Valentine went on. ‘According to my witness, most of the militia force fled when the air support arrived on the scene. Does that sound accurate?’

‘It’s perfectly accurate.’

‘So far, so good,’ Valentine replied. ‘Now let me tell you the rest. It was at that moment, just after the helicopters came in, that the witness saw Lieutenant Colonel Paxton walk up behind you and your teammate, later named in the official report as Sergeant Gary Smith. But Paxton wasn’t alone. He was with the Cross Bones second-in-command, Captain Kananga.’

Ben was too stunned and furious to do anything but listen.

‘The witness then saw Paxton shoot you in the back, then shoot Smith. Smith went down. Then Paxton walked over to you as Kananga watched. You had gone down on your face, but you rolled over and were looking up at Paxton as he was about to kill you.’ Valentine paused. ‘Is this detailed enough for you? No way we could have known all this, correct?’

Ben didn’t answer.

‘Smith was almost dead from Paxton’s bullet, but not quite. He still had enough reserves of energy to let off a burst of fire. It took down Kananga and it caught Paxton in the arm. Smith’s the man who really saved your life that day, Major Hope. He’s the one you should be honouring.’

Ben was silent.

‘Paxton turned around and shot him in the head. That’s the point where you passed out. Your colonel would have put one in your brain, but that’s when the troops from 1 Para had touched down and were moving through the wreckage. Paxton had to let you live.’

Ben’s heart was pounding. It was hard to breathe. ‘Why?’ was all he could say.

‘Can’t you guess what it’s about? Paxton was supplying arms to the Cross Bones Boys. Among many other rebel groups he was trading with, using the army as his cover. While your unit was twiddling its thumbs in the Embassy in Freetown waiting for the green light, he was sneaking away and doing business with The Baron. Guns for conflict diamonds.’

‘The Makapela Creek operation was a trap,’ Wolff said from his armchair. ‘We think that Paxton suspected someone from your unit was onto him. We think he deliberately engineered the intelligence leak that led to the assault, so that your team could be ambushed and wiped out. Paxton was meant to be the sole survivor. As it turned out, you managed to slip through the net.’

‘Think about it,’ Valentine said. ‘It all makes perfect sense. There’s nothing in the witness account that you can deny. And his testimony would have been enough to bring Paxton down.’ She sighed. ‘But the problem we have is that Tinashe’s too scared to talk openly. Even now, the child soldiers who helped in the genocide of the Sierra Leone Civil War are hated by their own people-even though they were victims too. There have been reprisals, revenge killings. They’ve become like some kind of untouchable underclass. Tinashe is one of the lucky ones. He’s managed to leave his past behind and he wants to keep it that way. Which leaves us with you. You’re the only one left who can help us.’ She looked at him earnestly, searchingly. ‘So will you? Please?’

There was dead silence in the room as Ben sat and digested the whole thing. A whole minute went by. His mind was bursting.

He stood up. ‘No. You’re all lying.’ He headed for the door.

Zara rushed after him, grabbing at his arm. ‘Ben, wait-’

He brushed her away. ‘Leave me alone.’ He crashed through the door and walked out into the dingy hallway. She ran out after him, pleading and protesting. ‘Please, Ben. I love you.’

He stopped. ‘Do you?’

She looked as if she’d been slapped.

‘You’ve done nothing but lie to me and use me,’ he said. ‘So that your little friends could spy on the man who saved my life.’ He started back up the hallway, heading for the front door.

‘What was I supposed to do?’ she screamed.

He didn’t reply. Reached the front door and tore it open.

‘Where are you going?’

‘As far away from you as I can possibly get,’ he said. ‘Go back to your cronies in there, Zara. They’re waiting for you.’ He stepped outside into the rainy night and slammed the door in her face.

Ben drove the twenty minutes to the underground parking lot in a daze, and was barely conscious of parking the Mini and stumbling up the concrete steps to his safehouse. He managed to key in the code for the door, and staggered into the flat. The pistol was a hard lump against his hip. He tore it out of his belt and flung it away.

Heading straight for the kitchen, he tore open the cupboard door and snatched one of the bottles of table wine. He stood there balancing it in his hand, for a moment unable to decide whether to open it or hurl it through the window. He opened it. Filled a glass. Paced up and down, fists clenched, wanting to smash something. Wanting to punch the wall until his knuckles were a bleeding mess.

Then he slumped at the table and downed one glass after another. The bottle seemed to empty itself in seconds. He grabbed another and started on that one.

His head was spinning feverishly. It wasn’t the wine or even the fact that he hadn’t slept properly for days. He felt completely overwhelmed by the things he’d just been told.

After a while, he walked in a stupor to the bedroom, fell back on the bed and closed his eyes. He lay there, trying to shut down his thoughts and relax the cramping tension in his muscles.

Slowly, he began to drift. Thoughts blurred. He slept, but it wasn’t a restful sleep. He was back reliving the horror of Makapela Creek once again.

The nightmare unfolded in slow motion. Ben saw the figure walk out of the fire, gun in hand as he gazed down at the man he was about to kill.

But something had changed. Now there were two men standing over Ben and, instead of the faceless, nebulous forms that normally visited him in his dreams, now he could see them vividly. Two men, one African and one European. The black man was powerfully built, wearing khaki fatigues, and the ArmaLite rifle cradled in his arms looked shiny and new and glittered in the firelight.

It was Kananga. He was glancing nervously this way and that, up at the helicopters that were closing in on the mission complex, then across at the dark jungle as though anxious to follow his fleeing men. Let’s get this done, his expression said.

Beside him stood a tall, thin white man in SAS tropical combat uniform. Paxton. Ben was suddenly seeing him for the first time-that face so familiar and yet so alien, half bathed in the red glow of the burning mission. The eyes filled with a strange and terrifying light. The pistol in his fist rose up to point at Ben.

Ben tried to say something, but his words were a muffled echo lost in the thump of the choppers. He saw Paxton smile.

And, behind Paxton, lying in the bloody dirt, propped up on one elbow, his face pale, shaking with the effort of raising his gun one last time, Ben saw Smith. Paxton spun as the dying soldier’s bullet caught his arm, fired back and Smith crumpled into a lifeless heap.

Then Ben was awake, jolting upright on the bed, every nerve in his body jangling. He put his head in his hands and remembered what Brooke had said. You should listen to your dreams. She’d been right. And he was listening now, seeing it clearly for the first time.

It was as though a part of his brain had awoken after a long sleep, dormant memories suddenly leaping into focus. As if, somewhere deep inside, he’d always known the truth but just hadn’t wanted to face it. Easier to repress it from his conscious mind. Easier just to stay in the comfort zone of self-deception.

The realisation left him breathless. He’d been fooling himself for years. He’d been on the verge of killing for this man, so close he could taste it. And Paxton had just been using him, exploiting a debt of honour that had never existed.