Almost exactly one mile away, the French sniper known as Scolar was scaling a ladder that ran the height of a water tower. On his back was a rucksack as well as his rifle case. He reached the observation deck, where he used an ultraviolet light to check that the spray he’d left the last time he was here had not been disturbed. As expected, it was just as it had been before.

From his rucksack he took a blanket that he folded length-ways and laid down on the concrete walkway that ran around the circumference of the tower. Next from the rucksack he took his spotting scope, then lay down and focused it on Murder World, finding it, seeing the odd figure moving around, guards with assault rifles, but no activity yet.

That was good. He was in plenty of time. Exactly twenty minutes before the game was due to begin.

Scolar had selected his weapon carefully. During his time in the Middle East he had liked to use the old faithful Steyr SSG 69 or the more modern Barrett M95 as preferred by the US military. For quick jobs, the Steyr was the one. A standard sniper rifle that worked well in the desert. The Barrett M95, with its pistol grip and tripod, was a rifle for the patient man.

For this job, however, Scolar had selected the McMillan TAC-50. This was a rifle designed for long-range antipersonnel work. Its manufacturers claimed it could take out a target at over two miles, though this had yet to be proven in the field. It, too, had a bipod and a pistol grip and was fed from box mags, each holding five rounds, as well as a muzzle brake to cut down on recoil.

He set it up now, attaching the butt stock, the Schmidt & Bender telescopic sight, and unfolding the bipod. He lay down, pulling the stock into his shoulder, lifting the weapon slightly and adjusting it to the right, squinting through the sight to match the visuals with those of the spotting scope, adjusting it for distance and wind speed. He worked the bolt, slowly and then fast, enjoying the feeling of it in the palm of his hand.

With that done he delved once again into his rucksack, drawing from it a photocopied picture of the operative called Trent.

Scolar didn’t think he’d forget that Trent’s colour was yellow but he liked to be sure. As a member of the French Foreign Legion, he had served in the Gulf War, in Rwanda, the Congo, Afghanistan, the Ivory Coast and more. He understood at moments of high intensity, the brain had a habit of switching into battle mode, when salient facts, small though they were, defaulted to the instinct of training in combat. He preferred to have something to refer to.