I woke to the sound of someone saying my name. Was it Christine? No, that wasn’t right. This was a male voice. Why was everything so hazy?

Finally, the clouds in front of my eyes began to clear and I saw Warick’s face looming out of the dark. Of course, it had been Warick’s voice! I must have been injured in the attack on the square, and then when Warick turned up for our meeting, he must have found me and brought me here to safety. Wherever we were. We seemed to be in some sort of castle—though it looked like it had seen much better days.

“Adam!” I gasped. “Thank God it’s you. Where am I? How did you find me? You didn’t get hurt by the gunman, did you?”

There was a brief look of confusion on Warick’s face before he started to laugh; a huge throaty guffaw which seemed entirely inappropriate in the circumstances. Now I was the one who was confused. What on earth was happening?

“It appears that our super spy still hasn’t worked things out, my boy,” he said to someone who stood to my left. I turned my head, and my spirits sank as I saw the gunman who had chased us from the square—minus his balaclava and his rifle, of course.

My blood ran cold. Had I really been so stupid? I hadn’t suspected for even a moment that Warick was anything other than my friend, and a useful contact. And how could I have defended this guy so vehemently to Christine? She had tried to tell me that there was something off about Warick and I’d been blind. No, worse, I’d argued with her, told her she was wrong time and again. It was going to be difficult to ever look her in the eye again. Assuming I got out of here alive.

“It’s been you the whole time?” I asked quietly. He nodded, while lighting a cigarette, blowing the acrid smoke into my face. I tried to raise my hand to waft it away, quickly realizing that my hands were actually tied behind my back. I should have known.

“Yes, it’s been all my own work, dear boy,” Warick continued in his typical blustering and effusive manner, which I now suddenly realized wasn’t engaging and charming, but was actually arrogant and revolting. “Well, with a little help from my supporting cast,” he added, with a mock bow to the gunman, who replied with a laugh.

“And you Americans were only too happy to put the blame on some poor Muslim chap, weren’t you? I served up the story you expected to hear and you ate it all up—every last mouthful. You really are very easy to convince, you know. It’s almost as if you’re looking for terrorists on every street corner. I get the feeling you’d be disappointed if this ridiculous war on terror ever came to an end.”

My mind was racing. Not only had Christine been right about Warick; she had been right about Al-Farook, too. The guy had never been anything more than a scapegoat, and I had wasted years of my life chasing him. Chasing him while the real villain had been within my reach all this time. Jesus, he’d been in my home, drinking my coffee. Some agent I turned out to be.

“Who is he?” I asked. If I was going to be humiliated, I wanted to know every last detail about just how I’d been blindsided.

“Who?” Warick replied. “Oh, you mean your little nemesis, Al-Farook? Some actor chap from Morocco, believe it or not.” He laughed. “You know, I convinced him that first video we sent you was a screen test for a movie. Didn’t do a bad job either, did he? Pretty convincing, I thought. I told him I was going to fly him to the States and introduce him to some people, but he started getting fidgety, so, unfortunately, we had to abandon that little ruse. I decided to go for a plan that allowed me a bit more control in the end—heroin.” Warick winked at me.

That explained why “Al-Farook” had deteriorated so much physically over the course of the videos. It also explained why he hadn’t been blinking a warning in the first clip; at that point, the poor guy had absolutely no idea what he was involved in. It was only after they had dropped all pretense of helping him make it as an actor and dosed him with heroin that he had started asking us for help. And not one of us had even noticed. Not until Christine Simmons had spotted his blinking and started asking questions that I should have been asking all along.

“So, what was it all about?” I continued. “Putting your diamond rivals out of business?”

“Oh, good heavens, no. I’m afraid it isn’t even anything that noble or interesting.” Warick leant in closely. “Pure unadulterated greed, old boy. All about the money, as they say.”

Greed? All that damage, all those dead bodies were so he could steal diamonds from other merchants?

“You wanted money?” I asked incredulous. “But why? You told me you’re a millionaire?”

“Those who have money always want more. I’m afraid I’ve started to live a little beyond my means, and I decided that I needed to find a cheaper way of restocking my business than buying on the open market. After all, as one of the world’s leading diamond merchants, I had the perfect way of getting rid of the stolen goods! No one would suspect a thing.

“Of course, that meant that there had to be a few diamonds left behind for you and your friends to find, otherwise you’d soon realize these weren’t terrorist attacks at all, but simple burglaries. However, as you now know, thanks to my classes, burned diamonds take on a very particular appearance. An appearance that isn’t too hard to fake when you know how. We simply blew up the stores, took out the real diamonds, planted the fake burned ones and then set the real fires. Genius, right?”

“You killed all those people for money?” I asked, disgusted, unable to get past the fact that one of the richest men I knew had turned to robbery.

“In fairness, Jason,” Warick replied, in mock seriousness, “it was an awful lot of money. Besides, you and MI5 would never have fallen for my little terrorist narrative if I hadn’t killed a few infidels in the process.”

If I could have gotten my hands on him, I thought to myself. But it was useless. He held all the cards—and his sidekick held the only weapon in the room.

“So, what? You just wanted to show off how clever you’ve been before you dispatch me, as well?”

Warick shrugged. “Pretty much, yes.” He sighed. “You probably won’t believe me, but I didn’t want it to end like this. One more job, I’d decided, and then Al-Farook was going to turn up dead and the whole episode would be over. You and I could even have carried on being friends. If only you hadn’t hooked up with that smart little piece of tail at MI5, eh?”

I jerked forward, unable to keep my temper in check any further, but I only succeeded in nearly wrenching my shoulders from their sockets.

“Such a temper!” Warick was speaking to his henchman now. “I know, let’s give my good friend, Jason, here a little treat. How would you like to meet Ahmed Al-Farook? How would you like to see the criminal mastermind you’ve been up against all this time?”

Warick was enjoying himself immensely. I just had to hope against hope that his pride made him too arrogant, and that he made a mistake. I had to play the part; play along, and wait for any window of opportunity.

“Dean,” he addressed the gunman now. “Go and fetch Aquil—if he’s not drowned in his own vomit by now.”

Dean nodded and headed out of a doorway to my right. Warick stubbed out his cigarette. He was quieter now, without an audience to perform for.

“Boss!” There was an anxious shout from somewhere within the building. Warick darted from the room, and I began to explore whatever was binding my hands with my fingers. I could hardly get any purchase on the rope, and too much movement only seemed to tighten the knots, cutting off the circulation to my fingers. I cast my eyes around the room in desperation, looking for anything that could help me cut my way free, but there was nothing.

Warick burst back into the room, snarling, his face transformed by anger. “Where the fuck is he?” I was startled.

“Who?” I found myself asking, although I could hazard a guess. Warick grabbed me by the throat, forcing me to gasp to get any air at all into my lungs.

“You know very well who. Where the fuck is he?” With every word, he tightened his grip. I could feel my eyes bulging in my face; the pressure was horrendous.

“Boss, no!” the gunman shouted as he returned. Warick let go, and I wheezed and coughed while I tried to recover, tears rolling down my cheeks and spots dancing in front of my eyes.

Warick turned his anger on the gunman now. “You said you weren’t followed back here. That bloody MI5 bitch must have tracked you back here and found him. You’re a bloody fool; couldn’t even shake off a woman.” He paced the room as he lit another cigarette. “If they have him, there’s no way we can carry out the next attack.”

Now it was my turn to laugh. “You’re crazy, Warick. You were going to go ahead with the attack, when an MI5 agent has your cover story in custody and when you’ve just told your whole plan to someone from the CIA?”

Warick sneered. “MI5 have nothing. Our ‘cover story,’ as you call him, was so wasted the whole time, I’d be surprised if he can remember his own name by now. I told you—one more heist and I’ll have enough to live a life of luxury in some banana republic without an extradition treaty.” He paused. “But I can’t risk MI5 keeping hold of Aquil. He may know more than I think and I can’t afford to put my operation on hold a minute longer. Clock’s already started ticking, Jason old boy!”

Warick turned to the gunman. “Bring me his phone,” he ordered. “I’m going to arrange a little prisoner transfer.”

“You’re insane, Warick,” I told him. “Do you think that if you let me go, you’re going to get away with this? And besides, MI5 doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“I’m sure your little MI5 girlfriend will want to negotiate,” Warick said with a leer. “And, as for letting you go, well, who says that MI5 are going to get you away from the transfer alive?”

With that, Warick delivered a stinging backhand, and I slipped into unconsciousness once again.