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yourself afterwards? You inspected it closely?’
    Hart cast Nalan a look of terminal embarrassment. ‘No. Not that closely. Once I had the translation safely in my hand I put the letter back in this envelope and left it there. I don’t know why I still carry it around with me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Actually, I do know. It’s because I feel connected to the man who wrote it. That my relationship with him, despite the nine centuries that separate us, is still unresolved. That he let me down in some way. Let his family down.’
    ‘Then you must take this letter back to your old lady and you must get her to translate these hidden words for you. Then, maybe, you can achieve a resolution.’
    ‘You are forgetting one thing,’ said Hart.
    ‘No. I’m not.’ Nalan glanced towards the open hatch above her. ‘No. I am forgetting nothing.’

EIGHT
    Hart climbed out of the tank ninety minutes later. There had been no further gunfire in the streets during that time, and no sounds from inside the compound. No sign, either, of the expected assault on the museum by the Kurdish army. It was as though everyone involved in the incursion had negotiated a truce and fallen asleep.
    It was Hart’s intention to find a spot where there was a good telephone signal and phone his ex-girlfriend, Amira, in England. She would then contact the Kurdish authorities, via the newspaper she worked for and the Foreign Office, to explain his and Nalan’s whereabouts and ensure that they weren’t shot at if they ventured out into the street. It was a good plan, and Nalan had gone along with it to the extent of agreeing to stay inside the tank until he called her and told her it was safe.
    Hart stood for a moment by the side of the tank, listening. He held the AK47 flat against his flank, barrel downwards.One part of him felt frighteningly vulnerable, as if he was already being measured for a coffin by a distant sniper using a night sight. Or being targeted by an invisibly hovering drone which would see him only as an unidentifiable orange heat spot emerging, gun in hand, from the dubious protection of the tank. The other, more rational part of his mind, sensed that the gunmen were dead – had to be. That the last suicide charge, followed by gunfire, had been their Armageddon. But then why no Kurdish army? What was everyone waiting for?
    Hart moved towards the statue of the six blindfolded figures. He checked his phone. Yes. A good signal finally. He had one bar left on his battery indicator.
    He put the rifle down and flicked to his last call. It was then that he saw the movement out of the corner of his eye.
    He froze, the phone halfway to his ear, the number already on automatic dial.
    A man stood with his back to Hart, about ten yards from the grille, partially protected by Rebwar’s rickety guard post. He was clearly visible in the moonlight. The man bent down to pick something up. As Hart watched, he repeated the motion.
    Hart felt with frantic fingers for the Power Off button on his phone, but he was too late. Amira’s number began to ring.
    The man straightened up and turned towards the noise, which, though faint, echoed spectrally throughout the silent courtyard. Hart now saw that the man was wearing a suicide vest, already partially packed with explosives.
    Hart looked down at the AK47 lying on the ground beside him. He felt unnaturally calm – fatalistic, even – as if apower greater than himself was controlling events, and that whatever would be, would be.
    He dropped to one knee, let go of his phone, and swept the gun up and into the firing position. He was only vaguely aware of a woman’s voice calling out behind him, and of the man in front of him conducting his very own series of movements, eerily paralleling his own, as though they were both part of some mirror act in a 1930s music hall.
    Hart fired first. The barrel of the AK47 swung up, and Hart saw chunks of concrete shear off the wall above the gunman’s head. Hart