Dempsey said nothing, just nodded. Grace was right.

She got to her feet.

‘I’m going to get you some painkillers, and once they’ve kicked in I’m changing that dressing.’

Dempsey sat shirtless on the centre of the three stools at the Airbus A330’s First Class Bar. His left arm was rested on the bar itself and he watched closely as Grace carefully cleaned the first hints of pus from his two shoulder wounds.

She had returned from the cockpit armed with Vicodin, antiseptic lotion, antibacterial gel and a medical kit stocked for every eventuality that could occur on a full flight.

Dempsey had been hesitant to risk the tablets. They were sure to dull his senses and ability. But with over eleven hours of flight time left, he had to concede that any such effects would pass long before they reached Kabul.

Anticipating the pain to come and conscious of the tolerance that came with his physical size, he had taken three. He was now glad of that decision.

With the opiates in full effect, Dempsey’s previous pain was almost gone. The impact on his equilibrium and the temporary dulling of his mental faculties were as expected, but a small price to pay for that relief.

The sting of the antiseptic lotion on the gunpowder burns should have been agony. With the effects of the Vicodin, it was barely an irritation. Still, Dempsey shuddered as it was applied. An instinctive reaction.

Grace had clearly noticed. She began to speak, to provide a distraction.

‘Did you not have anyone to call?’ she asked, her eyes still fixed on her work.

‘When?’

Dempsey’s mind felt . . . foggy.

‘When you were telling me to call Natasha. I noticed you didn’t call anyone.’

‘I called Father Sam,’ Dempsey replied. ‘And I spoke to Kirk.’

‘That’s work,’ Grace replied. ‘That’s the mission. I mean personal. Don’t you have anyone they could connect to you?’

‘Not any more, no.’

Dempsey was surprised to hear himself answer. Grace was touching on a subject he never discussed. Not even with his closest friends.

It’s the drugs. It has to be.

‘Divorced?’

‘Never married.’

Grace put the lotion aside and inspected the wound.

‘What was her name?’

‘Maria.’

He had not said Maria’s name in eight years. He had thought it. He had thought of her. Every day. But the word itself had not passed his lips in all that time. It sounded strange to hear it out loud now.

‘How long were you together?’

‘Just a year,’ Dempsey replied. ‘A long time ago.’

‘How long?’

‘She . . . it was . . . eight years ago.’

Grace stopped what she was doing. She seemed surprised. And now genuinely interested.

‘And there’s been no one else since?’

‘I never wanted anyone else.’ Dempsey couldn’t seem to stop himself from speaking. ‘She was everything.’

‘Oh.’ Grace looked concerned suddenly. ‘Is she . . . did she die?’

‘No.’ Dempsey shook his head. ‘I broke it off. I left her.’