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for the towel on the radiator, mopping her eyes, blowing her nose. Giles hadn’t moved, his face chalk-white against the pillows.
    ‘We can’t,’ he said. ‘We can’t go out there.’
    ‘Why not?’
    He stared at her, pulling the covers to his chin.
    ‘It’s impossible,’ he said. ‘We just can’t.’
    ‘But why not?’
    He shook his head, refusing to answer, a wild, trapped look in his eyes, and Molly gazed at him, uncomprehending, wondering what had happened to the husband she’d known, the warm, uncomplicated man she’d woken up with. Already, she knew that James’s death had taken him away. What was left was someone else.
    ‘I have to go,’ she said uncertainly, ‘whatever happens.’
    ‘You can’t.’
    ‘Why not?’
    ‘You just can’t. That’s all. What’s the point? The boy’s dead. Going out there won’t get him back.’
    ‘Yes it will. I’ll bring him back.’
    ‘What?’
    He stared at her, utterly blank, and she hesitated a moment before settling on the bed again. This time, she didn’t take his hand.
    ‘I meant the body,’ she said quietly. ‘I’ll bring the body back. And then we’ll bury him.’
    For a moment she thought he was going to break down again but he managed to stay in control.
    ‘How?’ he said at last. ‘How will you get there?’
    ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘There’ll be a way. There are planes and things. I’m sure we’ve got the money. It’s not a problem.’
    At the mention of money, he turned his face to the wall. Outside, in the darkness, Molly could hear the cat scratching at the kitchen door. Giles’s eyes had closed. A tiny muscle fluttered beneath the ridge of his cheekbone.
    ‘There is no money,’ he said at last.
    Molly stared at him.
    ‘What?’
    Giles opened his eyes, looking at her for a long moment, all emotion spent.
    ‘There is no money,’ he said again. ‘One of our syndicate’s come unstuck. It owes millions. Hundreds of millions. They want our money …’ he paused, ‘everything we’ve got.’

CHAPTER TWO
    The first shells fell after midnight. McFaul had been asleep for more than three hours, sprawled on the camp-bed in a corner of the classroom they’d converted into a makeshift dormitory. He was awake at once fumbling for the MagLite torch he kept on the floor beneath the bed, peering through the filmy gauze of the mosquito net. The beam of the torch settled briefly on the camp-bed across the room.
    ‘Bennie,’ McFaul hissed, ‘for fuck’s sake.’
    Bennie grunted and then began to protest, still half-asleep. In three years together, McFaul had never known him master the art of waking up sweet-tempered. McFaul was strapping on his false leg now, then he levered himself upright and limped across the bare wooden floor. Far away he heard a dull crump and he found himself counting the seconds until the explosion. When it came, the blast was uncomfortably close, shaking the old schoolhouse, stirring the blanket they’d hung over one of the windows. Mortars, McFaul thought. Probably 120 mm.
    Bennie was on his feet, cursing in the hot darkness. He and McFaul had discussed this situation only three days ago, when the commander of the local government troops had released the latest intelligence. According to captured prisoners, a big UNITA offensive was imminent. As usual, infantry assault would be preceded by some form of bombardment, either mortars or artillery or perhaps both.Courtesy of their friends in South Africa, the rebels had stockpiled a great deal of ammunition. The shelling could go on for days.
    There was another explosion nearby and then the plaintive wail of a child. McFaul quickly checked the room, sweeping the torch from left to right. He had a standing arrangement with the Red Cross people. They had a secure bunker half a mile away. In the event of emergencies, he and Bennie had allocated places. Bennie was getting his kit together, bundling what he’d need into a holdall and a rucksack. Most of