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Ephraim. “
Rak kakh!
” he shouted back, repeating the Irgun slogan. “
Rak kakh
. Praise God you came.”
    “Praise God when we get out of here,” muttered Grant.
    Their rescuer had already moved on to the next cell by the time they stepped out, but the corridor was teeming with freed prisoners. At the far end an Irgun commando was standing by the exit doling out small arms from a sack.
    “Like a bloody Hebrew Father Christmas,” said Grant.
    Ephraim looked at him in confusion. “Who’s Father Christmas?”
    They pushed their way down the corridor, past the commando—who had run out of guns—and into the main castle courtyard. Eight hundred years had raised the ground almost a meter above the original foundations and a trench had been dug along the front of the building to allow access. Now it was filled with the ex-prisoners and their rescuers, engaged in a furious firefight with the English garrison by the gatehouse. On the far side of the courtyard a pile of smoking rubble and a massive hole showed where the Irgun had blown their way through the castle wall.
    “Who’s in charge?”
    He had to bellow it in the ear of the nearest fighter, a lean young man blasting away with what looked like a First World War carbine. In the time it took him to jerk back the bolt, slot it home again and aim, he somehow managed to indicate a tall figure in a black beret and overcoat, halfway down the trench. Grant crawled across.
    “Where’s your escape route? Through the breach?”
    The Irgun commander shook his head. “That’s how we came in,” he said in English. “We go out the back door.” He nodded to his left, where the western wall pushed out into the sea. As Grant stared, he could see a file of men creeping along the shadows at its base, invisible to the British soldierswho were concentrating all their fire on the prison block.
    “Do we swim?”
    “Not if you hurry.”
    Grant glanced back to the gatehouse. From the top of the tower the lightning muzzle flash of a Bren gun burst through the ancient arrow loops. While they were in the trench they were safe, but the moment they abandoned their position they’d make easy pickings in open ground.
    “You’ll need to shut that up before we go.”
    The commander looked at him. “Are you volunteering?”
    “Why not?”
     
    Lieutenant Cargill’s night had been going to hell ever since the mysterious visitor arrived. His ankle ached where it had twisted when he fell, but that was nothing against the agony of having to lie on the floor, tied to the office furniture, and listen impotently as the battle raged outside. He couldn’t even tell who was winning. Nor was he under any illusion that things would improve when it was over.
    The door burst open. Trapped behind his desk, Cargill saw a pair of worn brown boots pound across the room. He craned his neck up, just in time to see a motley, unshaven face peering over the desk in surprise. A plea for help died stillborn on Cargill’s lips.
    “You’re the gun-runner.” A horrible thought crossed his mind. “This isn’t to do with your visitor, is it?”
    Grant didn’t answer: he was pulling the drawers from Cargill’s desk and turning them out on the tabletop. He lifted a brown leather holster from the bottom drawer. The walnut handle of a Webley revolver jutted from under the flap. Grant pulled it out and checked the chamber.
    Helpless and defenseless, Cargill nonetheless put on a brave face. “Are you going to shoot me in cold blood?”
    Grant shook his head. “No point. I’ll leave it to the army, when they find out what a balls-up you’ve made of this.” He thought for a moment. “What’s your hat size?”

    Outside Cargill’s office a worn flight of stairs climbed to the ramparts. Grant took them two at a time and ran along the wall toward the gatehouse tower. In the confusion no one had remembered to lock the door. Grant slipped inside. This part of the tower had been gutted, except for four steel