Kara’s Game. Gordon Stevens

on the beach and looking west across the bay. The white long-wheelbase Toyota Landcruiser in the garage bore the markings and flags of the UN and UNPROFOR, and jerry cans of fuel, the satcom unit and the metal tins of self-heating food, plus other ration packs, were already loaded.

      For an hour that evening, over stew and beer, and looking across the snow-flecked grey of the Adriatic, the two men ran through their itinerary and target areas. The map on the table was an HQ Britfor current situation map, dated the day before. The legend at the bottom showed the main supply routes, the international border of Bosnia-Herzegovina was marked in thick black, and areas of Serbian, Croatian and Muslim activity in red, black and green respectively.

      ‘So where do we start?’ Keefer asked, as he had asked the last time he had been here, when he and Bergmann had set up the safe house.

      ‘Any special requirements?’ Bergmann fetched two more beers from the fridge and placed them unopened on the table. ‘You name it, it’s there.’

      ‘Somewhere where the Muj are involved.’

      Because recruitment in areas where the Mujihadeen were fighting would please those in the Middle East who controlled the political and financial purse strings.

      ‘In that case, Travnik.’ Bergmann indicated the town on the map. ‘There are some Muj in Zenica, but most of them are near Travnik.’