‘Everything, mate,’ Warner replied, the word ‘mate’ striking a false and somehow condescending note when uttered in that public schoolboy accent. ‘We were on our way to hook up with the militiamen when we got bumped by a real Taliban patrol. Staunton got it in the head, and so did Jenkins and Hunt. Next thing we were in a running chase over a hundred miles of bloody wilderness, all our supplies shot to pieces, communications gone except for a couple of lousy radios one of which has now packed up completely, ammo dwindled away to almost nothing, stranded in the middle of nowhere with no way of getting out, and zero contact with the outside world. One truck was totalled and the other ran out of fuel, so we had to continue on foot. We’ve been surviving out here for weeks, slowly dying of starvation and just praying we wouldn’t run into any more patrols, because God knows we’re not in a fit state to tackle them. It was a miracle we found this place to shelter in. Then tonight happened.’ Warner stared into space for a moment, then slapped his head angrily. ‘I should have fucking gone with them. Bobby persuaded me not to.’

‘You might have been killed too,’ Ben said. ‘But you weren’t. You’re here, and alive. You get to do your job, lead your people out of this and home safe.’

‘Easy to say,’ Warner burst out, almost close to tears. ‘Get them out how? Where from? The whole place is sealed off tighter than a trout’s arsehole, as dear old granddad used to say.’ He went on bitterly, ‘I wish I’d never accepted this mission. People advised me not to, you know. But I wouldn’t listen, fool that I am. Now men are dead and it’s my fault.’

Which seemed to Ben a strange outburst, coming from a Pathfinders captain. In his long and very positive past experience these were tough, steely-eyed professionals who didn’t generally wear their heart on their sleeve, still less open up their innermost feelings to a total stranger. Maybe the stress and the hunger had got to Warner. Or maybe the platoon didn’t recruit its officers as selectively as it used to, which seemed doubtful.

Ben still couldn’t shake off the peculiar sense that he knew this guy from somewhere. It was bugging him. And though he disliked displays of self-pitying emotion in a fighting man as much as he disapproved of sneaky intel-led false flag attacks on civilian targets, he felt a genuine pity for Warner’s predicament. Reaching for his last few Gauloises, he leaned across to offer him one. ‘Smoke?’