‘OK,’ he conceded, ‘that is good. But they’re … you know …’ He looked down. ‘They’re dead, aren’t they?’

‘Yup,’ I replied. ‘As doornails. But there’ll be more of them. A lot more. And nearby. Trust me.’ He kept looking at the patch of muddy chalk between his feet. ‘Can you stand? We need to move. The more distance between us and them the better.’ No reply. ‘Do you know the tunnels? Properly, I mean.’ He was zoned out now, unresponsive. I raised my voice. ‘Baaz?’

‘Ah, yeah.’ He came to with a jolt, tilted his head back, blinked and looked at me again. ‘Yeah, I know the tunnels.’

‘So, let’s go.’

I pushed up off my haunches, and held out my hand again. We grabbed each other’s wrists, and I hauled him to his feet. I felt the bullet wound in my shoulder, and winced. We stood in front of each other and he sized me up, nervously.

‘Are you OK?’

I’d seen that look before, and given it myself a few times, too. However screwed he was because of me, it was dawning on him that he needed me, too.

‘I’m good,’ I nodded. ‘Really.’ I forced a smile over the top of the deep, throbbing pain spreading inside my shoulder. That seemed to relax him and he started to look around the tunnel, getting his bearings.

I checked that the grenades were secure in my pockets, that the Glock was in my jeans – and that the condom bundle was still intact. Then I remembered with a jolt that I’d forgotten to seal up the hundred-dollar bill with the passport. I slipped my finger into the ticket pocket of my Levi’s, and felt the damp bump with relief. Finally I freed the torch from the Picatinny rail and clamped it between my teeth, examining where the ricochet had hit the M4. I dropped the magazine and worked the charging handle with the rifle turned on its side. A spent cartridge case fell out into my hand – its lead in the guts of the attacker who’d brought the roof down. I looked inside the breech, and examined the upper receiver. Then I saw the problem. The gas return tube had been ruptured forward of the chamber, which meant there was not enough pressure to cycle the bolt. It would still fire – but I’d have to recock it manually after every shot. Effectively, the rifle was as much use as Doc Levy’s old Martini–Henry – which was to say, good enough. I checked the integrity of the barrel and the suppressor, put the magazine on, and chambered a round. I hesitated for a moment, then gave the flashlight to Baaz.