‘Ne ubivai menya!’ he begged, choking on the blood collecting in his throat. Don’t kill me. But when the killing starts, it doesn’t stop until the job is done.

No one moved. I checked the magazine in the Glock. Empty. One round left in the breech. I looked around for a weapon to take – and then, at the far end of the tunnel, a long black shadow spread across the tunnel ceiling. I straightened up, raised the pistol and brought my left hand across to steady the grip. Picked out by the beam of the torch at my feet, a slight man in a long black coat emerged into the tunnel. He took a step towards me, head back, hands raised and empty. One shot, one kill. The crease beneath the pad of my index finger flattened across the trigger.

‘McLean,’ he shouted. I steadied my breathing. ‘You are a very hard man to help.’

The clipped vowels of his perfect English echoed off the stone corridor. It was the doctor from the ship. And he’d been reading the newspapers. Once upon a time no one knew my name unless I told them. Now it was on everyone’s lips. I settled the sight post of the Glock in the centre of his chest and exhaled slowly. But I wanted to talk to him. Not kill him. At thirty metres I could put him down. But I couldn’t guarantee he’d survive. A hair’s breadth of steel stopped the hammer from dropping, kept his heart beating.

‘I don’t need your kind of help.’

‘I think you do, Mr McLean. Look around you. Your own side has betrayed you.’

‘Keep walking,’ I said, louder than I expected. ‘And keep talking.’ He took another step forward. I lowered my aim a fraction, into his stomach. Whoever he was, he had guts.

‘General King hasn’t just left you out in the cold. He’s buried you.’ He’d most likely got King’s name from Lukov. But he was right. It was open season on Max McLean.

‘Step closer,’ I said. He did.

‘You have something that belongs to me,’ he said. ‘I’d like it back.’

‘Sure. Come and get it.’

I might have been disowned. But I hadn’t been disarmed. The trigger crept a fraction of a millimetre. And then movement to my right. One of the gunmen was still alive. In his hand the hard lines of a Grach 9mm. The shot went wide of my leg. I returned fire reflexively. He dropped the pistol and breathed out a last, long death rattle. I looked up again as the shadow cast by the doctor slipped from sight along the passage.

I dropped the Glock and took the pistol from the dead man’s hand, checking the magazine. Then I removed the remaining grenade from my jacket pocket and waited for the onslaught.

But none came.