Beatrix took the parts, examined them and then assembled them with expert hands. The M40 was standard issue for the United States Marine Corps. Bolt action, a five-round integral box magazine, chambered for 7.62x51mm NATO rounds, accurate to up to nine hundred metres. It needed a good cleaning and a splash of oil, but it would serve their purposes.

“Ammunition?”

The quartermaster reached into the bag and took out a box of rounds.

“Sight?”

He took out a Schmidt and Bender Police Marksman II 3-12x50 dayscope. This, at least, looked brand new. He went back to the bag and collected a swivel-type bi-pod.

“Good,” she said.

Finally, he took a pair of walkie-talkies. “Best I could do, I’m afraid.”

Beatrix took them. They looked like they were twenty years old. As long as they worked, they would suffice. She tossed one across the room to Faulkner.

“Do you need anything else?” the quartermaster asked.

“No,” she said. “This will be fine.”

“Very good.”

He nodded with satisfaction and left them.

“Well?” Faulkner said.

She took out the map that she had drawn this morning and spread it on the table. “There are buildings all around the prison. Most of them are empty. Construction sites. No guards. Easy to slip in and out. You won’t have any problems. This one here”—she stabbed a finger against the paper—“this is the one. Perfect view into the yard. Are you happy with the rifle?”

Faulkner hefted it. “Looks fine. Range?”

“Three hundred yards.”

“Then there won’t be a problem. You don’t need to worry about me holding up my end.”

“I’m not worried,” she said. “You’ll do fine.”

Faulkner’s cellphone was on the table. It started to vibrate.

Faulkner picked it up. “Hello, sir,” he said. “Yes. She’s here. Hold on.” He offered the phone to Beatrix. “It’s Pope.”

She looked at it dubiously.

“It’s safe. Encrypted.”

She put the phone to her ear. “Hello, Pope.”

“What are you doing, Beatrix?”

“Stop worrying.”

“Stop? Faulkner tells me . . .”

“I’ll do what I promised.”

“But?”

“But I need to do something else first.”

“But you’re still—”

“Yes,” she cut him off. “I’m still going to get West for you.”

“What about Duffy?”

“We’ve got him with us. He’s being very helpful.”

“In exchange for what?” He sounded dubious.

“We have his wife, too.”

“Okay . . .” He sounded reluctant, but there was nothing that he could do. He needed Beatrix. She knew that perfectly well. They both knew that Faulkner was too green to extract Mackenzie West alone. “What do you need?”

“I met a girl. An Iraqi girl. She helped me out, and so I’m going to return the favour.”

“Philanthropy, Beatrix? That’s not like you.”

I want to do something right.

And this is right.

“Rose?”