Unfortunately, the Kagama in the watchtower was swift and skilled: he grabbed the grenade and hurled it away from him, with seconds to spare. The grenade blew in midair, the flash outlining the four people at the edge of the cliff for attack like a floodlight from a guard tower.

“Now what?” asked Novak. “I’m no rock climber.”

“Jump,” Katsaris urged. “Now!”

“You’re mad!” Novak cried out, aghast and terrified by the black nothingness that seemed to stretch out below.

Katsaris abruptly lifted the great man and, taking care not to lose his own footing, pitched him off the side of the cliff.

It was graceless. It was also the only way. The humanitarian was in no state to absorb and follow even the most elementary coaching: a regulated plumb drop was his only chance. And the overhang meant that the rock face would be a safe distance away from him.

Janson heard the controlled slither of the 9.4mm rope as it fed through the figure-eight brake, confirming that the cord would bear him down to the waterplashed rocks below at a regulated speed of descent. The plunging cliff was now Novak’s greatest protection, shielding him from the riflemen on the battlements. Bullets could only shoot past him; they could not reach him. Novak had to do nothing. Gravity would do its part.

The B team, waiting in the boat at the base of the cliff, would do the rest.

The overhang of the cliff had protected the compound from amphibious attack over the centuries, even as the rocks and shoals kept warships from approaching too closely. The location of the fortress had been well chosen. And yet these features could provide the invaders with safety, too.

Peter Novak was almost home.

For the rest of them, it would not be so simple.

Janson and Katsaris could rappel down the cliff easily enough. But what of Donna Hedderman? There was no spare climbing harness and braking system for her use. A long look passed between Janson and Katsaris: wordlessly, a plan was agreed upon, tacitly devised in desperation.

Even as he made a double cord loop around another rock horn, Theo’s expression was clear enough. Damn the American! But leaving her behind was out of the question.

A burst of gunfire kicked up a painful spray of rock.

There was no time.

More and more of the sentinels would direct their raking fire toward the promontory. No doubt the darkness and fog made sighting difficult, for the bursts were aimed with only approximate accuracy, and at forty yards, that was not sufficient for a reliable kill. The rebels were compensating with sheer quantity, however. More fire rained down on them. How much longer before a bullet struck home?