"You don't know me," Lundt spat. The act was gone now, discarded. The real Lundt surfaced and he didn't have time for the interruption. "This is none of your concern, Morgan. So, turn yourself around and get back out there. I'll join you at the beach and we'll all sail away together, care of the US bloody navy. Now, sod off!"
"How do you know about the beach? About the Navy?" questioned Morgan, his tone accusatory.
At that moment, the rebel officer panicked and launched into clumsy action. He tore a Makarov 9 millimetre automatic from the tatty camouflage holster on his hip and punched it straight out in front of him. He fired wildly at the doorway, straight at Morgan. Rounds went everywhere.
"Damn it," Lundt cried. He reached for the African's gun. "You bloody fool!" He was too late.
Morgan regrouped fast. Leaping to the right, he rolled across the earthen floor and rose up into a firing position behind the Jeep, six feet from where he had dropped out of the line of fire. The startled rebel was still firing at the door when Morgan reappeared with the barrel of his A.KM levelled directly at the man's gut from across the room. Morgan fired one intense burst, three or four rounds, stitching the rebel from groin to neck, puncturing the flesh of his torso. The man staggered and fell backwards against the far wall. Blood sprayed in a great gush from his wounds and splattered over Lundt, who, recoiling from the crossfire, stumbled and fell beside his lifeless accomplice.
"On your feet!" Morgan barked. His mind was awash with the carnage that he was sure had been left in the wake of the man ten feet from him, the man who Vauxhall Cross claimed was a legend. Morgan's mind's eye flashed with images: the charred pieces that had once been, his friend, Sean Collins; the ambushed priest and nuns he'd buried with Fredericks and Arena; Mason's arms held hopelessly across his face as the Puma exploded and fell from the sky; the thousands of bodies now scattered across Malfajiri; and, finally his dream, which had instinctively alerted him to the dangerous threat this man presented.
Morgan could barely contain his anger, and was ready to set upon Lundt with his bare hands when ravenous hordes of pain attacked. He went cold. On the verge of collapse, he tossed the AKM angrily onto the hood of the jeep beside Lundt's carryall, and reached for his tortured ribs. He had to stay focused, or Lundt would disappear for good.
"What the hell happened to you, Lundt?" Morgan demanded. "You've been peddling weapons to these butchers?"
"Don't come at me demanding answers. You should have stayed out of it," retorted Lundt, back on his feet, wiping a thick layer of the dead rebel's blood from his face and neck. His eyes locked onto a growing bloodstain on Morgan's shirt and trousers. "I know you're not SIS. That Chiltonford story is bullshit and you're not MIS. So, who are you really? Army? Scotland Yard? Or, are you something else entirely?"
"You've been supplying them all along?" Morgan accused Lundt through gritted teeth, pain unabated. Itwas now so clear. Collins' suspicions, Lundt's unexplained disappearance and Morgan's earlier speculation that the rebel tactics wreaked a British influence, all made more and more sense. "Oh, come on. You don't think I was in it for the pathetic pension Her Gracious Britannic bloody Majesty would expect me to survive on, do you?" Lundt replied. "She's been more than happy to send me off to all these nice little wars that nobody from the outside world's ever given a toss about. All this time, I've had a nice little earner on the side. Hell, I've made a fortune already. That bag over there." He waved a careless hand towards the front of the Jeep. "That's just a bonus, a pat on the back for a job well done. Now, if you can keep your trap shut and forget about what's happened, I'll split it with you."
'I'm not for sale..." Morgan's eyes were glazing. Swirling clusters of brilliant white stars cascaded across his failing vision like the crepuscular dance of a thousand fireflies. The room was distorting. He was losing too much blood, he knew the signs. "Where have you been getting the weapons? The money?" Morgan demanded clumsily, staving off unconsciousness, barely upright, but finally making sense of Lundt's involvement. "Is that what this is all about, Lundt? Your retirement plan?''
"My new masters aren't the least bit concerned with my politics. I get paid. I do my job. That's all they require of me and it's all I need. No fanciful notions of Queen and Country for me anymore, Morgan. You'd be surprised just how easy it is. There's always someone prepared to put up the cash, and I didn't have to look far, I can tell you."
Victor Lundt was calculating. He could see Morgan struggling. At first he thought Morgan had been shot, but watching closely, Lundt guessed his ribs were cracked. He inched closer towards Morgan, keeping the conversation flowing, keeping hirr.. distracted with the even timbre of his voice.