‘Wrong, Ewan. It’s the kind of thing he’d want you to believe he’d do. What his daughter would believe he’d do, and what she’d tell her allies. In reality, there’s a weapons cache in Beaconsfield that needs emptying, and a steady stream of transports are bringing the stock back here. Grant’s switching the shield on as soon as the last vehicle makes it past the border, and they’ve been given a deadline of nine thirty. He’s had countdowns to nine thirty on his office walls and everything, and once the countdown ended he was going to launch the shield, deliberately reduce security and watch you walk straight through… with your metal weapons, ammo, watches, belts and so on. You would have looked spectacular as you’d blown up like your other friend.’

Ewan’s fingers began to twiddle with the phone cord, for whatever anxiety relief it would bring. The game had changed, without warning or mercy. Everything had changed. Marshall’s computer destroyed by half nine? He and his friends had never even been to Floor B. A thirty-minute time limit wasn’t enough. It was lunacy.

‘Why are you telling us?’ he asked in a meek whisper.

‘Because I’d rather you knew. You’re far more likely to lose a gunfight if you know you’ve already lost the war. Psychological warfare, Ewan. Now I’ve put that knowledge into your head it’s going to stay there, bouncing around in your thick little skull. If the Taliban had used that kind of genius against Major George West, they might have actually won and you’d never have been born. They’d have improved the world in one way, at least.’

‘Did you ever fight the Taliban?’ Ewan spat, the mention of his father restoring some of his energy. ‘They were smarter than the cavemen everyone thought they were. Dad told me the stories. I grew up with them.’

‘Afghanistan was a playground, Ewan. You think that barren, mountainous country is hard work? Try selling anti-tank rockets to two West African militia leaders, each of whom is trying to commit genocide against the other. Money and firearms are all you have, and they’re all your clients care about. Have you ever looked into the eyes of an ally who values the clip of bullets in your hand more than he values you?’

‘Maybe you’re just crap at making friends.’

Ewan glanced to the computer once more. Only a fraction of the data remained. The promise of progress both energised him and frightened him. According to Alex’s face, Ewan was not alone in his stress.

‘That’s fine talk, coming from you,’ said Marshall. ‘Your father may have been a decent soldier, but he couldn’t turn you into a decent person.’

The phone trembled in Ewan’s hands. Not through fear, but anger.