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jolted back, a three-inch crater where his left ear had been. The fatal bullet had come from behind Tom. He swung round. Three metres away, Qazi’s weapon was still aimed at the boy. He raised his eyebrows at Tom. ‘That was close.’
    ‘Why’d you do that? The kid was down.’
    Qazi ignored the question. He came forward and took out a knife, then bent down and cut the straps of the dead insurgent’s backpack and pulled it from under him. But Tom’s gaze was concentrated on the dark stain on his right thigh, where he had seen him wiping his palm when they met by the gym.
    Tom glanced at the knife, then back at the stain. And saw Dave’s lifeless face, the empty blue eyes, the long, seeping gash across his throat.
    And then he knew.
    Qazi pocketed the knife. Lifted the backpack and started to walk away.
    ‘Stop.’
    Qazi turned slowly, a withering look on his face. Tom flung himself at the Afghan and they both slammed onto the ground and rolled. Tom heard the clink of the knife, saw it, lunged for it, grabbed it.
    An American officer and two others rushed towards them, seized Tom and pulled him off, twisting the weapon out of his grip.
    ‘What the fuck is this?’
    Tom shoved the American away and threw himself again at Qazi, taking him down in a rugby tackle as Qazi kicked back at him. As they struggled, Tom gripped the seam of the Afghan’s fatigues until the Americans leaped on him and wrenched him free.
    Qazi stood motionless, his eyes boring into Tom’s. But all Tom could see was Dave’s face, his eyes gazing upwards and past him, the life in them gone. Qazi reached down slowly, picked up the knife and put it back in its sheath.

7
    A hard hot morning sun had just appeared over the blast barriers and was already training its unforgiving glare on Tom. He could feel the sweat trickling itchily downwards under the body armour that all personnel had been ordered to wear after the raid. On the surface it looked like just another day at the base. But underneath everyone was on edge. There had been no sleep. An acrid smog of burned rubber and fuel still hung in the air.
    His body aching from head to toe, he found some shade under the awning stretched out over the front of the brigade commander’s Portakabin. A few feet away a Yank was balancing on his haunches, dark aviators and a whitewall haircut, sand-coloured cargoes, black nylon web belt and dark blue polo shirt under his armour. Had to be CIA.
    ‘You before me, sir?’
    The spook said nothing, just looked at him.
    Eventually the door opened and an orderly beckoned to Tom. As he went forward the Yank eased himself to his feet and followed. Tom frowned at him.
    ‘Don’t mind me, soldier. Just making sure that what needs doing gets done.’
    The one-star British Task Force commander, Brigadier Kershaw, was bent over a mass of papers on his desk. Beside him a fan stirred the syrupy air. He waved Tom to a chair without glancing up.
    The spook took a seat at the back of the room. Eventually Kershaw raised his eyes. He looked like a man shouldering more than his fair share of the world’s woes.
    ‘First of all, your quick action against the insurgents last night – consider it noted.’
    ‘It was all hands to the pumps, sir. I just did what I could.’
    Kershaw frowned into the cup of black tea by his elbow: they were out of milk again. ‘However we have a problem. I don’t need to remind you, we’re under the operational command of the ANA now. ISAF’s role is purely to assist.’
    Tom didn’t like where this was going. He took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could. A restraining voice somewhere in his burning head told him to hear out the one-star.
    ‘Let me remind you of just where we stand – and where you stand. Our political masters are looking for a smooth exit out of here, which leaves us in effect trying to put the genie back in the bottle. Incidents like this set us all back. Suddenly the bridges we’ve been building stone by