There was something else too, something deeper than all of that. A snatch of a view as she held eye contact with him from the platform while he dragged the dead man down the tracks, but in that second she saw someone of immense power and life. It struck her then and it stayed with her.

He’s still Ben Ryder though. She can see it. She saw it before and can tell it’s there in the tiny bursts of anger that surge up to give life to his eyes and it’s thrilling to see, but it dies so quickly and he slumps to become passive and inert, like a child hanging off her every word.

She pours coffee from the flask in the main room and moves to slump into a chair. Harry pauses, wondering if he should leave her alone, but decides on the other option, pours himself a cup and sits down in a chair across the table.

She sips and thinks, remembering seeing him when she staggered from her room and knowing instantly it was him. It was Ben Ryder. She knew it. She couldn’t believe it but she knew it. Even now she has to remind herself that this is reality when she’s watching him strip the weapons and guiding his arms round her neck to show the best grip when snapping someone’s spine.

‘He is getting fitter,’ she mutters, glancing across to Harry, who nods benignly and sips his coffee. ‘And he can strip every weapon we’ve got here.’

‘Aye,’ Harry says.

‘His reflexes are incredible. What do you think?’ she asks sharply.

Harry shakes his head then sips his coffee.

‘Go on,’ she says, nodding at him. ‘What do you think?’

‘You’ve not asked me before,’ he says quietly.

‘Because I know what you’ll say.’

‘Aye, you do.’

‘You don’t think he will make it.’

‘No.’

She watches him, sensing he wants to say more but is stopping himself, and instead he sips the coffee with that benign, easy expression. ‘You never ask anything,’ she observes.

‘Nothing to ask,’ he replies.

‘Harry,’ she says firmly.

‘Safa,’ he says easily, with a smile that makes her pause and take a breath that softens the harshness in her eyes.

‘Why do you let me take charge?’ she asks, voicing another question that’s been quietly nagging at the back of her mind for the last few weeks. ‘I’m a woman.’

‘You are.’

‘You’re from nineteen forty-three. You didn’t have women officers then.’

‘We did.’

‘Not in combat roles though.’

‘True.’

‘So they weren’t in charge of you.’

‘No.’

‘Whatever,’ she huffs as he refuses to take the bait and be drawn into an argument to vent her irritation. ‘We’ll just keep going then.’

‘Aye.’

‘He’ll be fine.’

‘Aye.’

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Five