“Move, move,” he hissed, herding them inside. Turning round, he saw Rehmatullah, the head waiter, emerge from the kitchen, carrying a plate of biriyani. Amit waved his arms wildly. “Rehmatullah!” The gunman had spotted him too and squeezed off a burst, catching the old man in the chest, throwing him on to his back, the tray clattering to the floor, rice flying around the room. For good measure, he then bowled a grenade towards the buffet counter, just as Amit’s assistant manager emerged to see what the noise was about. “Run,” Amit screamed, as the grenade detonated, shattering the crystal chandeliers, throwing the room into a jagged and choking darkness as his assistant rolled out of the way. Stunned by the sheer noise of the blast, Amit lay motionless for a moment. What about his chef, the ‘Indefatigable Rego’? Desperate for a way out, Amit scanned the restaurant and his eyes came to rest on the “dead door”. Normally a live band played in front, but he remembered it led into the gardens beside the pool terrace. Hidden in the shrubbery was the hotel’s transformer room from where another door opened out into Merry Weather Road: a secret door to the street. It was a long shot but their only chance. Amit ran to the door, tugging and charging it. He kicked and kicked, tumbling out into the night air. He was out. For a few seconds he lay there, looking up at the stars. “Amit, save yourself. Run for your life.” Could he live with that decision? He thought of his parents in Pune, philanthropic GPs who often worked for nothing. He could not. Amit got up and went back inside. “Into the bushes,” he whispered, counting 31 diners out of Shamiana and into the undergrowth, hushing the drunks who giggled and growled.