‘Then get on with it.’

Toby had nodded and slipped away, leaving Bland with his own to-do list. The reinstatement of Mark Porteus at SAS HQ would take some clever talking, but Bland was certain he would be able to manage it.

Which left Sam Redman.

Even now, two days later, Bland didn’t know what to do with him. The SAS man’s face – with its lacerated skin and flat, hard eyes – rose in Bland’s mind. He experienced a rare moment of empathy. Redman had endured more in the last few days than most men would ever be able to cope with, and Bland included himself in that. What would he be feeling? What would he be doing? Where was he? Bland was momentarily tempted to call Toby in to the office, to get him to set the eyes out on Sam after all, just to satisfy his own curiosity. But he didn’t. After all, he told himself, if anyone had earned a bit of slack, it was Sam Redman.

Bland sighed. The world, he thought to himself, seemed to be getting more and more complicated. Maybe he was growing too old for the game; he didn’t know. In front of him was a document: a DA notice restricting the story of a fatal shooting in a Hereford churchyard some days previously. Bland took a fountain pen, signed it, then stood up and left the room.

He might have slept well, but he was tired. The sort of tiredness that mere sleep would not ease. He needed some time away from all this.

A holiday, Gabriel Bland thought to himself, would do him some good.

Max Redman stared at the television set. He hadn’t seemed to notice that his son had entered the room. The news programme he was watching blared breathlessly about an explosion the previous night in North London. A terrorist attack, government sources were saying. No casualties, they were pleased to announce. One look at Max, though, and Sam could tell none of this meant anything to him. He was having, as the doctors called it, a ‘bad day’.

Not that Sam had seen the doctors. After what had happened last time he was here he felt quite sure his continued presence on the premises would not be tolerated. Bland might have been able to smooth things over with Hereford police, but it didn’t mean he’d be welcome back here. That was why he had slipped in the back way; and that was why Max was going to have to get used to seeing an awful lot less of him.

‘Dad,’ he said. Then a bit louder. ‘Dad.’

Max turned. There was a look of momentary confusion on his face, as though he didn’t know who was talking to him. But then the synapses seemed to click.

‘Didn’t think you’d be coming back here,’ Max said.

Sam shrugged. He walked to his father’s bedside and looked at the television. The screen was filled with images of the destroyed safe house, cordoned off and surrounded by armed police.

‘Fucking ragheads,’ Max muttered. ‘They’re everywhere. Look at this shit.’ He wheezed and then coughed, as if in protest against what he was watching on the screen.

‘Yeah,’ Sam murmured. He didn’t trust himself to say more.

A silence passed between father and son, a silence more meaningful than any Sam had ever known. It was awkward, but he didn’t want it to end. He knew what his father’s next question would be.

‘Did you see him?’

‘Yes,’ Sam said. ‘I saw him.’

‘Where was he?’

‘The churchyard, Dad. Mum’s grave.’

Max’s lips thinned and he nodded. His gaze hadn’t moved from the screen, but it was obvious he wasn’t really watching any more.

‘Well?’ Max’s voice cracked.

‘We spoke.’

‘You didn’t tell me why you had to see him.’

Sam felt the skin on his face tightening. ‘He’s my brother. Why wouldn’t I?’

Max seemed to accept that.

‘What did he say?’

It was all Sam could do to keep his voice level. ‘He said he had to go away, Dad. For a long time. He didn’t know how long.’

His father didn’t react. He just lay there, motionless.

‘I have to go, Dad.’

No reply. Sam looked at his dad’s thin face. For the first time ever, he saw Jacob’s features there. Older, certainly. Weaker. But Jacob’s features. He allowed himself a few seconds to drink them in, then turned to the door.

‘Sam?’

He stopped and looked round at his father. There was a fearful look in his eyes, as though he was scared of the question he was about to ask. ‘Will I see him again?’

The two men looked at each other and the question filled the air.

But Sam couldn’t bring himself to answer. He turned his back on his father and left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

About Chris Ryan

Chris Ryan was born near Newcastle in 1961. He joined the SAS in 1984. During his ten years he was involved in overt and covert operations and was also Sniper team commander of the anti-terrorist team. During the Gulf War, Chris was the only member of an eight-man team to escape from Iraq, of which three colleagues were killed and four captured. It was the longest escape and evasion in the history of the SAS. For this he was awarded the Military Medal. For his last two years he was selecting and training potential recruits for the SAS.