But not all of them. Not everyone.

Dempsey had sent innocent men to hell. And with them, he had sent himself.

‘So eleven dead. Plenty by you, let’s just say that. Did they deserve it?’

The final question broke into Dempsey’s thoughts.

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It means did they deserve it?’

Cooke’s blunt way of speaking cut through the niceties. Dempsey worked in the world’s biggest hotbed of diplomacy and tact. To him, it was a breath of fresh air.

‘Something brought you and your team to their door,’ Cooke continued. ‘What was it? And did they deserve to die for it?’

‘It was . . . it was complicated.’ Dempsey hesitated. What Cooke was asking was classified, and the ISB was not in the habit of handing out high-level security clearance to priests.

‘Is this now confession?’ Dempsey asked, settling on the one rule that bypassed questions of confidentiality.

‘Like you believe in that,’ Cooke muttered, taking the cue.

‘It’s not a question of what I believe, Sam. It’s a question of how much God can forgive. Even he has his limits.’

Cooke didn’t answer, and Dempsey knew why; Dempsey rarely gave a glimpse into his own soul – even in confession – but he suspected he had just done so.

It was not a subject on which Dempsey intended to dwell.

‘Are we doing this?’

‘Yeah. Yes. Sorry. OK.’ Cooke seemed to regain the composure that had faltered. He indicated towards the ever darkening view from the balcony. ‘Face out that way.’

Dempsey did as instructed; Cooke did the same.

‘In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’

Dempsey followed Cooke in the blessing.

‘May the Lord help you to confess your sins.’

‘Amen,’ Dempsey responded. Autopilot was now kicking in. Lessons learned since early childhood. ‘Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession.’

‘I remember. It was warmer out here then.’

‘It was.’ Dempsey smiled, grateful for any delay in what he had to say.

‘Now come on, man. Get on with it.’

Dempsey took a final breath and began.

‘The raid was a rescue mission. A Russian operative. We were told he had been looking to defect, which had been discovered by an Iranian cell. They were trying to use him as leverage, play the US off against Russia. Far from ideal from the point of view of the Security Council. We were given some intelligence; we acted on it.’

‘And?’

‘And the intelligence was wrong. Meaning a lot of the wrong people died.’

‘What does that mean? I know you, Joe. There’s no way your team shot up a room full of innocent people.’

‘I didn’t say that,’ Dempsey replied. ‘They weren’t innocent. But that doesn’t mean they deserved to die.’

‘Who were they?’

‘Drug dealers. Producers, even. Turns out the intelligence sent us to a serious drugs factory. Cocaine. Heroin. Tonnes of the stuff. We were expecting professional resistance. Trained Iranian agents. So we went in hard. Trouble is, that made them fight back. And once they were fighting back, there was only one way to end it.’