And that made his mind up for him. He couldn’t just stay put. He had to move. And as he raised himself, intending to make a run – oh, OK then, a limp-dash for it – Abbott heard something. A noise from behind him.

‘He’s behind you!’ roared Lady Norton in the conference room. She stood with her palms planted on the conference table, watching the action unfold. Wilson had left the room to coordinate his security force against the three invaders. List remained, M-16 at the ready, although like everybody else in the room he was transfixed by events on the screen and had watched as Abbott hid and waited for Trent. But instead of falling into his trap by following the bloodstained path to the door of the Scales of Justice attraction, Trent had instead taken the long way round to work his way behind Abbott, pausing to cock his head as the sounds of the battle started up from over the other side of the park but otherwise refusing to be diverted from his task.

Coming up behind Abbott, oblivious Abbott, his gun held as Abbott, clearly having made a decision of some kind, rose from his hiding place and then, having heard Trent, wheeled around suddenly.

Oh God, he thought. You idiot.

Trent, standing there, gun trained on Abbott, squeezing the trigger.

Then Trent. His head exploding.

‘My God.’ A collective shout went up in the conference room. Trent’s head had literally disintegrated into a mist of blood and bone and brain, as though a bomb had been planted in his skull.

Scolar in his perch knew at once. He knew, and he scuttled into a seated position, snatched up the spotting scope, sweeping it around the park, trying to find him.

A rival sniper.

Down below, Abbott heard a voice that he recognised. ‘Abbott,’ a voice that he knew at once was Ward. His feelings cycled through plain relief that Ward was here, which meant that Miller was here, which meant that the shooter who had just saved his life was Tom Brace, who was also here, to fear that Ward had put himself in the firing line, and then back to relief.

Ward appeared. He shouldered his AR-15, squeezed off three quick shots and sent a member of the Norton’s security team scurrying for cover.

‘Miller has an AR-15 for you,’ Ward said to Abbott, reaching him and crouching. ‘As soon as he gets here we can make a move.’

‘No,’ said Abbott. ‘There’s something I need to do first.’ He indicated in the direction of the quadrangle.

Ward shook his head with irritation but understood. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll draw them in this direction. You make your way over there.’

‘OK, and look, if I don’t see you . . .’

‘We have plans.’ Ward tossed him a phone. ‘Use this when you’re done and we’ll reorg prior to extraction home.’

‘Home?’

‘Yeah,’ said Ward, ‘home.’