All our own men were there save Mick McGrath, and on him I had begun to pin absurd hopes. None of the medical people were present. There were soldiers in front and behind us, and paradoxically the very fact they were behind us made me feel a little better, because otherwise this would look too much like an execution.

Maksa spoke to his Captain, who barked an order.

'Go into the warehouse.'

'Now wait a goddamn -' began Wingstead.

The Captain thrust his black-visored face alarmingly close. 'I would not argue. Do what the Colonel wishes,' he said. 'He doesn't like arguments.'

I didn't know if this was a warning or a threat. We walked forward between a line of guards and entered the warehouse.

We crowded towards the rear where the cotton was piled. Atheridge collapsed to the floor. Dufour looked dazed still but was on his feet. The doors were closed and a line of Maksa's troops stood just inside them, holding sub-machine-guns.

I had to know about the shotgun. I said to Hammond, keeping my voice low, 'Drift over to the corner behind you, to the left. Get some of the others to do the same. I need a diversion at the door. I want their attention away from that corner for a few seconds.'

Russ Burns said softly, 'I'll do it.'

'Right. Just keep them talking for a few moments.'

He nodded curtly and edged away. I passed Bishop as I moved slowly towards the corner and said to him, 'Brad, keep Sandy out of this if you can.'

He moved in the opposite direction, taking Bing by the arm as he did so. Zimmerman followed Burns and the two Russians went with him as though connected by magnets. We were spread about, and the five soldiers couldn't watch all of us.

Burns went up to the soldiers and started talking. They converged on him threateningly and their voices rose. As all eyes were on them I slipped away into the corner, shielded by the little knot of men around Ben Hammond.

I scrabbled at the cotton searching for the exact spot, and my fingers encountered nothing. The sweat on my forehead was an icy film. The shotgun was gone. I rejoined the others as the warehouse doors opened again.

We were being joined by the whole of the medical staff. They were upset and angry, both Sister Ursula and Dr Kat boiling with rage.

'What's happening out there?' Wingstead asked.

'They made us leave our patients,' Dr Kat said hoarsely. 'They turned guns on us. Guns! We are medical people, not soldiers! We must go back.'

The black bars of Sister Ursula's eyebrows were drawn down and she looked furious. They are barbarians. They must let us go back, Mister Mannix. There's a baby out there that needs help, and Mister Otterman is dangerously ill.'

'Where's Sister Mary?' someone asked, and Sister Ursula looked more angry still. 'She's ill herself. We must make their leader see reason!'

Until the Colonel came there was nothing to do but wait. I considered the two missing factors: McGrath and the shotgun.

It was inevitable that I should put them together. When I hid the shotgun, I had thought I wasn't seen but there was no knowing how much McGrath knew. He was used to acting independently, and sometimes dangerously so, and I knew him to be a killer. I hoped that he wasn't going to do anything bull-headed: one wrong move and we could all be dead.

I was still brooding when the warehouse doors opened and Maksa walked in. When I saw the shotgun in his hands I felt as though I'd been kicked in the teeth.

He stared at us then said, 'I want to talk to you. Get into a line.' A jerk of the shotgun barrel reinforced the order. He gave a curt command and the soldiers filed out except for one sergeant and the doors closed behind them. We shuffled into a line to face our captor.

He said, 'I am Colonel Maksa, commander of the fifteenth Infantry Battalion of the Nyalan Peoples' Liberation Army. I am here in pursuit of an unfriendly military force under the command of Captain Sadiq. I have reason to think you are shielding them in an act of aggression against the Nyalan Peoples' Republic and I intend to have this information from you.'

'Colonel, we really don't -' Wingstead began.

'Be silent! I will ask you in due course. I will begin by knowing all your names and your business, starting with you.' He thrust the shotgun in the direction of Ritchie Thorpe, who was at the far end of the line.

'Uh… Mister Wingstead?'

Wingstead nodded gently. 'As the Colonel says, Ritch. Just tell him your name.'

'I'm Richard Thorpe. I work for Mister Wingstead there. For Wyvern Transport.'

The gun's muzzle travelled to the next man. 'You?'

'Bert Proctor. I drive a rig for Wyvern. I'm English.'

'Me too. Derek Grafton, Wyvern Transport.'

'Sam Wilson. Driver…'

The roll call continued. Some were sullen, one or two clearly terrified, a couple displayed bravado, but no-one refused to answer. The nurses, clustered together, answered in Nyalan but Dr Kat refused to do so, speaking only English and trying to get in a word about his patients. Maksa brushed him aside and went on down the line. Once the flow of voices stopped Maksa said icily, 'Well? Do you refuse to name yourself?'

Zimmerman raised his voice.

'Colonel, they don't understand you. They don't speak English.'

'Who are they?'

'They're Russians: truck drivers. Their names are -' and he supplied the two names which the rest of us could never remember. Maksa's brows converged and he said, 'Russians? I find that most interesting. You speak Russian, then?'

'Yes, a little.'

'Who are you?'

'Harry Zimmerman. I'm a blaster for Lat-Am Oil, and I'm an American. And I don't have anything to do with your war or this captain you're after.'

Maksa looked at him coldly. 'Enough! Next?'

As he looked along the line his sergeant whispered to him. The next man was Russ Burns., 'Russell Burns, Lat-Am Oil, a good Texan, and one who doesn't like being shoved around. What are you going to do about it?'

Burns was looking for trouble once again.

'My sergeant tells me he has already had trouble, with you. You insulted my soldiers. Is this true?'

'You're damn right I did! I don't like being pushed around by a bunch of bastards like you.'

He stepped out of the line-up.

'Burns, cut it out!' I said.

Zimmerman added, 'For God's sake, Russ, take it easy.'

The shotgun rose in the Colonel's hand to point straight at the Texan. Burns gave way but was already too late. The Colonel stepped forward and put the muzzle of the shotgun under Burns' chin and tilted his head back.

'You are not very respectful,' Maksa said. 'What is this -has someone tried to kill you already?'

The shotgun rubbed against the bandage round Burns' throat, and he swallowed convulsively. But some mad bravado made him say, That's none of your damn business. I cut myself shaving.'

Maksa smiled genially. 'A man with a sense of humour,' he said, and pulled the trigger.

The top of Burns' head blew off. His body splayed out over the floor, pooled with blood. The line scattered with shock. Maksa backed up near the door and his sergeant flanked him with his own gun at the ready. Someone was puking his guts out, and one of the nurses was down on the warehouse floor in a dead faint. The bloody horror of war had caught up with us.