Caitlin adjusted her headset and hit the push-to-talk button on the secure digital radio. ‘In position,’ she reported quietly.

Rolland’s voice came back in a brief crackle. ‘No discernible movement inside. One guard at the front door. Sniper has him marked.’

‘I’m going in.’

She cut the connection and carefully lifted the wooden panel, just a crack, giving her access to a hallway on the top floor. By threading through a thin black fibre-optic wire plugged into a hand-held display, she was able to recon the hallway. It was clear.

Caitlin removed the hatch and took a length of rope from the heavy utility belt she wore over her black coveralls. Then, tying it to a beam, she rappelled down silently and took a moment to orient herself, imagining Rolland’s floor plans overlaid onto the glowing green setting in front of her. A narrow corridor leading to a stairwell. Two doors on the left, both closed.

A silenced handgun and a fighting knife appeared in her hands.

She glided over to the first door and inserted the fibre-optic wire through the old keyhole. The room appeared to be deserted. She turned the knob. Hinges creaked horribly and she sidestepped, bringing up the pistol. For two minutes she stood, ready to cut down anyone who appeared, but there was nobody inside.

She moved on and repeated the routine. This time her pulse accelerated, as the optic display unit showed her a low-light amplified image of a man, crouched in the corner of the room, pointing a pistol at the door.

A large Caucasian male, with head and arm wounds field-dressed using torn bed sheets, if she was not mistaken. He seemed to be straining to hear any sound that might give away the position of someone in the corridor. Caitlin checked her exposure. Crouched low as she was, off to the side of the door, she was safely out of his line of fire. He was aiming for the centre mass of anyone who walked through the door.

Fuck.

With no idea who he was, or what he was doing there, the man was a complication she did not need. There was no going in and taking him down, though. This guy was primed for trouble.

She took a moment to examine him in the display screen again. He had a good firing position and held the gun as though it were an extension of his body. He didn’t look nervous, self-conscious, or likely to hesitate if he needed to shoot.

He was clean-shaven, and wearing the sort of vest she’d often seen on press photographers. The image was not sharp, unfortunately, but in his pockets, she thought she could make out a notepad, some pens and possibly a small dictaphone, the sort of thing that took little micro-cassettes. If only she could’ve seen the back of his vest, there might have been an identifying logo or something. A lot of reporters used reflective tape to spell out TRESS’ or the acronym of their media affiliates on their backs. Caitlin always thought that just made them easier targets, but journalists were weird. They had some fucked-up ideas.

She had to come to a decision quickly.

The man was almost certainly not part of the group downstairs. He was trapped in the room, doubtless due to their unexpected arrival. There was probably no way of getting in there without him firing off half a mag at the door.

She decided to leave him in place.

He disappeared from the screen as she withdrew the fibre-optic wire. For thirty seconds she crouched, waiting, but no sound or movement came from within. That was actually kind of impressive. This guy was no amateur – but he was not necessarily an ally either.

She began to edge away, eventually making the stairs, where she stood, adjusting herself to the sounds, to the feel of the house. It felt like an inhabited dwelling, but that wasn’t down to any bullshit sixth sense. She already knew the lower floors were occupied. What she didn’t know was where her targets were holed up.

She listened, willing her nausea to recede to the edge of her consciousness, breathing as she had been taught, to settle her nervous system.

She could hear the angry rumble of battle. A jet aircraft shrieking low to the west.

The creaking and settling of the building as the ground underneath moved fractionally in response to the pounding of high explosives and the grinding of heavy armour through streets no more than a mile away.

A radio, playing Arabic music.

Snoring. Some muttering, but not conversational – probably someone talking in their sleep.

The clink of china cups or glasses.

Quiet laughter.

And then a ringing in her ears, which had been constant for two weeks. Her pulse and heartbeat. The silent advance of the tumour that was eating her from the inside out.

Caitlin floated down the stairs, using a technique she had studied under the Ninjutsu master Harunaka Hoshino, who had trained her to cross a nightingale floor with a minimum of noise. There was no way to eliminate the singing of the boards, but Hoshino taught her to quieten its chirping. The stairs of the old French residence were no challenge after that.

She paused on the second last step. The house was dark, the power grid having failed long ago, but with her NVGs she could make out a weak, fluttering light emanating from under two of the four doors on this floor. She stilled herself, becoming as stonelike as a human being could, and opening all of her senses wide to let the world rush in.

She smelt old food. Meat gone cold. And coffee.

A body shifted and rolled over on the floor nearby, lifting up slightly, and settling back down with a light thump.

A sheet or blanket rustled.

A wind-up clock ticked.

In one of the lighted rooms a page turned.

Every hair on Caitlin’s body bristled, in an ancient autonomic response to danger – a hangover from her animal ancestors.

She glided down the hallway to the door behind which she knew at least one man was awake and reading. Again, she settled into stillness and allowed the life of the building – just a soft heartbeat and a murmured breath here, at this dead hour – to flow into her.

Another page turned and she heard mumbling in Arabic from the same room: ‘O ye who believe! When ye meet the Unbelievers in hostile array, never turn your backs on them. If any do turn his back to them on such a day - unless it be in a stratagem of war, or to retreat to his own troops - he draws on himself the wrath of Allah and his abode is Hell, an evil refuge indeed.’

Caitlin visualised the small room on the other side of the door. A single bedroom, probably given to a child in happier days. A window overlooking the street behind. No connecting doors to either room beside it.