arms for the Taliban?’ Ferguson asked.
    ‘Who else?’ Sir Hedley frowned. ‘Have you got a particular interest in this?’
    Miller answered. ‘The Prime Minister is concerned about reports that British Muslims are serving with Taliban forces.’
    Sir Hedley nodded. ‘I’ve seen the odd newspaper reports to that effect, but I can’t believe it’s in any great numbers. I know one thing. It would be treason.’ He turned to Miller. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
    ‘Yes, I would, but in the brave new world we live in, it’d be a nightmare for the government to prosecute.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘But we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. Would you like another drink, sir?’
    ‘I think I would,’ Sir Hedley said, and added, ‘Here’s Justin, just coming in the door.’
    Justin Talbot had left his flight bag with the porter and had put on a tie. He stood there, smiling, a slightly incongruous figure with the tie and the old flying jacket.
    ‘Come in, Justin, and join us. I’ve just run into an old comrade, Major General Charles Ferguson and his friend, Major Harry Miller.’
    Justin Talbot was thunderstruck. Of all the people to meet — the two men he’d been most warned about. The voice in his brain said: Don’t panic. Smile. Your background is impeccable. You’re Managing Director of a firm worth hundreds of millions of pounds; you’re a war hero .
    So he produced that easy charm and said to Ferguson, ‘Quite an honour, General. You’re a legend in the regiment.’
    It had the desired effect, for Ferguson was only human, but Miller was not taken with him and wondered why. The deliberate stroking of Ferguson, perhaps, or the wonder-boy appearance. Certainly the air of cynical good humour was used for effect, and most people probably fell for it, especially women.
    ‘You’ll have a drink with us?’ Sir Hedley asked.
    ‘No can do. I’m back from Lahore and found out my mother has gone over to County Down to see to her father, who’s apparently not too well. I’m flying myself over, so no alcohol for me.’
    ‘Indeed, but well-met, anyway. Our friend, Major Miller here, is apparently an Under-Secretary of State, although we’re not allowed to know what ministry.’
    ‘Sounds intriguing,’ Talbot said.
    ‘We’ve been having an interesting debate about the suggested presence of British Muslims fighting for the Taliban,’ said Sir Hedley.
    ‘I see,’ Talbot said.
    Ferguson said, ‘There’s a concern in government circles. Have you any opinion on the matter?’
    Which was exactly the question Talbot had been hoping for. ‘I certainly have. It’s not a “suggested” presence: it’s very real. I have excellent connections with the Pakistan Army and they tell me many of the voices on the radio are definitely English.’
    ‘Have you heard them yourself?’ Miller asked.
    ‘Yes, on a few occasions when I was up near Peshawar andvery close to the Afghan border. Sometimes you can pick up the sounds of battle on the other side.’
    ‘In Afghanistan itself? Can I ask what you were doing there?’ Miller went on.
    ‘We sell trucks used for army transportation and driven by civilian personnel. Part of our sales package guarantees maintenance.’
    ‘A big operation,’