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my link, my finger on the pulse. " Lundt's voice was deep. It held no emotion, no empathy. "Do you remember that?"
    "For God's sake. There must have been some other way of handling it?
    I mean, the man's remains were . . ." Cornell left the sentence unfinished.
    "These people don't think like that," Lundt stated boldly. Silence again. It extended for some time before Lundt finally added: "Your fat little friend out here is getting nothing from you lot, which means I've got to risk being compromised and deal with you direct. That makes him and you less than useless. Do you actually have the faintest clue what's going on?"
    "I've no idea," Cornell replied, too quickly. But it was true. "Christ! Do you know the trouble you've ..." he uttered awkwardly. He was annoyed that he felt so intimidated by this voice, this man he'd never met, thousands of miles away in a festering scab of Africa. "I've a great deal at stake, you know," he added. "A lot to lose."
    "Yes, you do. You and your fat little mate," came the disturbing reply from Lundt. "A lot to lose. So, what are you doing about it?"
    "I don't know. I really don't," Cornell assured Lundt. "All I know is that there's a real flap on and everything is being kept to a very select few."
    "Ah, we few, we happy few." Lundt's tone grew darker. "I suggest you make sure you're one of them. It's time you started delivering. If you're no good to me..."
    "It's not that easy. This has gone straight to the top. New people are coming and going. From different departments. Defence? The Army? Scotland Yard? I can't be sure," stammered the civil servant from his swivel chair in London.
    "Find out!" hissed Lundt. "This place is about to collapse and I'm in the middle of it. Everything has gone toplan, but now we're sailing too close to the wind and I don't want to be worrying about things that you and your sodding boss should have taken care of. Got it?"
    "OK! OK! I'll find out whatever I can."
    "See that you do. I need to know exactly when Namakobo's arriving in London and where he'll be. You've got 24 hours."
    The line went dead.

CHAPTER 8

The Red Lion Whitehall, London

    'Im sorry to have to tell you this, Alex, but Sergeant Collins is dead." Morgan's expression barely altered, but Davenport knew better. He knew soldiers and news of a friend's death, particularly those still in the business, held a peculiar significance to men like Morgan who lived constantly in its shadow. Death always arrived without warning - a stark reminder of mortality and the absolute importance of comradeship and loyalty.
    "After a couple of months in Malfajiri," Davenport continued, "Collins drew a blank. No sign of Lundt or any leads as to how he may have ended up. Collins reported the odd suspicion over some of Chiltonford's in-country people, but nothing that SIS could act on. When I met with Dame Violet and the Defence Minister last week and shared our information about your weapons haul, the silly bastards acted on it almost as soon as I'd left the bloody room. The pillars of the British Government are obviously desperate to distance themselves from any link to supplying guns to Baptiste's rebels. But with nothing to go on, one of their agents missing, and a potential international disaster on their hands, they issued orders for Collins to kill the rebel leader Baptiste immediately, before he had a chance to launch the coup we're all expecting," barked the General with some exasperation.
    "What the hell were they thinking?" Morgan said angrily. "Once again, some poor bastard has to stick his neck out to clean up someone else's political mess. I suppose Sean was told they needed to contain the situation so it didn't end up splashed all over BBC World." Morgan was disturbed by the death of his friend. Davenport gave him a moment. "Do you know how he died?" questioned the younger man.
    "Yes, and I'll get to that, but you need to prepare yourself. It's not good."
    "You don't need to sugarcoat it for me, Sir. I know