But Lundt's thoughts were already elsewhere, beyond the immediate action in the street. As they so often did, memories of the most brutal battle of his life - the advaece to Port Stanley in the Falklands in '82 - resurfaced.
"What can I do?" The rebel was more insistent, shaking the Englishman back to the present.
Lundt was tired. It was hot. It had been all day. The back of his shirt and his hair were soaked. He wanted to take his money and diamonds and go. He glanced at the rebel dismissively, barely able to disguise his contempt. The man was way out of his depth. Lundt sighed heavily. He didn't feel like giving this pretender a lesson in tactics. He glanced at his watch, skulled the last dregs of water from a plastic canteen, then turned to the African with a resigned shrug.
"Listen up, Napoleon. If those crack troops of yours can't work it out for themselves, now would be a good time to break out those SPG-9s and RPG-7s that I got you," he offered blandly. "Anti-armour weapons are perfect for sorting out the kind of problems you've got out there. They'll take care of the Government troops behind those cars. And you should bring your mortars forward, too. You lot have been advancing so sodding fast today that I bet the bloody mortars have been left behind, well out of range. They'll be landing on us soon if you don't move 'em."
Suddenly a jarring crash and the sound of splintering wood shattered the relative calm of their scheming, causing them both to spin around, hearts pounding.
Alex Morgan stood in the doorway he'd just kicked in, weapon at the ready. In that moment, Lundt's blue and brown eyes locked upon Morgan like a Rapier missile unit onto an enemy aircraft. Just as Davenport had said: difficult to forget. Lundt's looks didn't fit the mould of a secret agent, far too memorable, thought Morgan.
"Jesus!" Lundt exclaimed - then instantly recovered. Years of covert work had prepared him to regain the initiative whenever the operational landscape changed, however unexpectedly. This had to be Morgan. His face matched the image Turner had sent. Lundt had to buy time. His only option was to see what Morgan knew. "Who are you?" he blurted, in a manner that was deliberately troubled but composed. "Thank God you're here!"
"Save it," said Morgan, bracing himself against the doorframe. He wasn't about to be conned. "You're not going to talk your way out of this, Lundt."
The scene was itself incriminating. The African was clearly not Malfajiri army. He was a rebel, and that meant Lundt was collaborating. Morgan could see it with his own eyes and knew it deep within his gut. The memory of Lundt's face that had emerged so strongly within his dream, had been Morgan's subconscious delivering him an early warning. That was all he needed. Morgan didn't need to satisfy any Judges' Rules on a mission. As long as it fell into what Davenport called 'beyond your reasonable doubt'. "You may find this hard to believe but there's no mistaking a mug like yours. I know exactly who you are."
The two men faced each other down, like two pit bulls preparing to attack.
"What ifI am Lundt?" the other man said. He took a sly pace forward.
"So, you know who I am. Big deal. Who the hell are you? Army? Chiltonford? You here to get me out?" he scoffed.
"My name's Morgan. I work for Chiltonford. And, yeah, you could say that I'm here to take you out." Morgan's eyes darted between Lundt and the threatening figure of the African hovering in the background. "Everybody thinks you're dead anyway. I doubt anybody's actually going to miss you." The pain was building, Morgan grabbed at his side. Not now! Morgan's mouth was dry. There was gunfire outside, growing in intensity, coming closer. "Who's your friend?"
"A friend," Lundt replied, straining to see what was happening outside, noting that Morgan was injured.
The battle behind Morgan erupted.
An explosion of opposing small arms fire sliced through their confrontation. The battle was closing in on them. This was not what Lundt had planned. He needed to get out. "So, you reckon you're going to take me out. I don't know if you've realised it yet, sonny, but you can barely stand." Lundt took another pace forward, but Morgan didn't notice. "Come on, let's get out of here and forget all this shit. You look like you need a medic. Here, let me help." Lundt stepped forward, closing the gap. "Like you helped Collins?" Morgan accused. He held the AK rock steady and level. The sound of rocket-propelled grenades exploding and heavy automatic fire broke through his pain-induced state. 'I'm not buying it, and this is not helping your case," he said pointedly, glancing at the carryall in front of Lundt, and back at the African.
The rebel officer was confused. His eyes dashed between the two men. He had no comprehension of what was being said, but knew this new arrival was a threat.