''I know.''

''Our own planes. Cleansing the scene.''

''I know,'' David said again.

''To shut us up. And so there'd be no bodies. No evidence. Nothing for the Nephs to parade on TV. Just a ruddy great mess of rubble that both sides can claim the other did.''

The term that Captain Maradi had used popped up in David's mind: deniability. ''We all know we're expendable.''

''Still,'' said McAllister. ''The stupid wee bastards.''

''That's the military, Sergeant McAllister. That, in a nutshell, is who we work for. A bunch of stupid wee bastards. And some might say we're stupid wee bastards ourselves, for working for them. Look on the bright side. The bombing freed us.''

''Not that that was the plan.'' McAllister gave a cough that was a laugh or a laugh that was a cough. He fumbled with the small, shatterproof glass phial that hung on a chain around his neck. ''You'll… you'll do the necessary for me, sir?''

It was a last request. David nodded.

''You're not so bad, you know,'' McAllister said. ''For a poncey English posho.''

''I'll be sure to have that carved on my gravestone.''

Within the hour, the sergeant was dead.

David unstoppered the phial and dribbled myrrh onto McAllister's bare chest. At the same time he murmured the Prayer of Anointment.

''Lord Osiris, Ruler of the Netherworld, I commend to you the ka of Malcolm McAllister, that his sins may be judged kindly by wise Maat in the Hall of Judgement at the Weighing of the Heart, and that he may pass on safely into the care of your nephew Anubis for all eternity.''

The myrrh's sickly-sweet odour rose in David's nostrils, so cloying he wanted to gag.

''With this oil I purify and sanctify his mortal remains and raise him to a state of holy grace, that he may be worthy in your eyes, O Hundred-Named One.''