Somewhere in the Sahara, on the desolate border between Sudan and Chad, a P51 Mustang with long-range drop tanks slowly emerges from the dunes.
Inside, the skeletalized remains of a man missing for three decades.
His flying jacket bears no insignia, a worn leather attache case lies by his side, held securely by a manacle around his left wrist. Inside a document men will kill for. Die for.
The sands of time have shifted, and whoever finds that aircraft finds information that could expose the most valuable spy the UK intelligence service has ever known.
The British, the French, and the Russians are on the trail.
And so is Raglan.
Reviewers on David Gilman:
'An author at the zenith of his powers' Peter James
'Raglan is nicely complex: an action man with inner depths' Financial Times