For her sake, he did not spell out in further detail what the plan called for. He did not tell her that they would be going over the cliff, dropping down on ropes to a boat waiting on the frothing waters eighty meters below.

Katsaris and Novak now sprinted toward the outcropping at the promontory’s rocky overhang; Janson, slowed by the wheezing American, followed.

In the gray scale of nighttime vision, it looked like the very edge of the world. A crag of pale rock, and then nothingness, complete and absolute.

And that nothingness was their destination; indeed, their only salvation.

If they reached it in time.

“Find anchor!” Janson called to Katsaris.

The cliff was largely gneiss, a tough, metamorphic rock, weathered into irregular crags. There were a couple of plausible rock horns near the overhang. Using one of them would be safer and faster than pounding bolts or pitons into crevices. With sure, deft hands, Katsaris wrapped two loops of rope around the more prominent of the solid rock horns, making a doublestrand loop beneath it, secured with an overhand knot. If one strand were cut—by friction against a sharp crag, or a stray bullet—the other would hold. Janson had packed dry-coated 9.4mm Beal rope, with some elasticity to control the deceleration rate in a fall. It was compact, but strong enough for the job.

As Katsaris secured the anchor, Janson swiftly trussed Novak in a sewn nylon climbing harness, making sure the leg loops and waist belt were securely buckled. This would not be a controlled rappel: the work would be done by the equipment, not the man. And the equipment could not be elaborate: they had to rely upon devices that could be easily carried. A figure-eight descender would serve as the rappel brake. It was a simple piece of polished steel, smaller than his hand, with two rings on either end of a center stem. One ring was big, the other small. No moving parts. It could be rigged rapidly and easily.

Katsaris passed a bight of the rappel rope through the big ring and looped it around the stem. He clipped the small ring onto Peter Novak’s harness with a locking carabiner. It was a rudimentary device, but it would provide enough friction to safely control the rate of descent.

From a corner tower above the battlements, a guard aimed a long burst of gunfire in their direction.

They had been spotted.

“Christ, Janson, there’s no time!” Katsaris shouted.

But he could buy time—perhaps a minute, perhaps less.

Janson unhooked a stun grenade from his combat vest and threw it toward the watchtower. It arced through the air and into the guard’s cabin.

At the same time, Janson tossed the rope coil over the cliff. The sooner Novak followed, the safer he’d be: a single-pitch rappel was his only chance.