Part One

The Greatorex Imperative

Synopsis

A series of mysterious disappearances is causing concern to
police forces along the coast of Florida. Several oil tankers
are sunk in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, evidently by
bombs planted by eco-terrorists. In Pakistan, al-Qaeda
militants plan a coup d’etat with the help of weapons an
international arms dealer, posing as a worker for an aid
agency, someone is smuggling into the country.
These seemingly disparate matters cannot possibly be
connected; or can they? When an IPL tanker is lost, Caroline
Kent is sent to investigate the sinking, and soon discovers
that they are. The disappearances, the bombings, and the
terrorists are all strands in the web of intrigue and deceit
woven by a frighteningly powerful multinational company,
whose head with a plan to reshape the world for the
better…..a plan which is dangerously misguided….


ONE
He was an ordinary-looking man, easy to ignore.
Every few days he would spend an hour or so wandering about
the streets and plazas of Miami, strolling lazily with his
hands in his pockets and letting his eyes roam over the
crowds in a disinterested fashion.

He was an ordinary-looking man, and he dressed rather
shabbily because he wanted them to think he was just an idle
loafer, no doubt unemployed, with nothing to do but plod
about gazing vaguely at everyone. There were such types.
Nobody spared him more than a brief initial glance before
looking away, and then forgetting he had ever been there.
And when he entered the crowd he became lost in it like
everyone else. To others he ceased to exist as an individual,
which made his task a lot easier.

When the crowds were particularly thick no-one could see
what he was up to. He could do the job and then be gone, just
one of hundreds of people going about their daily business in
the streets of the city, before anyone fully realised what
had happened, and linked the incident to a particular face.
After a while he had managed to perfect the art of observation, studying people in a manner casual enough not to arouse any suspicions. He would wait till the crowds were at their densest,
then select his target and zero in on them. If by then they
had moved too far away, or he'd simply lost them, there would
usually be some other suitable candidate within reach.

There had to be some criteria. The younger the people were
the better, although a healthy middle-aged person would
usually do if no-one else was available. Otherwise, he made
the choice purely at random. It couldn't be done too often or
people would become wary and sooner or later catch him in the
act. But it was now a couple of weeks since the last time.
Today he was on the look-out again, mingling anonymously with
the dozens of bodies in bustling motion or occasionally
finding a little niche in a doorway or someplace where he
stood watching, waiting and from time to time fingering the
smooth, cold, slender, sharp metallic object in his pocket.



You may or may not have heard of chaos theory.
Basically it holds that a given system, whether it be for
the organization of an entire nation, an industrial concern,
or a single event such as a business conference, is more
likely to go wrong the greater the number and complexity of
the different tasks involved. Because the more complex
something is, the more the number of ways in which it can
malfunction. And in an imperfect world, malfunctions are
always on the cards.

Society has undoubtedly become more sophisticated during the
last couple of hundred years, technologically and socially.
People have become more sophisticated, in the way they think
and behave, their needs and desires; in each person's social
and professional life there are a multitude of conflicting
considerations which have to be met.

In each case, some of the problems may be peculiar to the
concern in question. Other, external factors which are
nothing to do with the internal structure of the operation
are also at work, the inherent weaknesses of the system
interacting with the imperfection of the world in general.
The errors, wherever they may be found, are of various
different kinds. There is human error, of course. And machine
error; for machines, being themselves complex, are no less
prone to go wrong than people (who of course designed them in
the first place). There are problems resulting from long-term
policies which have a certain justification but at the same
time can be extremely dangerous in their consequences. Hiring
cheap labour in order to cut costs leads to falling
standards, as does demoralisation among old hands due to the
sense that with such a policy one's own job is not safe.
There are faults, foreseen or unforeseen, in particular
individuals or items of equipment. And finally there is pure
chance. Any two or more of these factors can combine to
create a disaster, joining up with one another to form the
fault lines along which the structure will split open in a
crisis.

It was a sunny, but at the same time chilly, spring day and
the oil tanker Atlantic Herald was cruising steadily through
the English Channel bound for the terminal at Fawley near
Southampton, on the last leg of her return journey from Baton
Rouge, Louisiana, in the south-eastern United States, where
the oil had been pumped on board. Britain was no longer a net
exporter of the black stuff, her native supplies having
dwindled considerably in recent decades though not yet to the
point of exhaustion. She imported it now, one major source of
the commodity being currently the United States. The Herald's
cargo of black gold came from the extensive oilfields in the
vicinity of Houston, Texas.

The Herald was a VLCC (Very Large Crude Carrier), 335 metres
in length - longer altogether than the Eiffel tower and
almost as long as the Empire State Building - and 57 in
width. With her holds full of the oil she weighed altogether
some 50,000 tons.

In an hour or so the massive vessel would slow, and its
enormous bulk turn ponderously through ninety degrees before
heading up Southampton Water to Fawley and there discharging
its load to be refined into petroleum for use in cars,
aircraft, trains, buses, plus a whole range of miscellaneous
industrial products.

At the same time that the Herald was just passing Land's End
another tanker, the Alicia from Rotterdam, was heading in her
approximate direction, bound for Nigeria.

Built in Hong Kong, the Alicia was owned by a Maltese and
registered in Panama. After the disaster the blame for what
had happened was to be shunted back and forth between the
owner, the authorities in the country under whose flag the
ship had been sailing, and the Dutch-based body set up to
check that all vessels using Holland’s ports were properly
maintained, causing the accident investigators no end of
frustration.

The Alicia was an old ship, constructed twenty-five years
before and now experiencing various mechanical and structural
problems, as were other ships built at the same time and as
part of the same batch. She ought to have been retired from
service long ago, or at least undergone a major refit. But in
order to drive down soaring freight rates, safety factors
were being pared to the bone. It was cheaper to operate an
ancient vessel crewed by cheap foreign labour, men who were
often poorly trained, did not speak each others' languages
and did not fully understand how to operate radar systems and
other vital equipment. The ship's Dutch captain was far from
happy with the situation, but didn't complain to the heads of
the shipping company because he was afraid of losing his job.
Such scenarios are not uncommon in the world of shipping;
indeed in many other branches of industry, sad to say.
Eventually, however, the Dutchman did complain - and lost his
job.

Despite their faults the crews did work hard, especially the
Filipinos and other Asians whose respectful and obedient
attitude to authority was always appreciated by those in
command. And to give him his due the Dutchman's replacement,
Polish-born Captain Stanislaus Krasowski, did his best with
the material he had to work with, running things as
efficiently as possible and stepping in personally to handle
things whenever a subordinate proved incompetent – which
added dangerously to his workload and subjected him to levels
of stress that may have impaired his judgement at a critical
moment.

The technical defects, and the poor communications between
crew and officers, probably had something to do with what
occurred. More directly, it was due to an unfortunate
combination of several adverse factors. There had been a
fault with the radar, which was repaired just before
Krasowski took over as master of the Alicia. It had not been
his responsibility to oversee the job, for he had not been
captain then; he naturally assumed it had been done
correctly, when in fact it wasn't. At the same time poor
weather obscured visibility for several miles. The officer of
the watch, whose job it was to maintain a visual lookout as a
kind of failsafe should the electronic "early warning"
systems malfunction, was not at his post when he should have
been. The reason was that he was depressed over the impending
breakup of his marriage and thus somewhat preoccupied.
When the Herald came suddenly bearing down out of the fog,
Captain Krasowski did not respond as quickly to the emergency
as he might have done if less tired. The order to change
course was given just too late to avoid a collision.
The Alicia was a few thousands tons lighter than the Herald,
but still big enough for the impact to do considerable
damage. The Herald struck the other ship at a slight angle,
its sharp prow ripping a several-hundred-foot long gash in
her side, exactly at the point where her oil storage tanks
were located. Under anti-pollution rules laid down by the
International Maritime Organisation all tankers built after
1993 had a double-skinned hull to prevent oil leakage should
they run aground or collide with another vessel. But the
Alicia, built before that date, did not have a double-skinned
hull. Seven of her eleven tanks were ruptured and immediately
the thick, viscous black liquid began to gush out into the
sea. Five of the Herald's were also punctured and soon a vast
lake of oil surrounded both ships. It was extremely fortunate
- miraculous, one might say - that nothing happened to ignite
it, as then hundreds of men would have burnt alive in their
great steel coffins.

The crews of both tankers were airlifted to safety by
helicopter. No human lives were lost. But that wasn’t the end
of the matter, by any means.

Oil is too viscous to mix with seawater and be diluted by
it, but instead floats. Soon the stuff had formed a heavy
black skin on the surface, an ugly stain which gradually
spread across the blue-grey waters like a growing cancer. The
wave action on that particular day was enough to move the
slick in the direction of the Cornish coast, but not enough
to break it up before it got there.

Marine birds which settled on the water became covered in
it, and either drowned or lost their natural insulation and
died of exposure. Distressing images were soon being shown on
TV of a seagull floundering in the water, flapping its wings
furiously as it struggled in vain to take off, dragged down
by the coating of black slime that matted its feathers. But
it was diving birds such as puffins and guillemots which were
most at risk.

Of course there was a clean-up operation but it came too
late to prevent crippling ecological damage, as the black
contagion poisoned and suffocated the things in the sea. Soon
dead seals were being washed up in scores and fishermen were
reporting a decline in catches. Whole colonies of animals
disappeared as not enough individuals remained for them to be
viable. This upset the ecological balance of the region.
The oil in beds of mussels got up the food chain, which had
already been weakened by the general effects of the spill,
and was ingested by predatory seabirds who began rapidly to
die off. With nothing to control their numbers the
herbivorous species multiplied until they were eating so much
that vast areas of shore and seabed were almost denuded of
plant life.

Then there were the economic, the human, consequences of the
disaster. Apart from the damage to the livelihood of
fishermen, holiday beaches were ruined and the tourist
industry dealt a shattering blow. It would take several years
at least for things to recover.
All in all, you might say it was a bit of a mess.



In jeans and lumberjack shirt Ted Alberman walked deep in
the woods of Northern California with his two Alsatian dogs,
a shotgun over his shoulder and a brace of dead rabbits
hanging from his belt. He’d decided the rabbits would do
nicely for his supper that evening. Some of them he’d shot,
some the dogs had caught. He felt no qualms about adopting an
existence where he had to personally kill his food in order
to survive. After all people who ate the processed remains of
cattle, sheep, pigs or poultry which had been slaughtered on
a farm were committing much the same crime, if crime it was.
And death – living things preying on each other for
sustenance or to defend their territory – was part of Mother
Nature’s grand scheme. That scheme was perhaps not fully
comprehended by Man, maybe never would be, but although
nature was harsh you knew where you stood with her, as long
as you took the trouble to understand her. The main point was
that she never meant to harm you, unlike people. Animals
respected you, humans didn’t. He could say without fear of
contradiction that he’d got more loyalty out of his dogs than
from any man or woman.

And that was why he sought nature’s company and avoided that
of his own species. Except, of course, for those of its
members who were of like mind to himself. Though he hadn’t
been actively involved with the Resurrection Men for some
time, deciding to batten down his hatches and await the
oncoming holocaust rather than take part in a fruitless
struggle against the impregnable power of big industry and
its allies in the political establishment.

When the time came, and we finally destroyed ourselves,
nature would reclaim its own. Nature would be the victor and
his best chance of survival would be to throw in his lot with
it. Once again, he paused to breathe in the cool, fresh,
unpolluted air of the forest and felt good. While the dogs
waited patiently he stood for a few moments listening to the
chatter of birdsong, the only thing that disturbed the
peaceful silence of the forest he had made his home. Then he
moved on, back towards the little log cabin that served as
his home.

Outside that cabin a station wagon was parked, with two men
in the front. Waiting for Alberman. They felt a certain
apprehension; maybe the guy had gone crazy, living all alone
in the middle of these woods miles from anywhere with only
animals for company, and if he’d been associated with a bunch
of crazies like the Resurrection Men….

Both men wore casual clothes, since the sight of a suit and
tie would immediately excite the hostility of the man they
wanted to speak to. It would smack too much of
“civilization”.

“You’re sure he’s not in?” one said to the other. “Maybe he
just isn’t taking any calls. The way he’s trained himself, he
probably spotted us a mile off.”

“We’ll give it a while,” his companion grunted. “This is too
good an opportunity to lose. Hey – I think I can hear someone
coming.”

They waited, listening. Suddenly two large dogs burst from
the trees to their left, at the fringes of the clearing where
the cabin stood, and then skidded to a halt, eyeing the car
balefully and growling.

They heard the tramp of heavy, booted feet and a little
later saw Alberman emerge from the woods, stiffening on
catching sight of them. He put down the rabbits, levelled his
shotgun and approached the car, eyes narrowed, lips tightly
set in an expression of pure hostility.

Assuming Alberman was still basically sane, he wouldn’t be
likely to shoot them, would he? Risk a murder charge? But
then right out in the middle of this dense wood, with no-one
else about…he could wait until nightfall and then bury the
bodies….

The dogs were prowling round the car with low, menacing
snarls. Alberman shouted a series of commands and they ran
back to him, sitting themselves down at his feet. By now he
was in earshot of the car. “What do you want?” he snapped.
One of the men got out of the car and went towards Alberman
with a friendly smile on his face, spreading his arms to show
he wasn’t carrying any weapons. “Mr Alberman?” The ex-soldier
noted that he spoke in an English accent, though not the sort
the Queen or the Prime Minister had.

Alberman could sense the nervousness behind the smile. The
man obviously guessed that he was keyed up to shoot at the
merest hint of aggression. “Yeah?” he rasped.
“I wonder if we might have a word with you?”
“Who are you?” he demanded, his voice cold and hostile.
“How’d you know my name?”

“We have our sources.” The remark was a tad clichéd, and
told you absolutely nothing. Alberman’s face grew darker. “Oh
yeah? You gonna leave it at that? And I asked who you were,
pal, in case you’d forgotten.”

The man wasn’t going to reveal who he worked for at this
stage, just in case Alberman decided not to play ball. They
intended of course to kill him if he didn’t, but there was
always the chance something might go wrong. “Nowadays it's
not too difficult to find out something about someone, if you
put your mind to it,” he said.
True, Alberman thought.

“As for who we are, that doesn’t matter right now.”
“They always say that when they’re out to get you. I’m not
fucking stupid. Either give it to me straight or get the hell
out of here, unless you want a coupla bullets in you.”
There was simply no way of telling if the threat was serious.
This was the moment when the man would be putting his life
on the line. He swallowed, braced himself. “We know about you
and the Resurrection Men.”

Alberman frowned. He could shoot these guys here and now,
but if they were to vanish the others in this mysterious
organization would tell the cops what they knew. “Fair
enough,” he grunted. “Checkmate. What do you want me to do?”

“Shall we go inside and talk about it?” The Englishman
gestured towards the door of the cabin.

Silently, Albermann unlocked it and went in, the two German
Shepherds bounding after him, eager for their supper. The
Englishman and his colleague followed. On entering and
looking around they saw the guns of various kinds – rifles,
shotguns, pistols, revolvers – lying about the room, along
with the catalogues that had advertised them, or hanging on
the wall as trophies. The collection included old-fashioned
Webleys and Smith and Wessons as well as, going to the other
end of the scale, the M16s and Uzis and Kalashnikovs used by
modern soldiers; with his connections it probably wouldn’t
have been too difficult for Alberman to lay his hands on
them.

Alberman pushed forward a couple of rough-hewn wooden chairs
and gestured to his visitors to sit. A third was positioned
by the log fire in the corner, and Alberman lowered himself
into it, sitting so that his gun was aimed at a point about
halfway between them. The dogs took up position on either
side of their master, crouched on their haunches, no doubt
ready to attack at his command.
“OK, shoot,” he grunted.

“Mr Alberman, bearing in mind your opinions as to where the
world is heading I think you’ll be interested in the
proposition I’m about to make,” the Englishman said. “A
better one than being on the run from the law, or having to
hide yourself away here all the time. The FBI will probably
find out about your connections with the Rezzies, sooner or
later. You're lucky we happened to get to you first. You may
no longer be actively involved with them but I doubt if
that’d make any difference.

"The Resurrection Men are a proscribed organisation. They’re
officially listed as a terrorist organisation. Being a member
of it alone would land you in prison, maybe for life. But
more than that, you took part in a series of bombings it
carried out of government buildings in the 90s, in which
quite a few people died. That’d mean the death penalty.”
Alberman’s finger curled round the shotgun’s trigger. “Stop
threatening me and tell me what this is all about.”

So the man explained his organisation’s plans. It took some
time for Alberman to be convinced; every now and then he
would shake his head slowly and say the whole thing was
completely nuts. But the fact that they’d known where to find
him illustrated clearly that they had the sources, had the
power, had the means, and it wouldn’t be wise to defy them.
Then there was his visitor’s obvious sincerity about it all.
And it wasn’t the sincerity of the insane; Alberman could
tell when he was dealing with a nutcase. Besides, he liked
what he was hearing, the whole idea of it. It made sense.
Whoever these people were, he certainly couldn't hate them
more than he did the society which had made an outcast of him
just because of one stupid, drunken act of rowdy behaviour,
despite his fine record in the first Gulf War.

“It’s your choice, Mr Alberman,” the other man said when his
colleague had finished. “But you’re just the sort of person
we’re looking for. And I can assure you you won’t regret it.
You’d like the chance to use all your old skills again,
wouldn’t you? And in a good cause too. Of course, there might
have to be one or two sacrifices.”

That night, tears in his eyes, Alberman took the two dogs
out and shot them. The trusting look in their eyes, up to the
moment he pulled the trigger, rent his heart in two. But
there hadn’t really been any other way, he told himself. So
he got on with the task of burying them and then collecting
together a few personal belongings before spending his last
night ever in the little shack. The following morning the
Englishman was back to collect him. His feelings were mixed
as they drove out of the forest and onto the main highway
going south. He’d decided to leave the hut as it was, perhaps
to moulder away gradually until it was reclaimed by nature,
unless anyone else decided to make it their home. If they did
they would find no clues as to where he had gone.

At about the same time that they left the shack, Jesus de
Santo was lying in bed in his tenement flat in one of the
poorer suburbs of New York, staring fixedly at the crack
running the length of the ceiling and morbidly contemplating
the bad turn his life had taken. Because there was little
else left to do, these days.

An exemplary record of serving his country, risking his life
for it, in Iraq (twice), Somalia and Afghanistan; and now
here he was, out of a job, with barely enough money to pay
for the rent of the apartment, eviction seeming a likely
prospect in the near future. It had started when he’d been
diagnosed as suffering from Gulf War Syndrome and discharged
from the Army, to re-enter civilian life as a clerk in a
government department. In time he’d got over the trauma which
had rendered him unfit for military service, but the Army
refused to take him back, as if he was somehow contaminated.
It was that, more than anything he’d suffered in Iraq, which
caused him to freak out. In the Army there had been the
thrill of combat, the buzz that came with the knowledge you
were going into action, and you had no idea how things were
going to turn out, how many kills you’d make if any. When you
did take out one of the enemy it was exhilarating in a way he
liked to think wasn’t cruel and could be enjoyed with a clear
conscience. He’d relished any chance to strike a blow for his
country, against regimes which stood in the path of truth and
justice....at least that was how he had seen it. Then there
was the feeling of belonging to a team, the sense of
comradeship with a bunch of good guys doing a job you could
take pride in.

And above all the Army gave purpose and order to his life.
Admittedly, you got that as a bureaucrat, but it was order
without any accompanying joy. Where was the thrill in getting
washed and dressed, having breakfast, then going to work
every day in an office where the worst thing that could
happen to you was being killed by a falling box of paper
clips, maybe. Performing humdum, repetitive, soul-destroying
tasks, and listening to boring people drone on and on about
their personal problems until you felt like smashing their
faces in only of course you couldn’t.

People thought the army dehumanised you by making you just a
number, nameless cannon fodder, a faceless cog in the whole
vast military machine. That was bullshit. He had only
really found himself there. He’d been someone whereas now he
felt a non-person, an empty husk from whom all the energy,
the motivation, the zest for life had drained away. He wasn’t
a man.

He simply couldn’t adjust. The anger and frustration had
built up until he'd begun to make mistakes, snap at people.
There'd been one or two unfortunate incidents and he'd been
asked to leave his job. From then on he’d been unemployable,
forced every two weeks to join the line of miserable,
slouching figures queueing up to receive their cheques at the
local benefit office, to live in this cramped little shithole
where there was mould and damp on the walls, the
bathwater was lukewarm, and the central heating didn’t work
properly in winter or the fridge in summer. This was how he
was rewarded.

It was hopeless. The Army had abandoned him, the government
had abandoned him, his family had abandoned him. Nobody had
any interest in him any more, because no-one had any time,
any respect, for losers in this country. He didn’t even have
anything worth stealing. Which was why he was surprised when
his morbid reflections were interrupted by someone knocking
on the door.

Thousands of miles away on the other side of the Atlantic, a
former member of Britain’s Parachute Regiment who worked in a
small café in one of the seedier districts of Glasgow was
approached by two men while about to get into his car in the
car park at the rear of the premises and go home, late one
night after the establishment had closed. They had been
careful to choose a moment when no-one else was around. They
informed him they had proof he was not who he said he was,
but rather a wanted criminal who had been on the run since he
was identified as the ringleader in an armed robbery south of
the border a couple of years earlier, in which a man had been
killed, and was living under an assumed name, his appearance
changed by the shaving off of his facial hair plus a little
plastic surgery. He had turned to crime because in his view
the Army had failed to provide for him adequately after his
discharge from service.
"Are you blackmailing me?” he demanded.

“We’re simply offering you a choice,” they said. “Between us
turning you in and you agreeing to work for us. After all
it’s not nice, is it, living a lie; going to the bother of
making up a false identity for yourself and hoping nobody
sees through it. Always the fear that somehow they’ll find
out who you really are, track you down and take away your
freedom. And I don’t think you were ever really happy except
in the Army, were you? Of course, this won’t be quite the
same thing. But it’s better than any of the alternatives. And
where you’re going nobody will ever find you, believe me,
however much they know and however hard they try.”

Ronnie McGuigan was intrigued, if nothing else. “Tell me
more,” he said.


TWO
The tanker's name was the Herbert Rutherford. She was 200 feet wide and 1300 long, and when fully laden with oil weighed 550,000 tons. At the moment though her tanks were empty, for she was about to embark on the outward journey from Fawley to Baton Rouge to pick up the equivalent of another two million barrels.

The terminal authorities and the local agents for both International Petroleum Limited, the crew’s employers, and the company who owned the tanker had been notified that sailing was imminent, and the pilot and tugs summoned to attend the vessel in readiness for her departure. The engines, communications systems, radar, navigation lights, gyroscopes and magnetic compasses were checked to see that they were in proper working order, and the results of all these tests recorded in the deck and engine room log books. Needless to say, the personnel carrying them out bore the fates of the Atlantic Herald and the Alicia very much in mind.

Meanwhile the ship was taking water into her ballast tanks; this was essential in order to ensure she was sufficiently heavy to immerse the hull deep enough in the water for her propellor and rudder to function effectively, and that she was stable, able to ride the waves without undue pitching and rolling and therefore safe.

Once the company's agent had delivered his port clearance certificate to the Rutherford's captain, the unberthing procedure and outbound passage had been discussed with the pilot and any possible problems identified and dealt with, the crew were called to their stations. Resplendent in his braided peaked cap and white short-sleeved shirt with shoulder flashes, Captain Rob Hemmings stepped aboard.

The tugs were made fast, any loose equipment secured, the anchors raised, and finally the Rutherford was ready to leave. The route she would follow was the shortest distance to her destination after taking into account the weather and the density of other marine traffic.

It was dark when the ship slid smoothly from her berth, moving at a steady pace down the Water towards the open sea. At the top of the tanker's superstructure, located near the stern with most of the vessel's length stretching away before it into seeming infinity, Captain Hemmings stood leaning on the safety rail, reflecting on the period of shore leave that had just come to an end and on another voyage just begun.

He wondered vaguely if anything interesting would happen during the passage. It usually didn't, but in any case excitement was not the reason why he liked his job; rather, it was the feeling of being sole master of the mighty ship beneath him. And because of the solitude of being so far from land most of the time, despite the presence of the crew and his ability to get on well with them all.

Hemmings was better provided for than the pioneers of intercontinental sea travel, hundreds of years ago; nowadays each crew member, from the captain to the galley boy, had his own en-suite cabin. But he felt just as remote from "civilisation" with all its manifold stresses. It was a job where from time to time you could stop and contemplate your life, and in the process remember who you were.

You couldn't explain why the sea got into your blood, the mystic attraction it held over some people. Nobody could.

The lights of the terminal, and of the refinery over to the west, clustered together like a colony of glow-worms, surrounded by a strange pearly mist like stardust. And in a few weeks' time, he thought, that fairytale scene would welcome him home again. He gazed at it dreamily, listening to the comforting monotony of the engines' steady throbbing, and felt at peace.

Hemmings’ one source of dissatisfaction with his life as a sea captain was the long weeks, sometimes months, it kept him apart from his family. And also, he thought with a wry smile, it was a little more difficult these days to find the relief and recreation you sought while on shore; to do some of the things you couldn't thousands of miles out to sea, separated from your wife or girlfriend. He was getting too old for that sort of thing anyway, but understood how the younger men felt.

Eastward, the lights of Southampton were scattered like glinting jewels upon the night’s dark blanket. The sight of them brought back wistful memories. There was a time when a fair portion of a merchant seaman's wages went towards buying relief from sexual tension in the red light districts east of the city centre. Now the girls had gone from there, and from Portsmouth too, driven out by police "clean-up" campaigns and increasing public hostility. He saw the locals' point of view, but all the same a part of him still wistfully regretted what had happened. The girls had been quite nice, some of them at any rate, and usually organised crime to give it its due had kept things from getting out of hand. Altogether the area had had a certain seedy character, which was now totally destroyed.
But times changed.

Contemplating life and what it was all about, in so far as you could know, Hemmings gazed down at the reflection of the lights, dancing like a swarm of fireflies on the moonlit surface of the water as it rippled gently beneath him.

Once the Rutherford was out in the Solent the tugs cast off, the pilot disembarked and the giant tanker continued on her pre-planned course, swinging slowly round to face towards America several thousands of miles away. The anchors were secured in place and the pipe where the anchor chain entered the deck structure covered with tarpaulin and cement to ensure there could be no water ingress in bad weather.

Hemmings couldn’t help thinking about the Atlantic Herald, but he had little doubt that such a catastrophe would not happen on this voyage. IPL were as powerful and, he was sure, as ruthless as any other multinational company but they looked after their employees - recognising of course that it was in their own interest to do so. They had made absolutely sure every item of equipment was in perfect working order, and that all foreign crew members understood both the basic and the technical functioning of the ship, so there could be no danger of a collision or any other accident jeopardising its safety or that of the souls on board her.

The radar equipment on the bridge comprised two sets, one of which was an ARPA (automatic radar plotting aid), a computer-controlled system for collision avoidance. It automatically calculated and plotted the position of other vessels or possible collision hazards and graphically represented their projected course on the radar screen. Also located on the bridge were radio and satellite communication systems, course recorders, gyro- and magnetic compasses, and sensors which automatically detected any fire and activated the extinguishers. Each of these systems had a backup in the event of failure.

During the voyage routine maintenance of all the ship's systems would continue, along with continuous training for the crew in health and safety procedures, sea survival, fire fighting, life saving, and accident management. When the weather made it unwise to go out on deck, lectures were held and videos watched in the comfortable warmth of the ship's interior.

The purely human factor in the equation caused Hemmings no worries. The Rutherford carried a crew of 28 - surprisingly small, one might have thought, for such a huge ship, but all that was needed given the high degree of computerization and automation. It meant they were a tightly-knit, fairly friendly bunch, though divided to some extent by differences of nationality and culture. And they had no reason to complain about their lot. When off duty they could enjoy such facilities as satellite TV and video, computer games, stereos, table tennis, a swimming pool and library. By themselves these things could only go some way towards relieving the tension of being cooped up in an all-male environment on a sea voyage which might last several months, albeit followed by a changeover of crew and six to eight weeks’ leave for each man. Contrary to popular supposition, merchant seamen were not all gay. Some were. The gays and the straights maintained good relations, each side keeping apart from the others' sexual politics. No questions were asked, no complaints made. He had no idea what the gays did exactly, but between ports the straights worked off their frustration over girlie magazines in the privacy of their quarters or the head. The crew quarters were liberally plastered with posters, or pages cut from the aforementioned magazines, depicting nude or scantily-clad women. They usually never got to see them anyway, but the few women crew members were tough enough and sensible enough to see that were these outlets for people’s natural urges not available, there would be trouble; fights, always dangerous on a ship, and inappropriate behaviour. To be blunt, there was no room for prudery.

He strolled about the ship for an hour or so, looking things over. They seemed to be going well. He retired to his cabin, aware that the ship’s automated systems meant his constant presence supervising things and issuing orders was not required. He could leave it to the computers and to the Officers of the Watch, the latter assisted by a rating who acted as lookout or helmsman when required. The rest of the crew were by now relaxing over drinks in the ship’s bar, or in bed. On autopilot now, the Rutherford cruised on her way, moving despite her vast bulk with a smooth ease that always astonished and awed observers. There were none around right now, of course. Occasionally the lights of another ship could be seen, but otherwise the sea around and beneath her was calm and still and empty. And therefore, it was hoped, safe.

Army General Headquarters, Islamabad, Pakistan
Parking his car in the space reserved for him in the central compound, Colonel Parviz Sharifah alighted and crossed over to the main barrack building, a solidly built red brick complex dating back to the days of the British Raj. Once inside he headed for a room at the back of the building which had been set aside for miscellaneous social gatherings, returning the respectful salutes of the junior officers and NCOs he met on the way.

He entered the room to find them all seated there waiting for him, eyes alight with interest. Sharifah studied them thoughtfully for a moment. Though passionately united in a common cause, they were nonetheless a mixed gathering. Some, generally the officers, wore beards - always a sign of strict adherence to Islam - while others including himself did not. Growing them when one had not done so before might arouse suspicion of radicalism, but so would shaving them off, which could be viewed as too obvious an attempt to appear safe in the eyes of the mainstream.

There was nothing wrong in their being Muslims, or in their meeting together here, as such. That their Islam was of a politically militant kind had on the other hand to be kept very secret. They were doing alright so far. No-one spied on them, no-one bugged their meetings, because no-one suspected what they really were.

It was still a strain to conceal everything from their colleagues and from all the other people they came into contact with in the course of their jobs and social lives, but they could stand that if it was for Allah’s sake. Their kind had always been patient. If the war they were fighting should lasted for a thousand years, with neither they, their children or even their great-great-great-grandchildren tasting the sweet fruits of victory, then so be it. And, of course, if they did persevere with it they would one day be rewarded in heaven. That was why the infrequency of major strikes against the West since the great day of September 11th, 2001, did not dishearten them.

The principle that underlay both their activities against the West, and a lot of the quarrels that went on among themselves, was: if you commit a wrong against me and I am unable to avenge it, my grandson will avenge it in fifty years' time. It carried with it the disturbing, to others, principle that the descendants of the original wrongdoer were to be regarded as just as guilty as their forebears and therefore legitimate targets.

Like many of the brotherhood, Sharifah had fought in Afghanistan against the Soviets and the experience had radicalised him. With the growing belief among Islamic radicals that it was the West, their former sponsor, which should now be considered the enemy, something deep in his heart yearned to return to the hills of Afghanistan to join the Taliban or al-Qaeda. But instead, he had decided to stay in Pakistan to further the militant cause there.

Instead of an endless cat-and-mouse game in the mountains and foothills of Afghanistan, which neither side would ever win, it was better to concentrate on turning countries like Pakistan into proper, fully-fledged Islamic states. That was the sort of thing which would hurt the West. So Sharifah had set up a Koranic study group in his officer's mess and founded an Islamist newspaper for distribution to the troops.

Because this sort of activity was in itself perfectly innocent and legal, the military authorities did not probe too deeply into what went on at the group's meetings. And Sharifah kept scrupulously secret his links with groups such as Tablighi Jamaat who were openly calling for Islamic revolution.

Over recent years the army had become gradually more and more radical. The shortage of jobs in the civilian sector and the diminished prestige of the military after their poor performance in the war with India in the 1970s meant that a career as a soldier became less attractive to the social elite, and more so to young men from lower middle class, urban families many of whom were basically conservative in their views, hostile to the West and far more receptive to religion. Elements in the army were forging ever closer relationships with Islamic militant groups or Jihadis, some of which were made up entirely of retired army officers.

Despite the imperviousness of the bulk of the army to radical Islam, there had gradually come into being a not inconsiderable element within it from which a coup d'etat could conceivably be mounted against the corrupt, anti-Islamic, and pro-Western regime of President Pervez Musharraf. But as an institution it remained loyal to him, indeed had it not been for their support he would not in the first place have been able to stage the coup which brought him to power. Sharifah’s group was small in size, and so it had to be decisive and careful in what it did if it was to seize power where others had failed to do so.

This was a special meeting to which only a few members of the group, the most fanatical and the most trusted, had been invited.They needed to be sure they weren't going to be betrayed, as had happened before.

"Peace be with you, my brothers," smiled the Colonel.
"And on you be peace," they chanted.

Sharifah sat down, feeling their eyes on him as they glanced at him expectantly. "My brothers," he began. "I have asked for us to meet here today because I intend, as promised, to outline the details of how we will strike our great blow against the infidels."

He could feel the anticipation, the excitement, like an electric current. They knew he was a sensible man and not a fool; that he wouldn’t have called this meeting, embarked upon the entire project, unless he felt they had at a reasonable chance of success.

There had been one previous attempt at an Islamist coup, led by a high-ranking officer, in 1995. The plan was to storm the army's General HQ during a meeting of all the top commanders and kill them. The rebels would then have been able to establish control. It was planned to infiltrate thirty armed militants from the Harikat ul Ansar organization, dressed in commando uniforms, into the building. The attempt was foiled when someone tipped off the police and one of the coup leaders was stopped at a checkpoint and found to have a cache of rifles and rocket launchers in his car boot.

"First of all, the target," began Sharifah. "It has to the President himself. The traitor who has stood in the way of all that is just in the eyes of Allah, and prostituted our country and our faith before the American Satan." A murmur of agreement rippled round the room, several people shaking their fists in the air and shouting out imprecations against Musharraf, until Sharifah had to quieten them for fear that someone would get suspicious. Radical Muslims were furious at the way the President had tried to interfere with the running of the Islamic schools called madrassahs, which tended to serve as a hotbed for Islamic militancy, and at his alliance with the United States, which had allowed corrupt American money to flood into the country. He had also offended Kashmir separatists by offering India a compromise over the disputed province.

He had already been the target of several assassination attempts. In December 2003 a bomb blew up a bridge in Rawalpindi seconds after his motorcade had crossed it, and shortly afterwards two suicide bombers in vans full of explosives tried to ram his car (he was saved by a brave policeman who blocked their path at the cost of his life). Worryingly, the assassins seemed to have known the exact details and timing of Musharraf's movements, ignoring a dummy motorcade which had taken a different route.

Only one man, Colonel Hussein Attah, made any objection. "My brother, I feel to stake it all on killing Musharraf would be a mistake. Because we might not succeed, and if we don't we will have wasted our time."

"We will succeed," the Colonel assured him. "Our agent within the President's entourage knows his every movement. He will see that when the moment is right, the traitor and those who have collaborated with him in the suppression of Islam shall die."

"But Musharraf is just one man. How can killing him necessarily help us? This is a struggle of regimes, of ideologies we are fighting."

A second officer, Major Kamal Talifah, added his support. "His successor will merely continue the same policies, with the backing of the American infidels. Nothing will have changed."

The Colonel shook his head decisively. "Not so, my brother. Musharraf's death and that of the ministers will cause disruption and demoralisation among the government's supporters. And it will be a signal for our brothers across the country and in Kashmir to rise." They needed to begin with a single devastating strike which would throw everything into a state of confusion; essentially what their co-religionists had been aiming to achieve in 1995. "All we have to do is attack the government at its source, then the whole regime will fall."

He went on to explain precisely how the job was to be done. "Once Musharraf is dead we will launch an assault on General HQ, on the lines of the one planned in 1995; only this time, it will succeed." Once the news of events had had time to sink in, the militant cells in Islamabad would act to seize government buildings in the capital and take over airports, radio and TV stations and telephone exchanges. "All international flights will be stopped and any Westerners who then become trapped in Pakistan taken hostage, to be executed if their countries fail to meet our demands." Those demands were to disengage completely from the Muslim world. At the same time prominent government supporters would be arrested and put on trial for their crimes against Islam.

There would be various local uprisings centred on the madrassahs and joined by militants from other countries, including those Western nations which had large Muslim communities. Others would flood in from Kashmir and Afghanistan to help secure the most important provincial towns. The rebel forces would be strengthened further by the mujahideen from Afghanistan, many of them in possession of guns, who had been prevented from returning home by the civil wars there, settling instead in the North-west Frontier Province and Baluchistan.

With the aid of the Taliban, Sharifah’s group had already been carrying out a major recruitment drive in both Afghanistan and Pakistan, persuading the Pashtun tribal people from whom many of the militants came to launch a renewed Jihad.

Within those areas controlled by the rebels, and ultimately the whole country, Islamic law would be imposed. Bans would be announced on films, music, interest payments, contraception and photographs of women. An Islamic Council composed entirely of religious scholars would take over the running of the country, determining in minute detail every aspect of the public's behaviour with regard to dress, eating habits, sex and marriage, cultural activities, choice of literature, etc.

It all sounded very appealing. But several around the table were still not convinced it was practicable. "Can we rely on the different national groups to help us?" asked Hussein Attah.

"Some will, some will not. It would be better not to involve them unless they are Muslims. Let those in the provinces who are of the Way come to our aid, if we so decide, and the rest do what they will - until we are in control, of course. In the meantime the instability may help our cause."

Theirs was a young nation which had still not got over its teething problems; problems which, it had to be admitted, were exacerbated by its complex ethnic map. The name Pakistan was supposedly an acronym of Punjab, Afghan, Kashmir, Sind and -stan meaning "land". As well as the tensions between secularists and Islamicists, and civilians and the military, which had caused the country to alternate between parliamentary government and martial law, there was unrest between different ethnic groups, most notably in the province of Sind. This restiveness had been the cause of trouble in the past. Generally there was also tension between the Sunni majority and the Shia minority, as well as significant divisions within the Sunni community itself. Not all the ethnic groups would be happy with a Muslim takeover. There were plenty of fault lines along which the whole country could split open. The rising could unleash a general anarchy which would make it difficult for them to maintain control once in power.

But they could not let that deter them from their cause, because the cause - nothing less than worldwide Islamic revolution - had to be everything. It must be furthered whenever there was an opportunity, and Pakistan was the ripest fruit.

"Altogether, my brother, I am not sure there will be the necessary support," Major Talifah said. It was true there were plenty of grievances common to most Pakistanis, regardless of race or religion. As well as its complex ethnic map Pakistan suffered from having been born with few natural resources and little manufacturing capability. It was a poor country plagued by widespread corruption, low standards of education and a high illiteracy rate, soaring unemployment, an inefficiently-run industrial sector and unequal distribution of wealth with the country’s tiny middle class grabbing most of the profits. Most Pakistanis, Sharifah knew, these days felt a sense of hopelessness and despair. It was that feeling which he and his friends must seek to exploit. And yet many people would also be afraid of the death and suffering which might be inflicted upon the country if an al-Qaeda government came to power and aroused the hostility of the West, leading to war.

"I know what you are all thinking," Sharifah said, smiling reassuringly at his listeners. "You feel that we may only succeed in creating discord, and by so doing complicate our task. But I assure you I know what I'm doing. The instability will itself frighten the West enough for it reconsider its disrespectful attitude towards Islam. And the West will find it difficult to intervene here in Pakistan while trying to hold down Iraq and Afghanistan at the same time. Even if ultimately we fail, we will have exposed the flaws in their plan for global domination. It will be a victory for us and a shattering defeat for our enemies. They will have to either let us win in Pakistan or withdraw from the other occupied lands, allowing us to triumph there."
Again a murmur of assent, louder and more sustained this time. They could see his way of thinking and liked it.

"But there is no point in striking the first blow, the death of Musharraf, until we are ready to take advantage of the confusion it will cause. The weapons we need must all be in place." To some extent they already were. Musharraf's plans to de-militarise Pakistani society had encountered the problem that no-one wanted to give up serviceable weapons, in case it put them at a disadvantage to those who did not. It meant that there was no shortage of disaffected militants with access to guns. But on their own the existing weapons would not be sufficient to ensure victory.

"And when will they be in place?" someone asked. They were all impatient now to get started.
"Soon, my brother."

"But where are we to find the arms? Who is there that will supply us?" Hussein Attah still couldn’t see how it could possibly be pulled off.

"Some will come from Iran or Syria. There are elements in Tehran and Damascus who are not unsympathetic to what we are doing.”
"But will they be enough?"
"Probably not, but - "
"Then who will help us?"
"Do not worry," Sharifah smiled. "I know a man who will take care of all that."

The Herbert Rutherford
It was just after noon on the second day of the tanker’s crossing to America, and the weather so far was behaving itself; not that it could inflict much damage to a sturdy vessel like the Rutherford. A collision didn’t seem likely either, for they were right in the middle of the Atlantic now, the least likely point at which they might encounter another vessel.
Captain Hemmings was taking a walk around the deck of his ship, plodding on at a slow, steady pace with his hands clasped behind him in businesslike fashion. Rounding a corner of one of the buildings that made up the superstructure, he bumped into young Mark Tredinnick, the cadet they’d taken on straight from school at the start of their previous voyage. Tredinnick had lived by and loved the sea from an early age, which had made it an appropriate choice for a career, though there had also been the chance to get a taste of the world beyond his sleepy little Cornish fishing village.
“How are you getting on, Mark?” Hemmings asked.

“Fine, Sir, thankyou Sir." There was no real need for Tredinnick to call him "Sir", merchant ships nowadays being much less formal than they used to be, but he did so anyway out of deference. He was still a bit overawed by everything. Just a few months past his sixteenth birthday, and relatively inexperienced in the ways of the wider world, he was in some respects little more than a boy. Hemmings remembered the day he’d first set foot, wide-eyed on board the Rutherford, overwhelmed and even intimidated by the sheer size of the massive supertanker.
“So what are you up to now then?”

“Just doing my regular inspection, Sir; getting to know where everything is. I thought I’d look in on the engine room, see if they needed any help there.”
“Good man. So have you decided if you want to stay with us, yet?”
The young man shrugged. “Don’t see why not, Sir.”
“The voyage itself can be a bit boring at times, of course. Not that I don’t like the job, but although it seems odd to say so I often think the best thing about it is the time you spend in port.
“You can learn a lot from it. You’ll get the chance to see a bit of the States when we put in at Baton, though not for long. Looking forward to that?”
“Oh yes, Sir.”

Hemmings grinned in a way Tredinnick was as yet too unsophisticated to understand. He could guess what would happen when they went ashore; the youngster’s crewmates would take him to certain establishments where he could be initiated in the ways of men, for a price. Hemmings sensed he hadn’t had that experience yet, and wondered how he’d find it. Strange, most probably, and a little scary, but a necessary breaking-in. It had been that way with himself, many years before.

“Well, I’ll let you get on with it.” With a brief nod Hemmings moved on.

On finishing his circuit of the deck, Hemmings immediately started another. It was a good way of getting fit. He walked the length of the tanker, and back, three times in all, then climbed to the observation deck atop the superstructure, where he stood looking down on the vast expanse of deck and on the tiny figures of the crewmen moving about there.

A thunderous, booming roar of sound tore through his head and the ship gave a violent lurch to starboard, a shuddering tremor running through its entire fabric from bows to stern.

Hemmings’ grip on the rail was broken and he was flung sideways, to strike his head sharply on the metal floor of the deck. Briefly stunned, he was yanked back to full consciousness by the strident electronic screech of the emergency siren. He scrambled to his feet, and for a moment glanced about wildly, his senses thrown into confusion by the suddenness and violence of what had happened. He could hear the blare of several different sirens, the shouts of terrified crewmen, the sounds of feet ringing out on metal ladders.

The ship rose and dipped under his feet, then settled. He saw that everything was listing slightly to starboard. Cramming his cap back on his head, he ran for the nearest of the doors into the superstructure. Flinging it open, he scrambled down the ladder onto the bridge. The first mate and officer of the watch were already there to meet him.
He snatched up the intercom from the main console. "Captain to Chief Engineer.”
"He's on his way down here, Sir," the engine room replied.
"Tell him I'm on the bridge.”

Hemmings turned to his fellow officers. “Could we have collided with something?” A whale maybe, partly submerged.

“There’s nothing out there, Captain,” the radar operator replied, checking his instruments. “Or under there either, according to the sonar.” And if there was, the equipment would surely have picked it up.

“It sounded more like an explosion,” said the first mate.
“That’s what I thought,” Hemmings nodded. “But how…“

“It was a big one, anyway,” said the first mate. “Must have done quite a bit of damage.”
"We're listing at about thirty-five degrees," observed the Second Officer.
The Intercom bleeped. "Chief Engineer to Bridge."
"Captain here,” said Hemmings. “Any idea what happened?”
“Not yet, Rob. But we’re shipping water, lots of it. Eight bulkheads flooded. I reckon she's had it."
Eight bulkheads. The ship would sink in about half-an-hour.

The floor of the bridge lurched downwards and sideways, causing them to stagger. The list was becoming more and more pronounced and before too long it would be impossible to stand upright. They heard some loose object clatter on the floor.

There was no time in which to think about what had caused the explosion. Hemmings’ immediate concern was the safety of the personnel on board. He made a quick decision, the only one he could in the circumstances. They had to assume the ship was lost.

He began shouting into the intercom, this time speaking to everyone on board. "This is the Captain speaking. We are abandoning ship, I repeat abandoning ship. Everyone to assemble on deck immediately. Radio Room, send out an SOS!"

It took fifteen minutes to get everyone out on deck in their survival gear and gathered by the lifeboats. By that time the list had increased to forty-five degrees. And at the same time that she was listing, the Rutherford was sinking ever lower in the water, spray beginning to lash over the rail and onto the deck. It couldn’t be long now, Hemmings reckoned.

Their mood was grim, but without any alarm or fear. They had
every expectation of surviving. Emergencies like this were what he had been trained for. It was a disaster, yes, for the oil and shipping companies but for Hemmings and his crew not irreparable.

It took ten minutes to get everyone into the boats and lower them into the water. By the time the last man was got off the deck was rearing and plunging like a stallion at a rodeo.

Hemmings hardly dared to turn and look back at the ship. The end, when it came, was an awesome spectacle. The 550,000-ton mass rose up like a giant steel finger thrusting into the sky, moonlight gleaming off the smooth plates of its hull. As it tilted slowly into a near vertical position stanchions, pylons and gantries broke free from their mountings and shot down the slanting deck, colliding with one another in a tangled mass of debris which bobbed up and down on the surface of the water like some huge clump of floating seaweed.

Then with a hideous grinding of tortured metal the whole ship slid slowly and smoothly beneath the surface. The sea had claimed what Man had created in a bid to master it.

The churning waters gradually settled, and a strange silence fell over the men huddled in the lifeboats. It was a full minute before any of them uttered a word.

Hemmings breathed a sigh of resignation. Such things as this were always a possibility and every tanker crewman and officer lived with the constant awareness that it might happen on the next voyage he undertook, or the one after. There was really no point in regrets. And at least they were safe now. The only question was how long they’d have to wait before Air Sea Rescue came to pick them up.

Looking round, Hemmings was relieved to see that no-one was injured. The whole evacuation procedure had been carried out swiftly and professionally, as he’d known it would.

They began to talk, in low murmuring voices. “It couldn’t have been a collision,” someone said, “unless there was something wrong with the equipment.”
“It was checked thoroughly.”
“Yes, but someone could have made a mistake..”
“Of course they could.”
“If it was an explosion, then what the hell blew up? I don’t see…”
“But that’s the most likely thing. The question is how.”
“I’d say an accident was possible,” ventured the officer of the watch, who was in the same lifeboat as Hemmings and the first mate. In merchant shipping as elsewhere, there were always things that happened without apparent explanation.
“Should be interesting to find out the truth, whatever it is,” the first mate said.
“Perhaps they never will,” Hemmings grunted.

None of them dared mention that of which the thought was in everybody’s mind, the word almost on the tip of their tongue. Sabotage. Hemmings wondered darkly whether one of the Muslim crewmen, from Indonesia or Kuwait or the Phillippines, could have…or was that too unfair, too paranoid?

"Well," he muttered, "this is going to shake a few people up, I reckon." Young Mark Tredinnick was certainly getting a first hand view of the dangers of life as a merchant seaman, he thought. Hemmings’ main worry was that this was something new, something which for all they knew might become a regular occurrence. That would have implications, and rather disturbing ones.

“Do you think they’ll keep us together?” a crewman asked anxiously. They each had little doubt they’d be sailing again on a new ship before too long, but wanted it to be with the men they’d got to know and like over the past few months, in some cases years.
“If they’ve any bloody sense they will,” Hemmings replied.

He shifted uncomfortably, frowning.
Beneath his feet, the metal of the lifeboat's bottom was hot. He could feel it through the thick rubber soles of his boots, and smell the smoke from them.

The next thing he realised was that the heat was increasing. He glanced round in alarm, searching for an explanation. The others were doing the same. "What's happening?" someone shouted. "What the fuck - "

Hemmings had no idea what it meant, but once he had gathered his wits the instinct for self-preservation kicked in. A fire, if that was what this was, on board a lifeboat...

"Into the water!" he yelled. He swung his legs up onto the bench, twisted round and scrambled up over the gunwhale, to jump feet first into the sea. He hit the surface, sank a little with the force of the impact and then rose up, supported by his jacket. All around him other bodies were dropping into the water, splashing him.

The water was slightly warm from whatever was heating up the fabric of the lifeboat, and Hemmings felt uneasy. Looking around, he saw that the other boats too were being hurriedly evacuated. The sea around him was a mass of bodies bobbing up and down in their life jackets.
Somebody cried out in alarm.

Their heads whipped round just in time to see a man disappear beneath the water. Then another, a Czech called Fusek, gave a sudden cry and his head jerked sharply backwards. He too vanished beneath the waves. Neither man reappeared.
"Oh my God," Hemmings shouted. "What the bloody hell is this?"

Something had grabbed the two men and pulled them down, something that had been lurking unseen beneath the surface of the sea. Hemmings' last thought, before the same thing happened to him, was that they’d assumed whoever had blown up the tanker would be satisfied with that and not bothered about harming its crew.
The assumption, it now appeared, had been rather naive.


THREE
IPL UK Headquarters, London
The Herbert Rutherford was insured, of course. The real damage to the fortunes of International Petroleum Limited stemmed not from the loss of the tanker itself, which in fact was owned by a shipping company, but from the long-term consequences of the disaster, which was why a very important meeting was taking place in the London office of Marcus Hennig, Managing Director of the British-based company.
Hennig was in his forties, plump, his slick dark hair not yet flecked with grey - the question of whether it was dyed was one that frequently exercised the minds of his subordinates. Two people sat facing him across his expansive desk. One was Jimmy Naish, the ex-Army Sergeant who was now IPL's head of security. Like many men with very fair hair Naish was now almost completely bald, his great glistening dome of a skull gleaming in the sunlight slanting through the office window. He had a thin gingery-blond moustache. The bunch of keys he carried on his belt made him look like a prison warder. He seemed a forbidding figure but in fact, though Naish was tough when he needed to be, he was also mild and easy-going most of the time. It was the woman sitting on his left who you didn't want to cross.

Caroline Kent was the company's chief troubleshooter. Hennig always found it useful to have her sit in on meetings like this, in case she ended up investigating the matter in hand. Still in her late twenties, and extremely well designed and put together, she had the sort of looks you tended to associate with film stars and supermodels. It had made Hennig uneasy for a time, until eventually he succeeded in getting himself to think of her as a colleague and nothing else. All the same, there were times when he couldn't help stopping to admire that classically beautiful face, that impressive mane of naturally blonde hair - she never let anyone forget it was natural - and more or less perfect figure. Should she chance to meet his eye while he was doing so Caroline would respond with a brief, politely quizzical look before going back to whatever it was she happened to be doing.

She had brains as well as beauty, or she wouldn’t have survived in her job; she would never have let anyone promote her simply because of her looks. Her kind were a rare combination, perhaps. But she was proof they did exist, humans being after all creatures of infinite variety. Those who did dismiss her as a dumb bimbo were invariably proved wrong sooner or later, sometimes to their cost.

Today she wore a dark suit with knee-length dark skirt and stockings. She sat with her arms folded and one shapely leg hooked over the other, listening attentively to Hennig's account of the Rutherford's loss. There was anxiety in her face but it was combined with the keen interest which the scent of a challenge worthy of her abilities had aroused. He could tell she was already analysing his words carefully, assessing the nature of the problem and deciding how she could deal with it.

They could tell he was worried, and also angry. He was particularly annoyed because the ship had been named after the company's founder. It seemed a massive insult to IPL's prestige, and therefore to his own.

"They've started recovering the wreckage," he was informing them. "It's still too early to say for sure, but there are fracture patterns on one of the hull plates which suggest a bomb - a limpet mine - attached to the ship below the water line. And their radio message did mention an explosion."
He paused to let the implications sink in.
"Shit," whispered Naish.
"Yes, quite," Hennig agreed.
"They've ruled out a fire?" Caroline asked.

"It's not very likely." Like most tankers her size the Rutherford had been fitted with an Inertial Gas System which pumped in exhaust gas from the vessel's boiler to fill the tank space, for the sake of buoyancy, when its tanks were empty. But this gas contained less than five per cent oxygen, preventing the possibility of a fire or explosion in any of the cargo spaces. "And of course the ship wasn't carrying any oil at the time. She was on the outward voyage.

"I need hardly tell you that all the crew were fully qualified in safety procedures," Hennig went on. Those procedures were internationally regulated and extremely strict. Nowadays any tanker crewman caught smoking near a place where flammable materials were stored would be in for big trouble once his ship returned to its home port.

"If it was a bomb, how could they have attached it to the hull?" Caroline asked Naish.
"Well, it could have been done while the tanker was in dock. Security at Southampton and Fawley is pretty good but it wouldn't do any harm to review it. Not that this was the sort of thing anyone could have expected."

Hennig nodded vigorously. "Yes please – review it. I want to find out how this was done and make sure it doesn't bloody well happen again."
"How could they have done it at sea?" Caroline again.

"Well, there's an obvious advantage in that," Naish answered. "It's difficult to patrol thousands of miles of open ocean. But the mechanics of the job are another matter. For one thing there's the speed the tanker was going. A diver might be able to fix explosives to an object stationary in the water, it's been done plenty of times during the Second World War and since, but a moving ship is more tricky.

“If it was done at sea, they must have been operating from a submarine. But even if it was possible, I just don’t see who, out of all the people who’ve got the equipment, would have wanted to do it.”

“Who are we assuming was responsible? A rival company? I doubt if they’d own an ocean-going submarine.”

“Exactly,” put in Hennig. “And nor do the Children of Gaia or anyone like that, thankfully.” The Children of Gaia were a militant, anti-capitalist environmental organization with whom Caroline had had a run-in a year or two back when they’d tried to blow up one of the company’s North Sea oil rigs.

The troubleshooter was frowning. “Seems like it has to be a nation state, whose motive must be to damage the Western economy. But the most likely candidate, I suppose, would be somewhere like Iran or Syria; I mean, they’re hostile towards us because of our foreign policy, or rather our leaders’ foreign policy, and especially our support for Israel. But even if they were crazy enough to go that far, they just don’t have the hardware.”
“China?” suggested Hennig.

“I think they’re too sensible to do something like this. And right now,” she went on ruefully, “they don’t need to in order to be a rival to us.”

“It could just be America someone’s out to get. Maybe France, or Russia, is jealous of her domination of the Western world. Certainly neither of those countries has been that happy with her of late.” Hennig thought again. “But as with the Syrians and the Iranians, even if they might want to do it I’m not convinced they’d take the risk. The retaliation if they were found out would be massive.”
“Al-Qaeda?” ventured Nash.

Caroline shook her head. “Again, the technical means isn’t there. They could have got hold of some kind of minisub, I suppose. But that itself would have to be launched from a mother ship because it wouldn't have enough power to travel so far out.”

Hennig nodded. “The Rutherford was slap bang in mid-Atlantic when she was hit. Safer for those responsible in terms of not being noticed, but less easy to get to. Anyhow, as far as we can establish there was nothing else in the area at the time. Their last routine transmission didn't mention another ship and that was just a few minutes before the explosion; not long enough for our saboteurs to have got into position. The ocean within a radius of a hundred miles of the disaster zone was completely empty. The bomb could have been planted a while before. But what I say goes for the whole of the Rutherford's journey from Fawley to where she blew up. Nothing unusual or significant was reported from the moment she left dock up to the time of the explosion."

“So it couldn’t have been a sub,” Caroline mused, “firing a torpedo or deploying divers. Or some small craft, packed with explosives and either remote-controlled or manned by terrorists on a suicide mission, which rammed the Rutherford. But then what was it?”

They seemed to have reached an impasse. “It just doesn’t make any sense,” sighed Naish. “Weird, that’s what it is. Really weird.”

Caroline smiled to show that what she was going to say wasn’t to be taken too seriously. "There is a rumour that during the Cold War the Russian Navy experimented with using dolphins to carry bombs - as live torpedoes. Wouldn't suprise me if the Americans had done the same."

“So you think somebody....." Hennig looked disdainful of the idea, and Caroline stiffened a little. “It was just a suggestion,” she protested, allowing a hint of frost to creep into her voice. “I wasn’t – “

Naish came to her support. “Actually, there’s no reason to suppose it couldn’t have happened. Certainly, the people responsible wouldn’t have been bothered about any harm coming to the dolphins, if they were ruthless enough.” Not for the first time he studied Caroline in something like awe, marveling at the fact that she had known about the matter. The way she bothered to read up about everything, on the basis that every tiny scrap of knowledge could come in useful one day – because knowledge empowered you, gave you the ability to influence things – was almost scary.

"However,” he went on, “the story is the dolphins weren't that co-operative. Dolphins aren't stupid, they probably realised there was a catch somewhere. Then there'd be the reaction of the public once people found out. People like dolphins, don’t they?”
"That would hardly have stopped the Soviets. Or al-Qaeda."

“So dolphins kidnap people, do they?” sniffed Hennig. “Dolphins grab people and pull them underwater? First I’ve heard of it.”

“Merely turning over the various possibilities in my mind,” Caroline said brightly.

Hennig drew himself up sharply. “Look, someone did it,” he snapped. “And that’s the fact of the matter, however unlikely it seems. A hostile power, a rival company, an environmentalist organization; it’s got to have been one of those, and we need to find out which. If it was the first – by the way, I’m including organizations like al-Qaeda in the definition of “hostile power” - then that complicates matters a bit. Things’d be best left to the security services. If it Was the second..well, there are ways of finding out for sure.”

They knew he was talking industrial espionage. "I'm sorry, but I don't want anything to do with that," Caroline said. The polite but firm tone of voice and the look in those clear blue eyes made plain she wasn't to be swayed.

"If they're out to nobble our operations, then we have every right to move to the other side of the tracks," Hennig said angrily.

"Not everyone would agree with that," said Caroline, meaning that she didn't.

Hennig ignored her. “It’s the same with any ecoterrorist set-up. Mind you, MI5 have probably got tabs on those people already, so it may just be a case of a quick phone call to the right person.”

“I guess the Atlantic Herald thing got the ecoteurs’ blood up,” said Naish. “Maybe they decided to deliver a really big strike against the industry. They blew up the tanker on its outward voyage, when it wasn't full of oil, otherwise they'd've been fouling their own nest."

"An oil slick doesn't do much damage that far out," Hennig reminded him.

"Right," nodded Caroline Kent. If anything, marine pollution by oil had declined in recent years. It was the land-based pollution that was the problem." Oil spills only really caused damage to coastal areas, where they washed up on the beaches. And for that they had to happen reasonably close to them. At deep ocean they didn't do that much harm, just formed a skin on the water which eventually broke up partly because of wave action and partly because it was natural in origin and therefore biodegradable. It was gone long before it could reach any vulnerable areas.

Oil was a mixture of many different compounds - which made it difficult to predict the exact effect a spill would have on the marine environment - and although some of them were toxic they were also the ones which dissolved more easily in sea water, especially once marine bacteria had got to work. The toxicity of the oil residue was therefore limited, and the residue itself disappeared within a year at the most – usually a lot quicker.

"And the Gaia people got on board the rig from a minisub," Caroline said, returning to the matter in hand. "Which was launched from a ship. There wasn't one in the area when the Rutherford exploded."

"We've established that," Hennig said crossly. Naish saw the girl's face freeze over, the Marilyn Monroe lips tightening. She looks beautiful when she's angry, he thought.

"I know," she said with dignity. "But no-one knows what to think about this business, do they?"

Hennig didn't reply, but secretly he had to concede she was right. They were going round in circles.

Naish broke the silence. “The evidence from the pieces of wreckage we’ve so far been able to recover from the lifeboats
suggests a laser of some kind was applied to them. My people are trying to figure out who owns that sort of gear. As for limpet mines powerful enough to blow a hole in a double-skinned hull…well in the past, by which I mean up to the end of the Cold War, only a national navy would have stuff like that. Now there's a heck of a lot of it, mostly ex-Soviet issue, available on the black market for anyone who's interested. Or it could simply have been stolen, because Russian security is pretty crap. This applies to a lot of the equipment you might need for an operation like the attack on the Rutherford, but whether it goes as far as a full-size, fully functional submarine – considerably bigger than the one Gaia were using - I wouldn’t like to say.”

"It might throw some light on things if we consider the fact that the Rutherford’s crew were kidnapped,” Caroline Kent suggested. “I mean, it has to be fact. If they were dead we’d have found a few bodies by now, surely, and we haven’t. Unless our friendly saboteurs took them with them, and I don’t see why they would.”
"Why would they be kidnapped?" asked Hennig.

"Perhaps the Gaia people took them for re-education. Wanted to indoctrinate them with all that stuff about how capitalism's ruining the planet. Some of these environmental groups are pretty fanatical, pretty nasty, and I can see them operating in that way."

"So we can expect them to turn up somewhere at some point, alive and well and spouting eco-propaganda? Handing people flowers?" The idea of some big, bluff, tough merchant navy captain doing such a thing caused Hennig to chuckle.
"They'd know too much," Caroline pointed out. "They couldn't be let go."
"But if it was Gaia, wouldn't they have claimed responsibility?" This from Naish.

"They don't always. There's a certain psychological value in leaving people in the dark as to who’s done these things. Creating fear and uncertainty. It makes it a bit more likely that Gaia did it and not al-Qaeda. Qaeda tend just to kill Westerners, not bother about re-educating them."

"Perhaps they took the bodies because somehow they might have provided a clue to how the thing was done," Hennig suggested.
Caroline shrugged. "Perhaps."

“They jumped into the water," mused Hennig, "and then something or other took them." Morosely he regarded the model of an oil tanker that sat on his desk, and which he often liked to play with. He picked it up and hefted it carefully, supporting it with a hand under each end. The loss of such a magnificent piece of engineering upset him, not least because of the expense involved in replacing it.

At length he put it down and slumped back into his chair. "I really don't like what the world's coming to," he complained.

"What do we do about it?" asked Caroline practically. “That’s what counts in the end.”

"Well, I've suspended tanker operations until we know for sure how they did it. But we can't confine our entire tanker fleet to port indefinitely. Nor we can resume them; if there's another attack like this one, the crews will start asking for danger money. At least."

"Only other option's to have a naval escort on every tanker journey,” said Jimmy Naish. “Warships with radar. If the MOD would agree to it. The trouble is I don’t think – “

His mobile phone rang; probably someone from his department, with whom the urgency of the current situation meant he needed to be in contact 24/7. “I see…..when did this happen? Right…..OK…..keep me informed if you find out anything more. OK, bye.”

Naish stowed away the phone. "It’s just been on the news. Two more tankers have gone down: neither of them ours. One of BP's and one of Lion Petrochemicals'. The story's exactly the same. They think it's a bomb, but no idea how it could have been planted. And no trace of any of the crew."

Silence while they absorbed the information, and what it meant. Finally Caroline Kent pursed her lips and said, “this makes it a bit less likely it’s another company.”

“Unless they’re trying to secure a monopoly. But then I suppose they’d be making it a bit obvious.” Hennig brightened suddenly, eyes gleaming. “One thing’s sure, after this the Navy will be that much keener to help. Now it’s not just the fate of one company that’s at stake, it could be the economy of the whole Western world – a major part of it, anyway. There’ll be nothing questionable about them lending a hand.” He was already reaching for the phone. “Better go through the Department of Energy first.”

The mood in the office was now somewhat different. Each person in the room sensed an air of expectancy in the others, because now something had happened to provide an opening, a chance of influencing the situation for the better.

All the same, Caroline glanced uncertainly at Naish. “They won’t be able to do it for every tanker that leaves port, especially when they may have commitments elsewhere at the same time. So the saboteurs would simply target the ships which were unescorted."
“You’re right,” he agreed. “But we’ve got to make the effort.”
“Of course.”

“I’m sure you agree that these developments give a whole new complexion to things,” Hennig was saying. “So we’d very much appreciate your assistance in the matter….yes, I’m sure you will. OK, if you can get back to me as soon as you’ve spoken to them….Yes, I will. Thankyou, ‘bye.” He hung up. “I think they’re still digesting it,” he told his companions. “But I get the impression they’ll play ball. I mean it’s bound to have got them rattled, don’t you think?”
They bobbed their heads in agreement. “I’d have thought so,” Caroline agreed.

Hennig flexed his entwined fingers until the joints cracked. There was a dangerous look in his eyes. “What I like least about this whole business is that someone at the company or at the terminal must have known the tanker was starting to sail and where it was going. I don’t know what they’re up to but if I ever get my hands on them....”

“Their records would have been thoroughly checked when they joined the company,” Naish said. It was one of his department’s responsibilities. “But they could have been bought since.”

“If you can, do a bit more prying,” Hennig told him. “You never know what you might find.”
With that, he declared the meeting closed.

Caroline left in higher spirits than when the meeting had begun, but could sense the black cloud that still hung over all of them. After all, if the Navy’s involvement didn’t prove sufficient to deal with the problem, its implications would go a good deal further than the survival or otherwise of International Petroleum Ltd.


As she walked briskly down 28th Boulevard, Miami’s major shopping precinct, with her friends Shannon Williams was trying hard to forget the row she had with her parents earlier that evening.

"Dad, I'm nearly fifteen, for Chrissakes."
"Don't talk like that please, Shannon."
"I mean, I'm sure you can count."

"Shannon!" Her Mom was glaring at her from the doorway. As in "don't speak to your father like that."

Her father put on a deliberately calm and reasonable tone of voice, like he was dealing with a Goddamn kid. "Fifteen isn’t sixteen, Shannon. And you’ve still a while to go before you get there, anyway. Now, you know we don't like you staying out so late. You know it worries us. Last time you didn't come back until a quarter to four, and when you did come back you were - "

Shannon tried to stop herself from going red. "Yeah, OK OK. I'm sorry," she mumbled. Hadn't they pissed about like that when they were her age, for God's sake?

“When you’re drunk you can do silly things, Shannon. Dangerous things. And someone could take advantage of you. If you’re as grown-up as you like to think you’ll know what I mean by that.”

“None of my friends would do that,” she said angrily. Though to be honest, there were one or two she had her doubts about. There was that time when…..

“Are you sure, Shannon? You know, I really don’t like some of the people you hang around with. I’ve told you what I think of that Pete Dexter. Didn’t he stab some kid he was in a fight with, not so long ago?”
“That’s what they say,” she replied. “I don’t believe it.”

“There’s too many rumours going around for my liking. You’ll have heard it said there’s no smoke without – “

“Fire, yeah. Of course I have. But you can start up rumours about just around anyone.”

“I’m not just telling stories, thankyou Shannon. I know when someone isn’t right. You’d be better off having nothing to do with him. And that Leanne, the way she dresses…”
“She’s nice.”
“She may be nice, but – “
“So are you saying I can’t go out tonight? Is that it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t. Not going by the way you’ve behaved in the past.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, well I’m sorry about that, OK? I won’t do it again.”
“Won’t you?”

In truth, she was rattled because she loved them and didn’t want to leave them feeling upset and worried about her. But as usual, the discussion had been broken off in anger and she stormed out of the house, shouting at the top of the voice that she was going out with her friends and there was nothing they could damn well do about it.

The problem was that as far as they were concerned she was still a child, despite the changes that had taken place in her body during the last couple of years and which everyone could now see. She was just well-developed for her age, that was all. The physical changes were not in their view matched by mental ones. To them she was trying to be what she wasn’t. Shannon knew different.

And yet she always felt bad after having one of these arguments; guilty. They weren't bad people, not really, just a bit too straight for her liking.

What the hell. She decided to forget it all and just enjoy her night out with the girls. After doing some shopping together, they'd had a meal at a diner and were now on their way to what was said to be one of the hottest nightclubs in town, where there were sure to be plenty of good-looking guys. The club was located on the top storey of the shopping complex.

A fit of craziness overcame them and they started performing little pirouettes every few seconds, whirling around as if in anticipation of the fun to be had on the dance floor later on and singing, or rather shouting, the words of a popular song, whooping deliriously with the sheer joy of being young. Shannon was forgetting her troubles, alright.

She'd make it up with Mom and Dad, and start doing some serious studying. Tomorrow.

At one side of the vast atrium, his back to the wall, the man in the shabby overcoat stood watching the crowds. As usual, they weren’t taking any notice of him. So they failed to note the way his eyes were scanning them intently, as if trying to pick out a single individual from among the great jumble of bodies in motion.

To the few who noticed he seemed to come to a sudden decision, leaving his position and moving off towards the other side of the atrium, his route taking him straight through the main body of the crowd.

Gently he eased his way through it, trying not to jostle and shove more than was inevitable, and so attract hostility, while all the time attempting to keep in sight the girl on whom his eyes had chanced to rest, the girl with the dark brown hair and the spangly top. She was about ten yards ahead of him, although it was hard to judge distance accurately in the crowd. That they were going towards each other helped because he could keep her face in view, except of course for the moments when someone passed between them and blocked her from his vision. She was going in a line slightly at an angle to him, an uneven line because of the bodies surrounding her, forcing constant changes of direction for which she then compensated, and looking a little to his left. She probably didn't register him as he approached; at most he was a vague blur at the corner of her eye.

As they were about to draw level, he reached into his pocket. His fingers found the needle and slid it out, in the same fluid movement easing off the safety cap.

Shannon's friends barely heard her startled yelp, half of surprise and half of pain, amid the babble of voices and the rushing, rustling sounds of many bodies in motion. Turning sharply towards her, they saw her stop and hold up her left hand, examining the wrist just above the hem of her sleeve.

She looked round in baffled indignation. But there were dozens of people in immediate sight and any one of them might have done it. Was it possible that someone had happened to be carrying something sharp and she’d accidentally brushed against it in the crowd?
Or had it been deliberate?
But why would they.....who'd want to....
Give 'em the benefit of the doubt, yeah?

The others gathered round her anxiously. "Shannon, are you OK?" asked Rhoda.
"Yeah, I'm fine," she answered. "Just felt this pain like something pricked me." The sensation had lasted only for a second, but was nonetheless unpleasant.
Rhoda examined the wrist. A little blob of blood had welled up there and Shannon wiped it away with her handkerchief, leaving a tiny red gash which they supposed didn’t look particularly alarming.

She frowned, still more puzzled than anything else. The others continued to hover uncertainly, disquieted.
"Looks like a jab from a needle," Leanne said.
Rhoda noticed the look on Shannon's face. "You sure you're OK?"
For a moment her friend didn't reply. Uneasy glances passed among the group.
Finally, with a brief impatient shrug, Shannon started to move off. "It's OK, let's go."
The benefit of the doubt, then.
Of course by then the shabbily-dressed man, who looked like a tramp but in fact was not one at all, had moved on too. He had a bit of work still to do.


In all it took about thirty minutes, spent gazing either at the television or through the big French windows into the garden and pondering the situation morosely, for the Minister to make up his mind. He lifted himself stiffly from the sofa and went into the kitchen.

"I'm just going out for a walk," he sighed. He thought he heard his wife mumble something in acknowledgement, but wasn't quite sure. She got on with her ironing.
Woodruffe turned from her, and a few moments later the front door slammed shut behind him.

At first he just wandered aimlessly for a few minutes, down one road and up the next, hands deep in his pockets. Then, steeling himself again, he set off with a grim purposefulness in his expression and movements for a row of shops a few streets away, outside which he knew there was a phone box.

Before opening the door of the booth he almost looked round to see if anyone was watching him. For God's sake don't do that, he commanded himself, shaking his head fiercely. Don't look shifty or you'll give the whole thing away.

The door closed behind him. He lifted the phone from its rest and placed it on the ledge; took out and unzipped his wallet, extracted a twenty pee coin from it and popped it in the slot. Then with trembling hands he dialled the number he had copied down the previous day from the card in the newsagent's window, hoping that while he stood there no-one would pass by and see what was on it. As he waited for the reply he was uncomfortably aware of his heart beating faster; sometimes, when they didn't want to see you for any reason, they pretended they didn't know what you were talking about or slammed the phone down hard, making you feel slighted.

It leaped into his mouth when he heard the click as she picked up the phone. A pleasant Home Counties voice said, "Hello?"
"Hi, Kelly?"
"Yes?" she answered, a false smile in her voice.

He had long ago worked out what seemed to him the right formula. "Saw your advert. Can I make an appointment for this afternoon?"

"Yes, certainly." He found himself reassured by her polite and friendly tones, as no doubt she'd intended. "What time are we talking, exactly?"
"Around three o'clock?"

"Let me just check..." He heard her fumble about for a moment. "Oh yes, that should be alright."
"Great. Where shall I find you?"
"24 Montagu Road.”
"And how much is it, please?"

"Twenty pounds minimum, fifty pounds maximum." She didn't elaborate on what "minimum" and "maximum" entailed.
They agreed on fifty. "I'll see you at three, then," he finished.
"Look forward to it. 'Bye."

It was done. The first stage in the process was concluded, and he felt relaxed and relieved. It occurred to him that he shouldn't be nervous, having done this kind of thing several times in the past. But it always left him with that cursed feeling of guilt, that awful nagging fear of discovery.

The hour-and-a-half interval allowed time for his nerves to steady, which was good. He wanted to be able to perform well, and so avoid any embarrassment.

He wandered about town psyching himself up for a while. Then he looked at his watch and saw it was twenty to three; time he was making his way in the direction of number 24 Montagu Road.

The area was genteel, but now run to seed a bit. An estate of rather tatty 1960s detached houses, built on a slight rise. He found the place, and again felt his heartbeat increase dangerously as he walked up the path to the door. He rang the bell and a moment later heard her footsteps on the stairs. A figure became dimly visible through the pane of frosted glass in the door.

She opened it to him. "Young and attractive" was perhaps stretching it a bit, but all in all she wasn't bad-looking. He put her age as somewhere in the mid-thirties. Blondeish, dumpy figure, but still nubile with fat in just the right amounts and places.
"Kelly?"

"Hi, come in," she beamed, greeting him altogether like a long-lost friend.
"Thanks," he grinned back nervously.
"Well, if you'd like to come upstairs?"

He followed her up the steep staircase to the upper floor, where she led him down a short passageway to the door of one of the rooms. "It's in here," she said, pushing it open.

It was a spare bedroom, cramped and a little moth-eaten, with the bed jutting out from one wall, a table with a reading lamp beside it, and against another a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. She left him there for a minute or two, explaining she had another customer to see to. He doubted somehow whether that was the reason. Or was business really that good? But then she surely wouldn't be away for very long. He suspected the "other customer" was a male of her acquaintance, probably some heavy engaged to be on the scene in case any of her clients got nasty. She was just checking he was ready to move if Woodruffe gave any trouble. It unsettled him slightly, but he kept his composure. For his own part he had no intention of harming her and he doubted she would be stupid enough to have anyone harm him. That kind of thing would only scare the punters off.

Of course, the man might be her pimp. This thought made the business seem all the more degrading. The impulse to leave now came upon him in a sudden rush, but he was too far into it and he didn't like to think what might happen if he backed out. Once they found there was nothing they could get out of you, they sometimes turned nasty.

And then she was back. "If I can just take some money off you..." He handed her the wad of ten pound notes. She peeled them off to make sure they made up fifty and stuffed them in the pocket of her jeans.

For a moment she contemplated the curtain which covered most of the single window, attempting to decide whether it sufficiently obscured whatever might be going on in the room from the street outside. "Oh, I should think that'll be alright."

She turned to him with another broad smile. "Right, if you'd like to get your things off I'll be with you in a minute." Her professional manner, carefully cultivated, was that with which one might handle any legitimate business matter. It was what he found turned him on most about these encounters.

Twenty minutes later he emerged from the house and set off homeward. The experience had been satisfying enough, quelling the raging fire which had been burning in his loins for weeks. He found this time that he had no sense of having done wrong; it had occurred to him while he was lying on the bed being serviced, and thinking, that his marriage to Angela had deteriorated beyond the point where it could be retrieved and if he did find himself another partner it wouldn't be for a while, because such things were rarely accomplished overnight. In the meantime, his basic desires would need to be gratified.
All the same, if anyone found out about this.....

Get a hold on yourself, he thought. There's no reason anyone would have known you were going there, and anyway you might have had a perfectly legitimate reason for doing so. It's just between you and your own conscience. The operation's been completed satisfactorily, and no-one's noticed.

But then he hadn’t seen the two men in the car parked directly opposite the road from the house, one of them observing him very closely through a telephoto lens.


FOUR
“You want to go out again?”
“I met this really nice guy at the club yesterday. He’s asked me to meet him there tonight. Anyway all my friends will be there, so why shouldn’t I go?”

“There are lots of “nice guys” about, Shannon. Are they someone you’d be happy to settle down with, a responsible father for I children?”

“For God’s sake,” Shannon said incredulously, “I’m still young – a kid. Ages to go before I need to think about things like that.”

“Yesterday you were making a big thing about how adult you were.” She fancied her Dad looked smug at having caught her out, although she could have been mistaken.

“I wanna be free, enjoy myself a little,” she declared. “Anyway, I’m often being told you shouldn’t rush into these things, or you’ll screw it up and end up getting divorced. So if you want people to get married to somebody and stay with them for the rest of their lives, you’re breaking your own rules by trying to push me into it – aren’t you?” She smiled smugly, glad to have caught him out and determined to let him know that she had.

“Shannon,” he sighed, “I’m sure you think you’re mature and sensible enough…”
“I am.”

“But you’re not. And because you think you are, you’re going to get involved in things you can’t handle. You’re going to end up pregnant or with some disease that could kill you.”

Shannon shook her head angrily, causing her mop of dark brown curls to cascade wildly about her shoulders. “You think I’m stupid enough to let that happen? Why can’t you ever credit me with any God-damn brains? I tell you I know what I’m doing.”

Her mother, who’d been hovering uncertainly in the background, decided to speak. “Shannon, darling, can’t you see that we’re only saying these things because we care? We’ve been around a lot longer than you have. We know how easy it is to get hurt and we don’t want it to happen to you.”

“Nice of you both to be concerned. But you don’t need to be so worried about me, honestly. Anyhow I’ve got to be let out to fend for myself someday.”

“And another thing,” her father said, brushing her protestations aside. “You’re falling back with your studies. You know your teachers are concerned. You’ve got a big exam at the end of the week and it doesn’t seem to me you’ve done enough studying to be sure of a good grade.”
Inwardly Shannon winced, because she knew he was probably right.

“And if you are going out, you’d better make sure you’re decently dressed.” He had never liked the colourful top she usually wore, thinking it would attract the wrong kind of person, not least because it showed a little too much of her fully burgeoned breasts.

He gave a world-weary sigh. “There are too many kids nowadays who act like adults when they’re not, and I’ve seen the damage it can do. We don’t want you to go the same way, because we love you.”

“It isn’t as if you can stop me going out whenever I want to,” she informed them, defiantly. She had no fear or that. It was being moaned at all the time, whenever she was at home, that pissed her off. Scarcely a day of her life went by without some tedious lecture on the lines of that she was currently being subjected to. What upset them the most, she knew, was what she got up to, or what they thought she got up to, while hitting the town. She had had her first sexual experience a few months before. She hadn't really enjoyed it, but felt it was the kind of thing she might nonetheless like to do again. And it was better the second time, she found, although not as good as being with someone you really loved.

Did she love anyone? There was Tom....she wasn't quite sure about him, though. He seemed nice enough, but hadn't he ditched Ellie O’Brien for another girl, just a couple of days after they'd first gone out together? The guy at the club the night before, Pete; would he turn out to be the same? How could you tell?

She just knew that it would be worse if she wasn't allowed to experiment; explore to the full the joys and wonders of growing up, whatever the attendant dangers. She didn’t sleep around that much, in any case, and always took the right precautions. According to her view that made it OK. “Most parents don’t treat their kids the way you do, not these days. I mean, get real guys. This is the twenty-first century. There aren’t many girls under eighteen who haven’t…you know…..but it seems to me it’s proving a bit hard for the message to sink in.”

“You’re a little too much under eighteen. And if that’s what the world’s like nowadays then it’s a sign of falling standards. We mean to set an example.”
“Using me as a guinea pig, yeah?”

Her father rose to his feet. “Go out tonight if you like. We’re going out ourselves in any case.” They’d some kind of office party lined up. “But every evening for the rest of the week – at least – you’re coming straight home from school and you’re not leaving your room until you go to bed, except to eat.” He jabbed a finger at her. “Got that? And if I do have to lock the damn door to keep you there, I will.” She knew he was quite capable of carrying out such a threat.

"You can't do that,” she shouted at them. “It’s against my rights. ‘Cause I am an adult now, OK? Hello?”

“Go upstairs,” her father snapped. “And preferably stay there.”

Scowling, Shannon turned on her heels and walked very fast out of the lounge. She stomped up the stairs to her own room where she sat down heavily on the bed, breathing hard.

Her gaze travelled vacantly around the walls of the room, the posters of film stars and pop idols which covered them. The posters, the stuffed mouse toy sitting on its shelf above her desk, the pen holder in the shape of a green plastic frog all burnt themselves into her brain until she was sick of the sight of them. She lowered her head to get a different view, and the discarded clothes, paperback novels and other things littering the floor soon did the same. She rested her elbows on her knees and cradled her chin in her hands.

A while later, she heard the front door open and then shut, leaving her alone in the house, her elder brother being away at summer camp.

They were good people really. But sometimes she wanted something else, something different.

Once more she sighed in vexation. Idly, she examined the tiny puncture mark on her wrist. Right now it looked totally inoffensive, nothing that could cause any kind of harm. And yet....

She still wasn't quite sure why she hadn't gone to the police, or to the doctor for a check-up, following the incident. Why she'd ignored her friends' constant urgings, stemming from obvious concern, that she do so. She'd heard of sickos, serial killers who went round stabbing people with hypos, injecting them with some poison or other; maybe the needle had been used, dirty, and someone had just given her AIDS. She really couldn't explain why she wasn't as worried about it as she ought to be; she only knew that somehow, it would be very bad thing if she did report the matter. Just don't worry, Shannon, a voice inside her head seemed to be saying. Just chill out. Everything's gonna be all right....all right.....

Probably, it was just someone being nasty but not meaning to seriously harm her. There were people like that. She dismissed the whole subject from her mind, thoughts turning instead to the difficulties she was having with her parents. With everything, so it seemed at times.

School seemed dull, exams seemed dull. Parents seemed dull. Suddenly she wanted to be away from it all. Away from school and exams and parents and all those people who told her to concentrate on her classes and not worry about boyfriends and relationships and that. She was sick and fed up with....
With everything.
God, I feel....weird.....

She buried her head even deeper in her hands and tried to make sense of the strange sensations she was getting. Everything seemed dry, dead, devoid of moisture. Like when you were thirsty, only it was her whole body that was crying out for the life-giving liquid. Every cell of it ached dully, the way she had sometimes yearned for a lover when alone in bed at nights. And there was a rushing noise inside her head, coming upon her like a sudden gust of wind....no, not a wind, it was more like...whatever it was like, it made it hard to think straight.
Jesus, what's going on?

She wanted to feel cool water on her skin. To relish the sensual pleasure of its kiss, drowning in it forever.

A heat like that of the desert was burning her lungs, scorching the breath from them. The very air around her was the blast from an enormous furnace, suffocating.
She became aware that her heart was beating faster. And faster.

She could still breathe, but only with an effort that had begun increasingly to hurt.
What's happening to me?

All her problems seemed to come to a head in a giddy thrust of anger and frustration. I don't belong here any more. Not in this world.

Again there came the rushing noise in her head. Like waves. That was it - waves.

Her head was pounding, the sound filling she was sure every minute particle of her brain, every tiny corridor of mind and soul.
Pounding, like waves breaking on a shore.

Someone had once said, the ocean is a mighty mother on whose breast one can forget anything.
Mother, she whispered.
Anything...including all one's troubles.

The ocean was big. She wanted to lose herself in it, swimming freely in its awesome vastness, just like a fish. She recalled how sometimes she would go to the beach to get away from her parents, and sit watching the waves, fixating on the comforting monotony of their motion. Trying to decide if there was a pattern in their rise and fall; trying to make sense of things.
And now, it seemed, she had succeeded.

The sea was a warm, wet, comforting cocoon. A womb. And fascinating, she thought. Its dark mysterious depths could contain just about anything, and that was what enthralled her.
It isn’t as if you can stop me going out whenever I want to.

Don't tell anyone what you're doing, where you're going. They'll try to stop you. Try to spoil it all.

Shannon jumped up off the bed and hurried from the room. She hurried downstairs and let herself out. The craving that impelled her on turned her into a robot, her movements unthinking and automatic. But it was only her body which was affected in this way. Her mind remained very much alert.

Try and look normal. You mustn't give anyone the slightest reason to suspect anything. You're just out for a little stroll, that's all. At a brisk, yet relaxed pace she walked down the hill to the bus stop, where she waited patiently for the 119. While she was standing there one of her friends walked past. She smiled, nodded and said "hi", but turned away when the girl tried to engage her in conversation.

At length the bus came, and she climbed on board and paid her fare to the beach. It was now early evening, and she guessed most people would be at home having their supper in front of the TV.

When she got to the beach it was still light, but the lonely stretch of sand was deserted apart from a couple out for a walk with their dog. She found a bench and sat down to wait until they'd gone.

She was lightly dressed and the evening chill had crept in while she was on the bus but the temperature was bearable, the sun still beating down from the blue summer sky though with less ferocity than earlier.

By the time the couple with the dog had passed out of sight it was a little colder and darker. There was no-one else about that she could see, and no sound of vehicles from the road behind her.

Slowly she rose to her feet and, her gazed fixed unblinkingly on the sea before her, began to walk through the gathering dusk towards it. She went on walking till the waters closed over her head.

She had the money to spend on it, and the youth. After work Caroline Kent flitted about among the nightlife of London like some graceful, spritelike night bird. Sometimes at a club or a disco she would take to the floor and dance until the early hours of the morning, with an almost indefatigable energy that left her friends astonished.

Tonight, she had arranged to meet a couple of them in a pub by the Thames not far from the House of Commons. Both the friends lived and worked in the city, though one was only there when the administrative side of his job demanded it.

The threesome sat drinking together in a secluded corner of the oak-panelled, rather gloomy bar, trying not to attract undue attention to themselves or at the same time make it too obvious that that was their intention. Because one of Caroline's acquaintances, a tall woman some years older than herself whose dark hair was tinged with natural red highlights, was a Case Officer with MI6, Her Majesty's external security service and the other, a ruggedly handsome man in his early thirties with close-cropped blondish hair, a snub nose and - perhaps unfortunately - the square jaw of the archetypal action hero, a Major in the Special Boat Service (SBS).
"How's the job?" Rachel Savident was asking Caroline.

"Not as exciting as yours," said Caroline. "Most of the time anyway." She put an emphasis on this last bit.

Briefly Rachel glanced at the SBS man, who looked impassive. “I can clear off and leave you both to it, if you'd rather," he said solemnly.

The two women laughed. There was little point in excluding the Major – as he was almost universally known - from the discussion. Effectively, all three of them were on the same side. And each of them, in his or her own way, understood the need for secrecy and was scrupulous in preserving it.

All the same, Mike Hartman moved off to chat up the busty beauty behind the bar. If there was no immediate need for him to know then he'd rather he didn't. The Major didn't like carrying too many secrets around inside his head; the more were there, the greater the probability one would accidentally slip out.

"You weren't by any chance talking about those tankers, were you?" Rachel asked as he passed out of earshot.
Caroline smiled mischievously. "I might have been."
"Have you found out anything?"

"Not yet, no. There might not be any need, with the Navy now in on the business. But just in case that doesn't work, I wondered if your people might be able to lend a hand somehow."

"We're already on the case, as it happens." As soon as it became clear this was not just a nasty little quarrel between the oil companies, but something which could eventually bring down Western civilisation if it went on long enough, MI6 had started taking the matter seriously. "Right now the assumption is that it's al-Qaeda, although our surveillance of them hasn't unearthed any clues so far. Nor has the Americans'. We don't know how they're doing it or even, if you want my honest opinion, if it's them at all."
"What about the Children of Gaia?"
"We're looking into them too. Again, no luck as yet."

"If we - " - she meant IPL - "should have any, I'll let you know straight away." Rachel nodded.

The conversation turned to those things which women normally talked about once business matters had been dealt with. After a while Hartman returned from the bar and Caroline transferred her attention to him. While they chatted Rachel went on sipping at her Beaujolais, losing herself in her thoughts.

Caroline was a complicated person, she thought. Sometimes she acted the scatty blonde, sometimes the competent and assured professional. The ability to switch between the two personas with ease never ceased to astonish Rachel. It was hard to tell, much of the time, which was the real Caroline; maybe both were. If the scattiness was an affectation, it appeared to stem primarily from a sense of fun - except, of course, when it could be turned to her advantage.

Whatever the truth of the matter, she always seemed an unlikely secret agent. The fact was, though, she had joined MI6 only because the skills she could gain while working for them were needed for a specific purpose of hers, something very important and very personal. Once she had achieved that purpose, Caroline promptly resigned. Afterwards, it had not proved possible to stop her from getting involved.

Thirdly, whether from luck or design, her activities had a habit of turning out for the best. Even that business with the Yakuza in Japan had worked out alright, if in a roundabout sort of way. It was all extremely fortunate for Caroline because had she proved more of a liability than an asset in the long run she might well have ended up dead in the mangled wreckage of her car, stabbed to death at her home in what could easily be made to look like aggravated burglary, or lying with her wrists slashed in some remote country location, suicide of course. Whether Princess Di, Hilda Murrell or Dr David Kelly had really been murdered by the security services remained a mystery; that someone might be if they transgressed certain rules, written or unwritten, wasn’t.

All the same MI6 never used her unless it was absolutely necessary. Usually it was her operations for IPL that unearthed some threat to the national – sometimes international –interest and demanded their involvement. She came to them, not the other way round. For every incident, every major international conspiracy Caroline was involved in, Rachel asked her to send in a full report, and subjected her to intensive grilling.
She listened to the conversation between Caroline and the Major.
"For my money, it’s got to be a rogue state, maybe working with the ecoterrorists," Hartman was saying. "I just don't think anyone else would have the resources. They’re pitching things a bit high, though.”

On the subject of the tankers they'd now reached something of a dead end. "It's a long time since we've had a proper chat," Caroline said. "Are you...OK?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," he assured her. "As long as I've got my job."

"They're not going to pension you off yet, though are they? You're still young enough to..." She looked round to make sure no-one could hear her. "Abseil down walls, run around shooting at people et al."
“If you put it like that,” he said.

Not that she liked the idea of him shooting people but there wasn't any point engaging in deep philosophical discussion, or anguished soul-searching, about the ethics of it. Until he got over the loss of Gillian - and she wasn't sure he had yet - his job was the only way of keeping him from sinking into a bottomless morass of depression.

He answered her question. "No, I don't think so. The Army's too short of people these days, and badly overstretched in Iraq and Afghanistan."

“If anything, you seem to have reinvented yourself,” she said.
“I like to think so. Though I’m not sure if the SBS count as part of the Army or the Navy.”
“What made you want to transfer?”
"I think a change of scenery every now and then does a soldier good. I want some time with the boat boys before I pack it all in.”
“So how are you finding it?”
“Great fun. You know, most of the lads transferred with me.” It showed how highly Hartman was regarded by those under him. “That’s certainly helped. And the things I get to do…well, it’s different.”

“I should think it would be fantastic, myself. Something in me's always wanted to play about with boats.” She took another sip of Asti, swallowed, relishing the taste of the fizzy liquid as it went down her throat. “Are you going to, then - leave the Forces?”

“Not yet. The day’ll come, of course.” He looked pensive for a moment.

"Have they accepted you then? You didn’t have any problems?" Though it wasn’t really the reason why she’d asked the question, she knew that to some people Mike Hartman might come over as too gung-ho, too much like the traditional old-fashioned, public school-bred, hale-fellow-well-met British army officer; who perhaps had never actually existed, although if that was the case it seemed rather a pity. They’d never really wanted people like that in the SAS. He’d survived there because his superiors knew, as she knew, it was just an act. The real Hartman wasn't like that, at least not entirely.
They had a lot in common, if you thought about it.

The Major shrugged. "I’ve already done did a lot of training in boats with the Regiment.” “The Regiment” was how members of the SAS commonly referred to it, partly as a way of keeping quiet about what they did for a living. “I guess that helped.”

"No, I mean, they still don't know about...about Gillian." The Major nodded in affirmation.

The business of Hartman’s American fiancée, who had caught the wrong plane on the wrong day and ended up being flown into the World Trade Centre, had been kept painstakingly secret from the Army top brass, because if the effect it was still having on him were to be known to them he might be gently retired from the kind of work he loved doing, on the basis of being too emotionally involved.

She wondered if he had had any luck with the barmaid. One-night stands were, she supposed, a very different matter from emotional commitments of the sort Hartman was reluctant to enter into for the time being. It started her thinking about that whole subject, and led her to broach it with him, as a talking point more than anything else. "Still on your own?" she enquired.

The Major lowered his head. "Not yet," he whispered. "You know why. Please don't talk about it. Please.”

Caroline sat back, murmuring an embarrassed apology. Shit, she thought. I really should have known better.

The question had set Hartman thinking, but his thoughts on the matter were much the same as they had always been. The chilling way in which Gillian had died on 9/11 made it even more of a sacrilege to put her behind him the way finding another woman would imply. He wasn't sure he could ever get over the whole traumatic affair, not in this life anyway.
There was a second reason why he didn't want to talk about it. There was really only one other person who he had seriously considered as a replacement for Gillian, and she was sitting right next to him.


Meanwhile in Pakistan, General Parviz Sharifah was paying a visit to a madrassa in a small town some forty miles from Islamabad. Outwardly respectable, it was the home of the radical Tanzeemul Ikhwan movement, made up almost entirely of retired army personnel, and claiming to have the support of various serving officers as well. The supreme leader of Tanzeemul Ikhwan, Mohammed Akram Awan, wanted nothing less than world Islamic revolution, but it had to begin here in Pakistan because only there were the conditions right. "We can extend Jihad beyond our boundaries," he had once said, "only after we have achieved our objective at home." In December 2000 he had openly threatened to storm Islamabad so as to bring about an Islamic revolution.

So far President Musharraf had utterly failed to reform the madrassas. His plan to get them to include English and science in their syllabus foundered because the regime was unable to recruit enough teachers, a symptom of the country’s growing educational crisis. The education they offered was heavily biased towards religion and dependent on mediaeval and classical writings for its source material.

All this reflected a general increase in religious conservatism within the country. Growing numbers now attended mosque regularly, were sporting beards or, if women, taking care to cover their heads both in private and in public. In 2000 Musharraf had had to back down from an attempt to reform Pakistan's blasphemy laws, whereby anyone could be imprisoned for anti-Islamic behaviour simply on the basis of an accusation from a member of the public, after pressure from the religious parties, whose influence in the country exceeded the number of votes cast for them at elections.

There were now between seven and eight thousand madrassas in Pakistan, constituting a parallel education system and increasingly radical in their philosophy, compensating for the banning of the militant organisations set up by both Sunni and Shia Muslims and the arrest of many of their members by Pakistan's powerful intelligence agency, the ISI. They were becoming filled by the kind of people who after September 11th took to the streets in Quetta, Peshawar, Karachi and Islamabad in their thousands, swearing loyalty to their Taliban brothers in Afghanistan and calling for the downfall of the West. Not protesting at the horror and callous cruelty of the atrocity, but rather calling for more like it, as the opening of a war against the culture which it despised. One of them had been a 25-year old from Peshawar, Mohammed Ali.

Ali had started his religious education when he was six years old. His parents, landless farmers who could not afford to send him to a mainstream school, had handed him over to the madrassa. Since Ali would get free meals and lodging, it was one less mouth for the family to feed.

By the time Ali was 25 he knew the Koran off by heart and for as long as he could remember his life had consisted of prayer and nothing else. His only possessions were the clothes he stood in: a pair of sandals, cotton shirt with matching trousers and his little white hat. Religion provided the only opportunity he could see for social and professional advancement; he hoped by the age of thirty he would become a mullah, and thus a respected figure in his local community. He had left his home city just once in his life, to go on a month-long Islamic study tour in Saudi Arabia. He absorbed all the vicious prejudices his teachers had sought to ingrain in him from an early age. Pakistan's rulers were and always had been power hungry, hedonistic, corrupt traitors to their faith who stood in the way of a pure Islamic state and must therefore be destroyed. Ali disdained those who frittered away their days on worldly pleasures. He thoroughly endorsed the ban which had been placed on the madrassah’s members watching television, playing cricket, drinking alcohol, listening to music, dancing, or wearing ties (the latter because a tie was thought to resemble the Christian cross, and therefore be un-Islamic). Come the revolution he would take the greatest pleasure in extending these regulations to the whole country.

The madrassa was more or less the only life Ali had ever known, which was why he accepted and championed its values. They gave him a sense of purpose and of something to aim for. Not just respect within the Islamic community, but maybe at some later date the excitement of actually taking part in the armed struggle against the Prophet’s enemies. And if that struggle should involve his martyrdom, even better. He would be able to enjoy eternal bliss in Paradise, tended by beautiful virgins and drinking from the cool water of sparkling fountains, while any unbelievers he had killed would burn in hell for evermore.

Along with Mohammed Awan, the other senior clerics, and about thirty or forty of the madrassah’s student population, all gathered in the main meeting room of the building, Ali listened enthralled as General Sharifah explained his plans for the coup. But he was not without misgivings. "Do we have the active support within the country?" he asked afterwards, when the meeting was opened to the floor.

Sharifah had of course met with such objections before, but declared that he understood why the population of the madrassah felt the need to raise them. Though many people gave moral support to the radical religious parties, they couldn’t motivate themselves to actually join or vote for them.
"Which is why only guns can serve our purpose," Mohammed Awan said.

“Indeed,” General Sharifah nodded. “Guns and faith, of course.” He looked directly at Ali and smiled. “I can understand why you are concerned our enterprise will fail, my son. But I believe we have no choice but to persevere with it, praying to Allah that he will be on our side when the day of reckoning comes. It is the necessary next phase in our war against the enemies of Islam.” His eyes, burning with his passion, travelled slowly across the group of people before him, their gaze drilling into the soul of each one. “You will find this a strange remark to make, I know. But I would argue that until now, all we have done is to inflict pinpricks. In relative terms, they are massive and devastating ones. But pinpricks nonetheless.”

A murmur of protest rippled through his audience. “Pinpricks?” Ali gasped, incredulous. “You would call the attacks of 2001 pinpricks?”

“Relatively. They turned the infidel into a mad dog, who at first succeeded in disguising his madness because from the invasion of Afghanistan could be viewed as justified retaliation for September 11th. But the madness went much deeper than was at first supposed; after Afghanistan there was Iraq, just as in years to come there will be Iran and Syria. What they call “nine-eleven” was significant because it led to the opening of the holy war which will be required to purge the enemy from the planet, or at least give us the power to properly defend ourselves against him. But it did not necessarily give us victory in that war. The security measures which have now been put into place will make it all but impossible to repeat.” For one thing, attempt an airliner hijack and the passengers would resist, fearing they were going to be crashed into a skyscraper and coming to the conclusion that they had nothing to lose. You could seek to get round the problem by shooting them, but as soon as you started the result would be panic and a very messy situation. You could tie them up, assuming they would let you do it, but you’d need so much rope that it would arouse the suspicion of Customs – as would any substance with which they might be gassed, Sharifah’s preferred method – even supposing that you had room for it all. “We kill the infidels on planes and in skyscrapers, in bars and hotels, on buses and at railway stations. But outside Iraq and Afghanistan it is always their civilians who die, because we do not have the weapons with which to take on their armies and win. And it is the armies that should be the target, because without them the enemy is powerless. Besides, all these attacks simply stiffen the infidels’ resistance, their determination not to give in to what they see as a threat to their freedom and way of life. After our attacks on London comparisons were drawn with the Blitz during the Second World War and the IRA’s bombing campaign; now the British were showing once again that they would not submit to “evil” and “violence”.”

“But the attacks probably increased opposition to the policies of the British government, to their support of the American Satan in its occupation of Iraq,” Ali said. “Which was seen as having been the immediate cause of the bombings. So they did work.”

“But did the government listen?” snorted Mohammed Awan. “They are too afraid of Israel and America to change their ways. Instead, when the official report into the causes of the bombings was being compiled they sought to silence those who sought to establish a link with the Iraq war.”

Sharifah nodded vigorously. “Exactly, my brother. This is the problem. We cannot change things by the means we have been using up until now, ever. Of course if we are patient, time will bring us what we want. The law of probabilities means that eventually we will obtain the equipment and knowledge necessary to build a weapon of mass destruction.” Again the passion burned in those piercing eyes, but combined with it was an emotional appeal. “But how long must we endure the wait, sacrificing lives which need not be lost if there is a better way of achieving our objectives?”

Suddenly Ali saw what he meant. “You mean to use our own country’s nuclear weapons? Take over the missile sites?”
“If we can.”
“And what do we do with them once we have them?”

“It does not matter if we don’t actually say to the West, “do this or we will destroy you.” Or if we don’t even know how we should make best use of them. Merely because they know we have the weapons, the infidels will revise their policy towards us. They will think twice before carrying out a military attack upon a Muslim country, and be less inclined to automatically grant Israel whatever favours she demands. Whatever demands we do make should be kept “moderate” and “reasonable”, for example the creation of an independent Palestine rather than Israel’s destruction. Whether in the long run we can go any further than that remains to be seen. We must have the patience to take one step at a time.”

“The Crusaders and the Zionists will never let us do it,” a student insisted.

"I am not so foolish I cannot see that,” Sharifah smiled. “But just to come close to it will give the infidels a serious fright. It will perhaps persuade them to treat us with a little more respect. And others will imitate what we have tried to do. If they even half succeed in their aims, it will have the same effect. That is the opinion of The Base, with whose leadership I have recently spoken.” “The Base” meant al-Qaeda, with whose aims Sharifah of course sympathized, and vice versa, although he did not belong to the organization in so far as it had anything like a formal membership anyway. He had recently made an unscheduled, yet in view of his responsibilities entirely legitimate, visit to Kashmir.

He paused reflectively. “We may not even need ordinary guns; not so many of them, at any rate. When you are out in the streets protesting, the soldiers are unlikely to fire on you. Some of them may even join you." In the past Pakistani army officers had always said that if called to fire upon civilians during a mass protest, they would not do so. The situation might lead, at best, to a split in the army, and at worst to its standing aside from the conflict. An encouraging sign was the failure to arrest or even caution the armed bodyguards who attended every rally held by religious radicals. “Of course the risk of death is one we must be prepared to take for Allah’s sake.” Rows of heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

Sharifah told them that it would take time for the amount of weaponry they needed to be amassed; during that period he could not divulge details of how it was being acquired, except for the small group of people whom it was absolutely necessary to tell. The possibility of someone blurting out what they knew to an informer could not be discounted.

With that, the meeting was concluded. After a round of prayer lasting over an hour it broke up and people drifted slowly back to their work, their studies. Ali went and sought out General Sharifah just as the latter was leaving the building. “General, if I may speak with you,” he asked politely, his voice stopping the military man as he was about to pass through the door.

Sharifah turned. “Yes? Mohammed, isn’t it? What may I do for you?”

“General, I have been thinking,” Ali said. “We are all aware of the importance of our struggle. But there are other issues which matter as much. All kinds of conflicts around the world over food, wealth, scarce resources, political freedom. They happen even within Islamic societies. If we were to rule even half of the globe, it would be our responsibility to deal with them. And if we do not, they may between them all destroy humanity.”

“Of course,” nodded Sharifah. “Of course. I believe Allah will show the way.”

“May his name be praised. General, I was thinking most of all of the environment, and the need to generate energy in ways which do not pollute the world Allah has created. Even in the West, some are saying it is a thing even more important than the “War on Terror”. Global warming could kill us all, or drive us back to the Stone Age, the jihad apart. What is to be our policy on this matter?”

“The pollution is the consequence of Western greed,” Sharifah answered. “A world Islamic state would be organized very differently. All the same….” He pondered for a moment. “All the same, I think you are right. It is a matter which does require some thought.”


The strictest possible security had been maintained at Fawley up to the very last minute before the Knight Of The Seas’ departure. Now, finally, the giant tanker cast free from its moorings and slowly at first, then with gradually, imperceptibly increasing speed, slid from its berth into Southampton Water.

Patrol boats, equipped with radar and echosounders, escorted it to where the channel opened into the Solent, and where the two two Royal Navy warships, HMS Relentless and HMS Valiant, which had left Portsmouth a couple of hours earlier, waited to rendezvous with it, anchored a mile or so off the coast. As the tanker entered the range of his binoculars the rating on watch on the Valiant, whose captain was to have overall command of the operation, radioed the bridge.

From the Knight a siren boomed out in greeting, the two warships sounding theirs in acknowledgement. The Valiant’s Commander hailed the tanker: “Ahoy there, Knight, this is Valiant. Good morning to you. We’ll be starting off in just a couple of minutes.”

"Roger, Knight, we are receiving you,” replied the tanker’s captain. “Good morning to you too. Glad to have you with us, and I mean it. All the same, let’s hope it’s an uneventful journey.”

“Well, with any luck we’ve managed to scare them off, Knight. Out.”

The warships raised their anchors and started up their engines, and as the Knight began to pass between them all three ships turned slowly to the left, moving westward through the English Channel towards the Atlantic.

Both Relentless and Valiant had radar, sonar and echosounding equipment, plus an assortment of other visual and electronic aids. The radar might not be much use if the saboteurs had developed a stealth boat, as had been suggested, or were using some other craft made from a non-reflective material. But any surface vessel would certainly be spotted by some means or other. And if it tried anything, the warships' guns would blow it out of the water.

In case the threat should come from beneath the surface, both ships were carrying depth charges and anti-submarine missiles. Though detection by sonar was always a hit-and-miss affair, any hostile underwater craft should be picked up by one or the other warship or by the submarine HMS Neptune, which a couple of hundred feet below was conducting her own sweep of the sea bed in case something unpleasant was lurking there waiting to strike at either the Knight itself or one of its escorts. If it was, either the depth charges or one of Neptune's torpedoes would finish it off.

Half an hour after the Knight had entered the Solent, the trio passed the western extremity of the Isle of Wight. A further two hours later they were mid-way between the coast of Cornwall and the tip of the peninsula of Brittany; not far, the Knight's captain thought solemnly, from where the Atlantic Herald and the Alicia had so disastrously collided. Hopefully, he thought, there would be no disaster on this mission; man-made or otherwise. It all depended on how far these mysterious terrorists, or whoever they were, had anticipated the Navy would take a hand and whether it made any difference to them.


The Miami office of the Federal Bureau of Intelligence, like many FBI stations around the country, was a nondescript building you wouldn’t normally have looked twice at. Located a hundred yards down a side street in the city centre, it was a functional sixties office block of glass, metal and grey concrete which ostensibly was a branch of the local department of social security.

The office was normally fairly busy. It would have been even busier had its responsibilities extended to dealing with Miami’s not inconsiderable crime rate, but that was handled by the Police Department. The Bureau’s remit was strictly confined to such matters as espionage, sabotage, terrorism, kidnapping, bank robbery, civil rights violations, fraud against the government, and conducting security clearances. It specialized in crimes which constituted a threat to the state, or were of an unusual nature.

A matter had just come up which seemed to fall into the latter category. It could be a case of kidnapping or murder, but if so nobody was quite sure which. Two Special Agents, Moses Jameson and Paul Hurtwood of the Bureau’s Criminal Investigation Department, had been summoned to Assistant Director Calvert’s office.

Moses Jameson was thirty-two, married, and one of the five per cent of Special Agents who by law had to be black. From time to time it pricked Jameson's conscience that a white guy who might have really wanted the job, and have been every bit as good as he was, maybe better although he liked to think FBI agents were all equals in terms of calibre, had been turned down in favour of him. He eased that conscience by telling himself he needed to have a job, and couldn't be absolutely sure he'd got it because of positive discrimination. He had always said he'd much rather get on through hard work, however arduous, than through political correctness, which was why the latter annoyed him, even though he suspected it would have taken him a lot longer to have got where he was now without it.

There were still cases of old-style discrimination, along with all the things that had gone on in the past, but Jameson felt no bitterness. He felt no bitterness. After all, things were nowhere near as bad as had once been the case. Besides, reason told him white people couldn’t be demons with forked tails, whatever they might have done. And you couldn’t live for hate, for resentment. It just wasn’t possible. So he concentrated not on trying to prove he was better than his white colleagues but on building bridges between the two communities, allowing himself to be used in any operation involving close contact with Miami’s black population – it made sense – and working to win its trust. He had served in the local police before joining the Feds, and knew many of its officers, which was an additional help.

As an individual, he certainly deserved to go far, and knew it even if he was too modest to say so. He had the degrees in law, accounting and auditing which all Special Agents needed. He had passed the rigorous training courses at the Academy in Quantico, with its long hours, tough physical regime including several hours a week spent jogging, working out in the gym, taking lessons in unarmed combat or charging over rope bridges, and insistence on giving participants complex legal problems, which required considerable mental dexterity, to solve at the end of a hard day engaged in all the above activities. It was a bit like being in the British SAS, for example, and Major Mike Hartman would certainly have empathized and felt a sense of comradeship with him should the two ever chance to meet and compare their experiences.

So Jameson had passed, to become one of the four hundred – out of ten thousand original applicants - to receive their gold badge and go up on stage to meet the Director and receive their diplomas in front of their proud families. He hadn’t looked back since. He felt a sense of pride at belonging to the finest law enforcement body in the world – that was how it liked to regard itself. You could go further and say that the Special Agents were an elite within an elite, the people who did all the real work within the Bureau, except he knew this would be a slur on the thousands of analysts, scientific advisers and clerical staff who backed them up.

There was a downside to it, of course. He suspected uneasily that as he rose up the promotional ladder he’d become increasingly a faceless, office-bound bureaucrat, losing touch with the real world that working on a case brought you all the time into contact with. But that was in the future. At this present stage of his career, the real hassle was the monotony of much of an agent’s life, the long hours spent on stakeouts with little result and extensive questioning of reluctant or unsatisfactory witnesses. Occasionally the boredom was relieved when he took part in a hostage rescue operation or got caught up in a gun battle with a felon; the danger was exhilarating, though he never allowed the excitement to affect his judgement, when you faced it in a good cause. At the other end of the scale there were periods when nothing much happened, and paperwork took up the vast majority of an agent’s time. It had been a bit like that lately; but now, it seemed, this particular tedium was about to be broken.

“Got an interesting case for you two,” Calvert began. “Could be important.” They waited expectantly for him to continue, eyes lighting up keenly.

“Over the last few weeks a number of people, all residents of Miami or outlying districts, have been reported missing. Of course we know it’s not uncommon for people to disappear each year, especially in a big city like this. Now at first, the police thought they could handle it and didn’t think it was worth calling us in, especially as a lot of these people turn up again after a while safe and sound. But after a while things got to the stage where they became suspicious.

“There seems to have been a slight rise in the figures, enough to make them slightly higher than average. But so many people have disappeared they decided it ought to be referred to us. What’s interesting is that they’re all from different ethnic groups and social backgrounds, and both sexes, yet none of them is above fifty years old; the youngest was a fourteen-year old girl. We’re more or less talking young adults, or people in early middle age. I’m saying there is a kind of pattern to this, one which makes this business highly intriguing. It suggests the same person or group of persons is responsible, one with their own particular MO.” Jameson nodded his agreement.

All social backgrounds; if the victims had all been black, or from the lower end of the social spectrum, it’d have been less likely anyone would get interested, Jameson thought. He kept it to himself.
“Do the victims have anything else in common?” he asked.

Calvert shook his head. “Nothing. That’s just it. There’s nothing that can give us any clue to why these people should all disappear, or be abducted. If the victims were all female, and they were kidnapped, I would say the motive was sexual. Some sort of white slave trade, maybe. But looking at the photographs, many of them aren’t especially what you’d call beautiful or handsome. They’re just ordinary people. And if they’ve disappeared voluntarily, why should they do that? There are reasons, but what I don’t understand is why there should suddenly be an increase in it.” It was pretty scary in a way.

He opened the folder sitting on his desk and pushed it forward. The two agents pored over it. Photographs of the missing people, each inside a plastic sleeve which also contained typed notes giving as much detail as was available on the subject’s history and personal details. Some of the files had red tabs attached to them. Like Calvert had said, a mixture. One girl was astoundingly beautiful, one guy – obviously a tough case - had a face which might have given little kids nightmares. But mostly, ordinary people.

“The circumstances vary. Couple worried because their daughter failed to return from a trip to the beach; mother on the phone to the cops, hysterical because her son didn’t come home from school and he wasn’t at any of his friends’ houses; businessman finished work for the day then got himself lost somewhere between his office and home and still hasn’t turned up. A lot of the cases are probably the same as you’d get anyway, but others….there’s a definite pattern starting to emerge, and it’s got to be significant. I’ve mentioned the broad age range but there’s one other thing, too. Going by the times and places they were last seen, the subjects disappeared when there either weren’t a lot of people around, or too many for anyone to notice what was going on. Night-time, or very late in the afternoon, seems to be a popular choice.”

“Which could mean either that they wanted to vanish or that they didn’t,” Hurtwood said. “Either way somebody wouldn’t have wanted it to be obvious. It’s not very helpful.”

“Whatever the reason, nobody’s noticed anything suspicious. Someone says they saw a woman walking into the sea near Henson Point one evening a week or so ago. They were too far away to get there in time to stop her. Her description matched one of the missing people, although the witness couldn’t be sure. The area's been searched, they sent a couple of divers down, but found nothing. Of course if she’d drowned herself the body could have been swept out to sea. That means it'll probably turn up someplace eventually.”

“Sure sounds like suicide to me,” said Jameson. “Could that be it? Some kind of mass - ”

“Maybe.” Calvert tapped the file, which Hurtwood had by now replaced on his desk. “Quantico have sorted out the ones which fit the pattern I’ve described; that’s what the red tabs are for. It’s those cases I want you to concentrate on, the others can be left to the Police Department. They go back about a year.

“I want you to interview the families, find out if there’s anything which might give us a clue to why those people should vanish so completely. Any new boyfriends or girlfriends suddenly acquired, anyone whose behaviour towards them gave cause for concern, any personal problems or mental health issues that might be significant. I should add that in none of the cases have there been any positive sightings, and nobody’s withdrawn any money from their bank account or used a credit card.”

Jameson’s lips were pursed in thought. “I’m figuring if they were forcibly abducted, there’d be some trace of it. People would have heard screams, sounds of struggle. Something would have been disturbed.”
“So you’re going for the voluntary disappearance theory?”

“I would, if some guy was pointing a gun at my head and saying he’d kill me if I had to give my honest opinion on this business. But there’s something about it which don’t make sense somehow, you kind of feel it in your soul. I’m wondering if this ain’t one for the X-Files.”
It may be, Cal
vert was thinking. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “For the moment, let’s just see what we can find out, shall we?”


On the observation deck of HMS Valiant, high up on the vessel’s towering superstructure beneath the whirling radar scanner, Midshipman Stuart Rogers was scanning the grey sea in front of him through a pair of binoculars and finding nothing there which seemed to merit his concern. Not that he’d much chance of spotting it with such basic, compared to the sophisticated electronic aids every warship now boasted, equipment. He was merely keeping up an ancient tradition, as well as providing what’d hopefully be a safeguard in the event of the more advanced methods failing. Some hope of that, he thought. In any event, the threat was more likely to come from below than from a surface vessel. Down there, some
stealthy hunter killer was prowling; unless of course they knew the Navy were on the case and thought it prudent to stay away. Booted feet rang out on the deck, and Rogers turned to see the Officer of the Watch, Sub-Lieutenant McKinlay, who technically had "Charge" of the ship, and was responsible for its safe passage, during each of his stints of duty. Rogers lowered the binoculars, which were on a strap around his neck, letting them fall against his chest, and saluted.
McKinlay returned the gesture. “All well, Rogers?”

“All well, Sir.” He shivered slightly, despite his thick overcoat and pullover, and not just from the evening chill. It was growing dark as well, and a feeling deep in his bones told him their enemy was more likely to strike under the cover of night than at any other time.
“What’s up?” asked his superior.

“I guess I’m a bit nervous, Sir. I mean, you just don’t know what’s going to happen, do you?”

“We can’t be any more protected than we are,” McKinlay reminded him. “Anyway, if it comes to the worst at least we’ll know what hit us. Our sonar’s a bit more advanced than a tanker’s.” With a final nod he turned away, leaving Rogers to his lonely vigil. There was an hour to go before he was due to be relieved, during which the infra-red night sights attached to the binoculars would enable him to see anything important that was there to be seen.

McKinlay stepped through a door into a short, narrow corridor ending in a flight of stairs which took him down to the level below, where the bridge was located. He rapped on the door and made the traditional request for access. "Officer of the Watch, permission to come on the Bridge, Sir!"

“Permission granted.” McKinlay opened the door and stepped onto the long, low, brightly lit bridge. Captain Raymond Hurst swung round from one of the consoles to face him. “Anything to report?”
“No, Sir, everything’s fine.”

“Good,” Hurst nodded, and with a smile resumed the conversation he had been having with the Commander. The Commander, who reported directly to the Captain, was the officer responsible for the routine running of the ship. Also present, seated at their various controls, were the Navigating Officer, the quartermaster, the latter a senior rating who steered the ship under the direction of the Officer of the Watch, the Signal Yeoman, responsible for exchanges of signals between the ship and other vessels, and the two Radio Operators who assisted him, a Sonar Operator and finally the Bosun’s Mate, a junior rating responsible for manning the Valiant’s onboard telephone system.

The Captain often appeared to do little in the routine running of the ship, for his officers were men of great ability in their own right to whom there was very little that couldn’t be delegated. He was just standing there casting a benign eye over the proceedings, ready to exercise actual and overall command, which he could do very effectively, as soon as an emergency arose. On this occasion he had decided to be on the bridge at all times, given the vital importance of their assignment.

He surveyed his instruments with a proprietorial pride. Along the forward face of the bridge stood the main console, which besides the telephone, intercom, wheel and engine controls was fitted with a clock and instruments giving the ship’s speed and that of the prevailing wind. To the right of the console was a CRT display showing the readouts from the ADAWS computer in the Operations Room. This used data from radar to calculate the closest point to which other vessels would come in relation to the convoy. All those approaching within 15 miles of it would automatically be picked up on the radar and information on their course, speed and closest point of advance appear on the bridge display.

The other consoles incorporated a variety of additional radar and computer systems, all connected to the aerials, scanners and satellite dishes mounted above the superstructure, and used in conjunction in case of a flaw in one of them. They would enable the three ships in the convoy to keep track of one another, and of the enemy, in conditions of poor visibility. One of them showed information collected by the Valiant’s sensors on any aircraft detected in the vicinity.

To the left of the radio operator's console was a board on which the disposition of friendly ships, together with their callsigns, had been marked using a chinograph pencil. A number of illuminated strip readouts, mounted in overhead pallets, gave the Valiant’s own course.

On the Quartermaster's console a panel showed the readings from the Type 182 Foxer sonar array which was being streamed astern from Valiant, helping the ships to stay in contact with Neptune at all times and to detect unidentified submarine activity. A similar array was being towed along behind HMS Relentless.

Against the rear bulkhead, mounted on an array of lockers and shelves containing the maps for the area, was the chart table where conventional course plotting could be carried out using pencils, rulers and dividers. Amid the masses of modern navigation equipment surrounding it it looked out of place and old-fashioned, but was anything but. Information from SINS, the Ship's Inertial Navigation System, in the chart house abaft the bridge was relayed to the chart table by SNAPS - Ship's Navigation and Processing System - which determined the Valiant’s own position with the help of other systems such as Omega, Decca and SatNav, and where necessary visually-derived information, in the form of a moving point of light projected from below onto the table’s glass surface. Mounted on the bulkhead above it were the Omega, the ship's main satellite navigation system, and the Type 778 Depth Finder, a continuously moving chart which displayed the depth under the keel.

There was something comforting about the gentle green glow of the LCDs and VDUs that illuminated the room, the steady pinging of the sonar. A light rain spattered against the bridge windows, with equal monotony. As always at Cruising Stations, the atmosphere was one of relaxed competence. The Captain was reminded of the work done escorting convoys across the Atlantic during the Second World War, protecting them from U-boats, and felt a thrill of pride that he was doing something similarly important.
He decided to step out onto the observation deck for a few minutes, nodding affably at Midshipman Rogers who was still doing his stuff. Through the metal fabric of the deck he felt the vibration as the ship's engines throbbed away beneath him.
The night was starless, but vision was clear, with no clouds. He stared down at the dark, gently rolling sea, flecked with patches of white gleaming in the moonlight. The dark sheet of water stared back at him impassively, like a bottomless unfathomable abyss. Was there something beneath there right now that was waiting to attack the Knight, and maybe the three naval vessels as well? If there was, he felt reasonably insulated against the threat. With the assortment of state-of-the-art equipment each had on board, they surely couldn’t go wrong.

After a moment he turned, went back inside and approached the sonar operator. “How’s it going, Adams?”

The man looked up from the screen in front of him. "Nothing registering, sir. Apart from a lot of fish, of course."

Hurst grunted. He knew that sonar was an imperfect medium. It was limited in range by the general muffling effect of the sea, bending of the sound waves caused by temperature differences between water layers, and extraneous noises including reflections from the ocean bottom.

"'Bout time we gave everyone another bell," he told the Signal Yeoman. “Just ask them if everything’s OK.”

“Aye aye, Sir.” The Signal Yeoman spoke to the leading Radio Operator, whose fingers played over the keys on the console, tapping in the code for communication with the Knight of the Seas. He spoke into the microphone attached to his headset. "Knight, this is Valiant. All well?”

“You’d know that better than we would, Valiant,” came the reply. “But I guess so. I’ll put you through to the captain.”

“It’s well as far as I can see,” the captain said. “The lads are a bit nervous, I think, but that’s to be expected.”
Next they called the Relentless. “Anything to report?"

"No, not a sausage. Nothing’s moving down there, as far as we can see. Or out there or up there, either.” Nor had the submarine detected anything unusual or alarming. Hurst decided that as nothing much was going on he would retire for a time to his suite of cabins aft, catch a bit of shut eye. In the morning they'd stop and he’d go over to the Knight for a chat, to give the tanker’s captain the reassurance of continued friendly contact and discuss any vital matters that may have come up.

Having advised Sub-Lieutenant McKinlay of his intentions, he was on his way to the door when the thunderous bellow of an explosion reverberated throughout the ship, the floor trembling beneath his feet.

The shock of it, physical and mental, froze him rigid. No, he thought. It can't be. It can’t.

The Intercom bleeped and Rogers’ horrified voice came through. "Something's just ripped the whole of the side out of the Knight!" he shouted. He had seen the surface of the sea on the tanker's starboard flank erupt, the column of water spurting a hundred feet into the air with the force of the blast, and the Knight give a violent lurch to port. The tanker settled, listing at a forty degree angle, while the sea around her tossed in protest at the explosion.

Followed by McKinlay and the Commander, Hurst scrambled up the stairs to the observation deck. Shouldering Rogers aside, they ran to the starboard end, almost colliding with the safety rail. For a Hurst stared at the spectacle in sheer, horrified, outraged disbelief. Then he sprang into action. They had to help the tanker's crew get to safety, if that was possible.

Back on the bridge, McKinlay gave an order to the Quartermaster, who rushed to the boom mike on the steering console and ordered the ship’s Control Centre to cut the engines.
“They’re abandoning ship, Sir,” announced the radio operator.

“Stand by to receive survivors,” bellowed Hurst. The Relentless, he knew, would be doing the same, without needing to be prompted.

A sickening feeling of dread welled up inside him. If they couldn't stop the saboteurs from blowing up the Knight they might not be able to save the crew from being taken, either. And would they now be attacked themselves? They hadn’t planned for this, assuming that their presence would deter the enemy from trying anything. Now they had to take the chance.

He ran back up to the observation deck, snatching Rogers’ binoculars from him. Through them he saw the Knight lower her lifeboats, each one filled to the brim. He ordered the ship to move in closer so that a harness could be lowered to each man for him to be hoisted on board.

This time, the crew of the tanker were saved. Every single man was got safely on board one or other of the warships. By that same token, it didn’t seem anyone had targeted the three naval vessels, which in the end all returned to port unscathed. But it was too late to save the pitching, yawing Knight Of The Seas. Gradually she sank lower and lower in the water. Helplessly, the captains of the two ships watched as the tanker's bows dipped beneath the surface and its stern rose high into the air like a vast metal monolith, the moonlight gleaming off its hull plates, before disappearing from view in one smooth plunging motion.

On their radar screens a green blip flickered, faded and vanished as the dark sea closed over it forever.

*

"So there we are," finished Marcus Hennig. He slumped back in his chair and gazed blankly at Jimmy Naish and Caroline Kent, appealing to them for suggestions. "All the most up-to-date gear and they still couldn't stop it. Neither the warships nor the submarine detected any other craft, of whatever sort, up to less than a minute before the explosion.”
"At least this time they didn't take the crew," said Naish.

"Didn't want to be hanging around with the Navy on the scene, I guess.

"Well," Hennig sighed, "it looks like we really are sunk, if you don't mind me putting it like that. For the time being anyway."

The salvage team had by now found all they could be expected to of the Herbert Rutherford's remains; no-one ever found everything, of course. There was nothing that gave any clue to how someone had succeeded in placing the bomb unseen. But there was no doubt the giant tanker's demise had been due to some sort of very powerful limpet mine. A piece of the device itself had been found, and from their examination the scientists had concluded that it was of a make used in underwater demolition, but normally to be found only in the possession of national navies. It would probably be the same with the Knight.

At the same time, Naish had completed his enquiries at Fawley and concluded that security there was as good as could be expected on the day the Herbert Rutherford left the terminal on its ill-fated voyage. None of the security guards, or any other employee of the oil company, or any of the ship's officers who had been maintaining watch while she was in port, had observed any suspicious activity, found anything out of place.

The security services were working hard at the problem, but so far with no luck. Rachel had told Caroline thre was some equipment, still on the secret list, which could have been used in carrying out the attacks but she didn’t see how any of the usual suspects could have got hold of it. And as of yet IPL had failed to unearth any mole within its ranks.

Hennig breathed hard. He fell silent, and for a minute or so the only sound in the room was the rhythmic tapping of his pen on the desktop. Outside, the evening shadows were beginning to draw in. The fact that the other oil companies were in the same boat – so to speak - didn't make any difference to their feelings.

"We’ll just have to carry on with the investigation,” Naish said. “It’s the only thing we can do."

"And suppose we don’t get anywhere? At this rate the company'll go bust in a few months.” He waved towards his computer screen, which showed the current state of the firm’s accounts. “Both the North and the South American end of our operations are effectively shut down.” Hennig and his fellow directors had been happy for the oil shipments to continue if the tanker crews were willing to take the risk, but they weren’t. They had now gone on strike, and of course you could hardly blame them. It wasn’t every shipment that was hit, but no-one could tell if, and when, the enemy was going to strike. “We’re losing something like a hundred thousand pounds each day.”

Geography dictated that over half the 3,000 million tones of oil produced in the world each year was transported from well-head to consumer by sea. There was no way of getting round the problem by using some some other means of conveyance. You couldn't carry oil by air because a plane full of the stuff, in addition to the fuel it needed for its own propulsion, was a flying bomb, and the thought of one coming down on a populated area made Hennig shudder.

Caroline saw that Hennig was looking at her as if to say: come on, Wonder Woman, think of something. You’re the management’s blue-eyed girl, literally.

"This might be the opportunity, you know," she said, "to consider branching out more into renewables."

Normally Hennig would have been irritated at this reference to one of Caroline's pet projects. This time, however, he was more receptive. "We may have to," he replied. "But remember they’re a relatively new industry and no matter how much effort we put in it’ll still be some years before they’re really profitable. They may never be if we can't get the technical difficulties ironed out. Until then we’ve got to hang on to the oil, and we know it.”

Silence descended on the room again, while outside it continued to grow darker, matching the gloomy mood within the office. Caroline's head was tilted onto one side.

This had been her first proper job, and she was proud at having kept it. She hoped she would still be with the company when she retired, perhaps even its head. She knew that even if she didn't get that far, even if she stayed in her current position for the next twenty, thirty, forty years she would rather not work anywhere else. If she left and got a job with another company, even one that wasn't in the oil business, her track record with IPL would look good on her cv and help to promote her in her new environment. But it would still hurt to leave.

She remembered her first day at work here, a little nervous despite her consciousness of her own intelligence and ability, the knowledge that the high expectations people had of her would motivate them to give her every possible support. Since then she'd become very much part of the team, difficult for anyone to dislodge, and fully competent in all her varied responsibilities, which included running the British section’s personnel and PR sections and overseeing its regular recruitment drives when she wasn’t off troubleshooting.

The job was tough at times. There were people she didn't like, of course, who made life difficult for her because they resented her success, her meteoric rise to a senior management position, and her interfering in the affairs of their departments even when it was part of her brief to do so. They dumped work on her, sought to persuade Hennig to deny her funding, even spread false rumours about her private life and professional conduct in the hope of discrediting her. But there were good people here too; people she liked, or at any rate had no cause to dislike, with whom it was nice to unwind over a drink or two in your free time. She thought of them all: Chris Barrett, her fellow troubleshooter and number two at PR, a loyal friend; Sheila her secretary, always ready to work that little bit harder in order to ease what she knew could for Caroline be a very stressful job; Iain Jardine, Hennig’s redoubtable Scots deputy, who always put in a good word for her; jolly and red-faced Bill Tenant at Admin, a sort of second father with an entirely innocuous interest in her, who she allowed to be more familiar with her than most other colleagues, tolerating his outrageously crude jokes because they helped to lighten the mood when things were stressed; poor little Natasha at Personnel with whom she always seemed to be at loggerheads and who was perpetually in a state of utter terror in case Caroline should decide to sack her, despite constant reassurances that there was no intention whatsoever of doing so; Miss Gibbings (as everyone still tended to call her) in Accounts, the in-house Dot Cotton, not such a bad old soul despite her bossiness and old-fashioned prudery.

It was her company, and she was proud of all she had achieved for it. And through it the world in general, or so she liked to think. Keeping the oil flowing so that people could hold on to their jobs. So that everyone could get to work on time, and ambulances carry the seriously ill and injured to hospital; not just here but theoretically, at any rate, in the developing world too. Now it seemed all that was going to fall apart.

No. No way. It couldn't be allowed to. But she came out of her reverie none the wiser. There just didn’t seem to be any solution to the problem.

Then there were the missing tanker crews. If possible, they wanted to find out what had happened to the kidnapped people and if they were still alive return them in one piece to their anxious relatives, who would obviously be going through a pretty awful time. But how, if they didn’t know who the enemy was or how they were operating?

A wind had sprung up and was whistling mournfully about the windows. Yes, quite, Caroline thought.

They all seemed utterly crushed. With a bitter sigh, Marcus Hennig attempted to pull himself together. "Has anyone got any ideas?" It was a last desperate plea for help.

For a long time no-one answered him. Caroline didn't seem even to have heard him; she was lost once more in some private mental world.

Then all at once she stiffened, drawing in her legs and sitting up straight as her manner changed completely. Those blue eyes were sparkling with something like triumph.
She's on to something, thought Naish.

Apart from anything else, it was as if she'd suddenly made a commitment, a decision not to be defeated. Taking in her change of mood, Marcus Hennig looked at her enquiringly.

"Well," she began, "providing an armed escort for the tankers isn't working and it's also very expensive. I think it would be best to deal with the problem at its source, by finding out who's doing it and why."

“We’ve been through all that,” Hennig said wearily. “We don’t know who or why, even though we’ve been thinking it over till our brains are on the point of busting. Unless you’ve come up with some revolutionary new theory?”

"I just don’t think we’ve been looking at the problem the right way. The Rutherford and the Knight were both going to Louisiana - in the States. And the Sea Ranger to Colombia via the Panama Canal." A third ship had been sunk early that morning. "Now what about the Lion and BP tankers?" She turned to Jimmy Naish for the answer.

"The Lion ship was bound for their terminal in Venezuela. The BP one, America."

"Excuse me a sec," said Caroline. She rose and crossed to the world map hanging on one wall of the office, showing the location of all IPL's refineries, terminals and other installations as well as the main tanker routes. They shifted their chairs round to follow her.

She traced an invisible line with her hand from the British Isles to the Louisiana coast. "The ships that were sunk have got one thing in common. They were all taking the Atlantic route to or from North or South America. No other tankers have been attacked."

"We've established why," Hennig said irritably. "Al-Qaeda – let’s use the term to stand for any nation or terrorist group that’s hostile to the West - would be concerned to cripple the American economy, so would environmental terrorists. America is the world's number one polluter, pumping millions of tons of CO2 into the atmosphere each year and contributing to global warming." He looked a little uneasy, realising he was sounding rather like an environmental activist himself.

Caroline turned from the map, smiling graciously. "Point taken. Both al-Qaeda and the….ecoteurs have motives for disrupting the oil trade between America and the rest of the world. But why would either attack shipments to South America? Al-Qaeda's got nothing against the region, there's no large Muslim population there which can be seen as under attack, in one way or another, by the West and it’s not considered geopolitically important at the moment. And if the US is Gaia's number one target why would they waste time in also attacking ships going to Venezuela and Colombia? If it was the entire global oil industry they were trying to disrupt we'd expect them to be targeting shipments to, say, south-east Asia which would have gone by a different route. But they're not."

Naish was nodding slowly, thoughtfully, in agreement with her. "I think I get your drift."

She began to pace the room in the manner of a schoolteacher enlarging on a point. "So - it's not political, and we established earlier that it's not commercial rivalry. That leaves environmentalism as the only motive."

"But you just said it couldn't be the Gaia people," objected Hennig.

"If it isn't America someone's trying to bring down, or the world economy in general, then they must be worried about the effect of an oil spill on the particular area of sea which the tankers would have to pass through to get to where they were going."

She stopped pacing and stood with her hands clasped behind her, a patient smile on her face as she waited for her words to sink in. Her listeners looked intrigued. Then Marcus Hennig frowned. "Why?" he snorted. "Ecological activists don't usually confine their activities just to one relatively small part of the world. Especially if they've gone to the trouble of buying, or making, expensive specialised equipment like limpet mines and submarines."

To Caroline's dismay she saw Naish's head bob in agreement with him. She felt her resolve crumbling for a moment, then rallied.

“So there must be something in the area which matters to a particular person or group of people, enough for them to start blowing up oil tankers.”
“That’s it,” Naish agreed. “It’s the only explanation.”

"Hang on a minute," objected Hennig. "What if the tankers going to South America were attacked by mistake?"

"If the saboteurs knew the Rutherford and the Knight were going to Louisiana - how I'm not quite sure - they'd also have known where the others were headed. There'd've been no mistake about it.

"Now the ships were all blown up in mid-ocean, so whatever it is can't be there. Obviously our saboteurs wouldn't do anything that'd cause exactly the kind of disaster they wanted to prevent."

Hennig decided to admit defeat, proceeding on the assumption that her whole analysis was correct. "So what we're looking for is in the Western Atlantic. It'd have to be before the point where a ship would change course to make for the South American terminals.

Caroline was becoming steadily more and more excited. She returned to the map. "Not necessarily. I think we can boil it down a bit further. Out of the tankers which were attacked, three - the majority - were going to places on the south-west coast of America." Her finger jabbed at the relevant points on the map. "To get there, they'd have to go...." Again she drew her finger across the map, tracing the route the stricken ships would have taken had they been fortunate enough to complete their journey. "Through here." She indicated the relatively narrow stretch of water between the Florida peninsula, sticking out like a finger into the Caribbean, and the string of islands which made up the Bahamas. The ships would have rounded the tip of the peninsula and then headed in a roughly north-westerly direction for their various destinations. "Tankers don't always follow exactly the same route, do they? Any ship going to Colombia or Venezuela would normally ignore the western Caribbean and go straight on south, or south-west to the Panama Canal for several of the Colombian terminals. But sometimes they might go out of their way a bit, into the area we're looking at, because of weather conditions, other shipping, all kinds of other things. That's why they had to be bombed too, to get the message across."

The more Naish thought about all this, the more it made sense. There's no doubt about it, he mused. She's good.

He was looking at the map and making a calculation. "The America-bound ships might also have to go out of their way, for much the same reasons. So it gives us an area of hundreds of square miles of ocean. Roughly the whole of the Caribbean."

"But most probably," Caroline said, "what we're looking for is in the Bahamas-Florida-Gulf of Mexico region."

"It couldn't be out at sea," Naish said. "Or that far from the shore if it was. You remember what I said the other day about oil spills only really affecting coastlines."

"I still can't see," Hennig said, "why someone would go to such lengths just to protect the ecology of a particular area. There's something rather sweet about it, but it doesn't make any sense.”

Caroline put on a winning smile. "Well," she said chirpily, "we won't find the answer by sitting in an office in London, will we?"

She returned to her seat. "Of course, it’s going to be a pretty big operation."

"You're telling me," Hennig groaned. "Virtually the whole of the West Indies, plus the coastline of Venezuela, northern Colombia east of the Canal, and all of eastern Central America. That's what it amounts to."

"We're going to have to work with the other oil companies on this," Naish told him. "It's too big a job for us to do on our own."

Hennig agreed. This was far too serious a problem for the normal commercial considerations to get in the way of solving it. Caroline too nodded, seeing the sense in this. Working for IPL did not mean she had a passionate and overriding determination to promote its interests at the expense of others'. It was simply her job, that was all.

"What about the politicians?" Naish asked. "How far do you think they'll help?"

"Well, in view of the seriousness of the situation they should be fairly amenable. It depends on whether they agree with Caroline's reasoning. With all due respect to her, it is just a theory. There isn't enough solid evidence as yet.

"We'll see if we can put pressure on the governments of the region through America. I think if I were to make a trip to the States myself it could have some effect. In any case that’s where the AGM is being held. You’ll be coming, of course.”

“You ought to go,” Naish told her. “You’re pretty popular with the Americans; they’re very impressed with the way you operate. I’m sure they’d like to see you again.”

"In that case yes, I’ll be there,” Caroline said. It was always wise to maintain your links with those whose favour you’d earned. “More than that, why don't I stay on in the area afterwards, and check out one or two likely places? It makes sense."
"Which places did you have in mind?"

"I thought I might nip off to the Bahamas. It's not too far from America to there by air."
Hennig gave her an odd look.

"I hope you don't think it's just an excuse to sun myself," she said indignantly.

“Of course not,” Hennig smiled. He had to admit the thought would be uncharitable. He knew her well enough by now. Whatever her faults, she knew where her duty lay, and never shirked it.

"It's a smaller area in terms of land, which means that if the answer's there it won't take so long to find it. A few days might be all I need to establish whether there's anything dodgy going on. We can divide up the rest of the area between ourselves and the other companies."

"Will you' need any help? I mean, aware as I am of your undoubted abilities...."
"I can take Chris Barrett along, with your permission."

"You can take whoever and whatever you want," he said. "Just sort it out, I don't care how. OK?"

"OK." She was shifting about in her seat, eager to get started. Better let her get on with it. "I think that's all," he finished. "Thankyou, both of you."

Hennig sat alone in the room for a while after they'd left, reflecting on how the meeting had gone and feeling a comforting sense that things were finally moving, until he saw the time and decided he’d better make a move for home, if he wanted to be spared his wife’s wrath.

On his way across the building’s spacious foyer, he paused before the statue of Herbert Rutherford and saw a man in the clothes of a 1930s business tycoon, whose face to his mind had a look of shrewd cunning, allied to delight at being able to make lots of money, but at the same time wasn't entirely selfish. There was something genial in it, suggesting Rutherford had thought he was doing something genuinely useful in setting up the company. As no doubt he had.
We won’t let you down, he thought. She won’t.

She's sorted out problems everyone else thought were hopeless. No-one ever thought she'd be able to do it, but she did. So let her have a go. We might as well, there's no other option left. It's all up to her now. Because if she can't do it, no-one can.


FIVE
The SBS (Special Boat Service), formed in 1941 as the Special Boat Section, was a division of the Royal Marines; the amphibious branch of the Army, trained for service at sea. Its main duties were to carry out attacks on enemy shipping and coastal installations and reconnaissance prior to amphibious assaults, defend naval bases and offshore oil platforms, and deal with hijackings or hostage situations at sea. All of that appealed to the Major. It was what he'd only been doing on land, and for some years now. Because he had mixed feelings about the decision he had taken, he told himself he was only joining the maritime equivalent of the SAS. But although that was how the public at large tended to see it, not everyone would have agreed with the perception. The SBS themselves certainly didn't. The two units had the same gruelling selection procedure, often worked together, and operated to the same exacting standards. But the SBS were more closely integrated with the Marines and with the rest of the Commando Corps whereas the SAS were an entity in their own right, not just organisationally separate but socially something of an exclusive club. Which made them, the Major had to admit, a trifle big-headed at times. There was a rivalry between the regiments which had made the Major a bit apprehensive about joining the SBS, who considered themselves easily the better of the two. Their view was that the SAS had become too conceited, too complacent, for their own good and others’. There had certainly been mistakes, he reflected, and in what was obviously a dangerous business they tended to cost lives.

All he could say was that he tended to discourage such things himself; he cared neither for the human damage they led to or the harm done to the Regiment’s professional image. Nor did he relish the current trend of putting your experiences into print and making as much money as possible out of the resulting bestseller, sensationalism helping to increase sales. All the same, he reflected with a smile that it might be interesting for him to publish his own memoirs at some stage, once he’d finally retired. There’d certainly be some juicy stuff to tell people, provided they could believe it.

The SBS felt they were more sensible than their terrestrial counterparts, had a greater sense of humour, and enjoyed better officer-NCO relations (one of the comments frequently made by critics of the SAS was that its HQ at Hereford seemed to be run too much by the latter). The Major felt the criticisms were unfair. But he and those who had transferred with him certainly encountered a good team spirit within the SBS and had never had any aversion to injecting humour into his work. It was how you survived in a tough job, and he had a particular need for it after Gillian. The SBS was certainly a small, tightly knit, highly professional body, with no more than a hundred active or "badged" men.

At one point there had been some attempt to merge the two organisations, though that hadn't happened yet. It had been pointed out that in many respects they were merged anyway, since after initial selection most SBS training was carried out at Hereford, the trainees being placed for its duration under the overall command of the director of Special Forces. But they weren't one in any spiritual sense. Some argued that any merger would be purely a cost-cutting measure, more likely to impair than improve military effectiveness.

If the Major were starting in the SBS anew, he would first have had to join the Royal Marines and complete basic training with them, then serving a two-and-a-half-year commission with a Commando unit. As he and his men weren't entirely new to the game, they were spared a lot of that. However, they had still had to undergo a 33-week selection course which covered among other things survival skills, parachuting, scuba diving, underwater combat, jungle and demolition training, a great deal of swimming and canoeing, small boat handling, survival at sea, and all aspects of submarine work. A lot of it had been done before but it proved a useful refresher.

The Major was a bit worried that at thirty-two, a greater age in the Army than in most other walks of life, he might be a bit past it, even though he had kept himself in top-notch physical condition and passed each of the regular medical checks every soldier had to undergo. The fear turned out to be unfounded. Perhaps it was because people were ageing better, retaining their faculties longer, than in the past. Relatively speaking.

The first few days were taken up with strenuous physical exercise, getting up at dawn for half-mile runs from the officer's mess to the building where each activity was being held. They then had to plunge into an ice-cold lake to toughen themselves up. It all brought back nostalgic(?) memories of his initial selection procedure for the SAS.

The training took them to various locations around the coast, including the naval bases at Portsmouth and Gosport and the Royal Marine barracks at Eastney, Falmouth, and Chatham, the latter serving as the base for raiding exercises on mock enemy installations and disused ships moored in the Thames Estuary. At Portsmouth they swam in a 1500 metre-long tank where, sometimes wearing trunks and sometimes diving suits, they found out how long they could hold their breath and how fast they could swim in how short a time. They learned all the skills needed to make a good diver, including how to get into the diving suits as quickly as possible and so, in some situations, make the difference between life and death.

They also had to know how to get out of a submarine in a hurry. This meant frequent visits to the Royal Navy submarine evacuation test tank at Gosport, where escapes from subs at depths of up to 100 feet were simulated. He understood from the experienced submariners who coached him that even they did not much care for this part of the course. When in the tank they felt cut off, isolated from the rest of the world, like those people who took part in sensory deprivation experiments and in some cases had gone mad as a result. You were trapped, for a few scary minutes at least, in a silent, eerie, unnerving environment. Several times the Major almost panicked and asked himself what the hell he was trying to prove by doing all this. His one thought was to get out of the tank as quickly as possible. But then, of course, that would be the whole idea.

When the training was completed the surviving candidates took a two-week aptitude test. They then repeated the Joint Special Forces Selection Course in the Brecon Beacons, which they’d done when first training for the SAS. Then the swimming, boating and other tests were also repeated, which took a further three months. All the time the Major swore and cursed at the instructors, who in their capacity had the right to be bully him a bit although of lower rank. And had a drink with them in the bar afterwards. There was comradeship among the people on the course, a chance to forge new friendships.

It was intensive, strenuous, monotonous work, pushing them all to the limits of their mental and physical endurance. Only seven of the twenty-plus who started completed the course. But among them were Major Mike Hartman and his squad. At the end of it all, they had earned their SBS badges and were assigned to the Regiment’s 2 Squadron, based at Poole. They had done it; they had got there. And it had been fun.
It would be a great pity, the Major thought, if they never got the chance to put their new-found skills to the test.


Their employers having generously told them to take a couple of weeks off, after which the situation would be reviewed, Pat and Melinda Richards were both at home when Moses Jameson called. Pat was busy preparing dinner when she heard the doorbell ring. She swallowed, her heart leaping into her mouth, and at first stood very still, breathing deeply, steeling herself for what she knew might be bad news. The bell rang again. She realised the caller might think there was no-one in and panicked a bit, hurrying from the kitchen and down the hall to the door. She got there quicker than her husband, who had been upstairs sorting out some junk in the attic as a way of taking his mind off…it.

Melinda put the chain on its hook, opened the door as far as she could and peered through the gap. She saw a handsome, smartly-dressed black man in his thirties who was flashing some sort of ID at her.

“Mrs Richards? I’m Agent Moses Jameson of the Federal Bureau of Intelligence. I’m calling about your daughter’s disappearance.” His tone was politeness itself.

“Oh come in, come in.” Her fingers were shaking so much she had to stop and force herself to calm down before she could thread the chain through its eyelet and open the door. “Is there any news? Have you found her?” she gabbled as Moses stepped through into the hallway.

He saw her husband come up behind her, the gleam of hope in his eyes. “Not yet, I’m afraid ma’am. We’re doing our best, of course. I just need to ask you both a few questions as part of our investigation.”

“Come on in,” Pat said, and Jameson followed the two of them into the living room. While Melinda fetched them all some coffee, Pat and the FBI man sat and made small talk, in as far as such was possible. Richards kept on breaking off to stare out the window, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of his daughter through it, returning home safely from whatever mad escapade she’d gotten herself involved in. At such moments Jameson took the opportunity to glance round the room. It was clean, tidy, and simply but tastefully furnished, not especially luxurious but reflecting like most of the homes in this outlying district of the city a comfortable, satisfactory middle class prosperity. There was no shortage of photos of Shannon: as an exuberant five-year old seated on her father’s knee at some family celebration, clapping her hands and grinning joyfully as she sang along to something or other; on the beach at about the same age, with bucket and spade, standing proudly beside the sandcastle she’d just made; as a teenager, her back to the safety rail at the top of what he guessed was the Statue of Liberty with the skyline of New York behind her, the wind ruffling her hair; in costume as one of the dancers in a school production of some Broadway musical; sitting for the camera in what was obviously a specially commissioned shoot, wearing smarter and more conventional clothes than in some of the other pictures.

“I, uh, I was sorry to hear about what happened,” Moses said once they were all sat down together, sipping at the coffee. Melinda smiled to show she appreciated this, Pat merely nodded, his face deadpan. “Let me assure you every effort is being made to locate your daughter.”

“I’m sure,” Melinda smiled. Jameson studied them both, trying to establish just how sensitive he needed to be. They were taking it badly, the man woman giving the impression of coping better than the man, though beneath the surface her pain must be every bit as keen. They looked to be in their mid-forties, though prematurely aged, he guessed, by the strain they were under. There were bags of wrinkled skin under the woman’s eyes that you normally found in much older people, and the crow’s feet at their corners seemed especially prominent. At least her dark hair retained its natural colour, whereas her husband’s was flecked with little dashes of grey around the temples.

Melinda’s face tightened, drawing all the wrinkles and creases together so as to emphasize them all the more. “I, I understand that a lot of other people have gone missing too, just these last few months.” It had made her think serial killer.

“We don’t know that Shannon disappeared for the same reason as all the others,” said Jameson. “Do you have any idea what it might have been?”

Melinda sighed and cast her eyes down. ”Well, actually, yes we do,” her husband said quietly. “She wasn’t too hot on us around the time she vanished.”

“Would you, uh, like to elaborate on that? It may be important.”

“Yeah, sure, I understand. Well…there’d been disagreements. The sort of thing teenage girls usually argue with their parents over. We didn’t like her choice of friends, the way she sometimes dressed, certain things about her lifestyle, and I’m afraid Shannon resented that.”

Jameson’s lips twitched, and he chuckled softly. It was not the kind of laugh which could have been called offensive in the circumstances. “I think I know what you’re talking about, I’ve got a teenage daughter myself. There’s no need for you to say any more.”

But they seemed to prefer to talk about it. “I….think we may have misjudged Shannon. She had a wide vocabulary, and she was…is…..” For a moment Melinda’s lips quivered, and Pat reached out to squeeze her hand. “Quite smart. She always went around with girls, and boys, older than herself. But I don’t think we realised just how mature she’d become these last couple of years, even though she was only fourteen. She was often mistaken for a grown-up, and I think she was one…more or less. I believe the phrase is “young adult”. Maybe it was her manner, the way she talked, as if she didn’t care…so free and easy. But we thought she was trying to be what she wasn’t. Being silly, irresponsible that way; when I think she was just experimenting to see what she liked, the way all kids do.”

“We should have got counselling,” her husband said. “That’s where we went wrong.”

“We tried to lock her up in a cage, and of course you can’t do that with a teenager these days. That night, I think it got a bit too much for her and she just snapped and ran off. Like a lot of kids do when they’re not happy.” Her manner changed, became lighter. “A lot of them turn up alright in the end, don’t they?”

“Yeah,” Jameson nodded. “They do. Of course I, I wouldn’t wanna raise your hopes too high. But we shouldn’t fear the worst, not until we know a little more. And what we do find may be good.” He paused long enough to let the words of reassurance take effect. “Now, is there anywhere you can think of that Shannon would have gone?”

“No…not really,” Melinda said. That’s why it’s so worrying. That’s why I think she must have done something stupid…or someone’s taken her and…..oh God…” Jameson waited silently while her husband comforted her, the outburst of grief exhausting itself, composure then gradually returning until she was able to articulate her thoughts.
“You checked with all her friends, I guess?” Jameson asked.

“Uh-huh,” answered Pat. “One of them says they saw her waiting for the bus, the one that goes to the beach from the bottom of the road here, at about half-past six. That was the last time anyone saw her.”

That we know of, Jameson thought. They obviously didn’t know about the woman supposedly seen walking into the sea, or Melinda Richards would have been even more distressed, and he wasn’t about to tell them. Trouble was, if he didn’t they might well get to hear about through rumour.

He made a mental note to check whether that bus only went to the beach from where Shannon’s friend had spotted her, or there were other stops before or after it that she might have got off at.

“But you don’t know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Shannon? Anyone she was afraid of?”

They both looked aghast at the suggestion. “Of course not, no,” said Melinda. “Shannon could be thoughtless at times, but she never meant any harm to anyone, not really. No-one had a bad word to say about her. Always so popular…” She was on the verge of tears again.

"Did anything unusual happen in the days before she disappeared?
They both frowned. “Not that I can think off,” Melinda said.

Pat shook his head. “She was just being her usual difficult self.”

“We’ll have a word with some of the friends. Do you have their addresses about the place by any chance?”
“I’ll see if I can find anything,” grunted Pat, and rose.

An idea came to Melinda. “I was thinking maybe she could have got mixed up with one of these cults you hear about.”

“Been known to happen,” Jameson said. “Look, thanks for your help. We’ll be in touch if we do find out anything. Until then..well, we’ve put out a nationwide missing persons alert. There’ll be lots of weird calls and false alarms, of course, but you always get those in cases like this. You got the number of the support helpline, by the way?” They nodded. “Well, I’d better be on my way then. If you can come up with those addresses, or think of anything else which might help the investigation, let us know right away.”

Melinda nodded, blinking away another onset of tears. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t help thinking….I mean, we did everything for her. She’d no reason to complain. And I know she did appreciate it really, just didn’t always think to say so…and now we can’t tell her, can’t tell her that we’re sorry….”

Pat returned from Shannon’s bedroom with an address book in his hand, just in time to comfort her as she broke down again. Jameson took the address book with a nod, rested his hand briefly on Pat’s shoulder, and saw himself out.

Afterwards he sat in the car for a while, turning the case over in his mind. Yeah..people disappeared all the time. Sometimes it was voluntary, a way of escaping from boring and stressful lives, and no harm necessarily came to the missing. He doubted if Shannon’s situation had been different from that of lots of other teenage kids. Sometimes, of course, tragedy resulted. They committed suicide on an impulse or, more frequently, harmed themselves to attract attention, perhaps doing more damage than they intended and ending up on a mortuary slab.

It didn’t look good when you thought about it. Shannon had last been seen about to catch a bus to the beach, and one woman – not her, this was on a different day – was later spotted walking into the sea. But if you wanted to kill yourself why not just take a few tablets, make it as peaceful and painless as possible, instead of drown yourself when drowning was not, by all accounts, a particularly pleasant death? Unless Shannon had been suffering from mental illness, and there was nothing in her medical records or her parents’ account of things to suggest it.

It sure was the weirdest case he’d ever come across or, he suspected, was likely to.


Kashmir, Northern Pakistan
The camp was a makeshift cluster of concrete and corrugated iron boxes, huddling together as if for protection in a fold of the foothills. A few Red Cross vehicles, ambulances, pickups and Land Rovers, were parked here and there and near one of the buildings a pile of rubbish was steadily growing in size. Little groups of refugees, some with the bags in which they had collected together the few possessions they had time to lay hands on beside them, sat on the bare ground talking in low voices; or just sat on the ground, their eyes dull and listless, if they had lost loved ones in the earthquake. The mood of those who hadn't often was not a lot better.

There was a rumour, running round the camp's population like an earth tremor, that a second quake was on the way. If that happened, the population of the camp would swell to bursting point. They needed more food and medical supplies, and fast. Trouble was that the international community, wearied and in some cases overstretched by the constant succession of disasters whose victims it was being asked to fork out for, was being agonisingly slow in responding to the appeals for money. Volunteers there were a-plenty, but cash was short.

Zulfikar al-Anwari, the camp superintendent, came out of the hut, slightly larger than the others, that served as the administrative headquarters for the relief organisation in charge of the camp, which was also the reception and distribution centre for aid in the region. He crossed the earthen central compound to a concrete bunker which stood some distance away from all the others. On the way he met the reporter from the English newspaper. “Any idea when the next load’s going out?” the man enquired.

“The trucks should be here very soon." They’d been needed on a genuine relief operation; the pretence had to be maintained.

al-Anwari shielded his eyes from the blazing sun with the edge of his hand and scanned the low, gently undulating countryside around them. It was rocky and barren with only a few stunted trees and clumps of vegetation visible at intervals.

On the far horizon a faint black line, which appeared to be moving from side to side like a serpent, was discernible, a cloud of dust hanging in the air above it.

"Mind if I go along on this one?" the reporter asked, his eyes lighting up eagerly. "I'd like to see how the actual distribution of aid is carried out.” The Englishman had been kicking his heels here for some time now, and was impatient for a story.

Al-Anwari appeared to think about it, before shaking his head firmly. “I’m sorry, not on this one. It wouldn't be a good idea at the moment."

“Why's that?" the Englishman enquired, politely enough though he was obviously annoyed at the situation and irritated by the stifling heat. al-Anwari wished he could find some way of getting rid of him.

"The camp we are taking the aid to is in a politically sensitive area. The rebels - seperatists - are active there, as you know. Any Westerner they see is likely to be killed on sight, or taken hostage." These parts of the world were becoming dangerous for Westerners. A place where they went to die. Soon, they would not want to come out here any more, and the people of these suffering regions would be without help.

"Then why do you go?" the BBC man asked, trying as an Englishman would to keep the resentment out of his voice.
"Because someone has to,” the Pakistani shrugged.
"What are you going to do now?"

Zulfiqar supposed it was the reporter's business to be nosy. “I’m just checking everything’s in order,” he said.

The reporter lingered momentarily, then to al-Anwari’s relief moved on, permitting him to resume his journey to the bunker. He paused at the door to glance over again at the convoy of vehicles, now clearly visible a mile or two away in the bright sunshine.

He unlocked the door and entered the cool, dark interior of the bunker. Light streaming through the single window fell on the dozen or so stout wooden crates that had been shoved against the far wall.

Selecting a crate at random, he fiddled with the fastenings on the lid until it came free. Lifting it, he looked down and smiled at the crate’s contents in keen anticipation, running his eyes lovingly over the stacks of Kalashnikov rifles, mortars, grenades, anti-tank guns and RPG launchers.


Miami, Florida
To an observer, there might have seemed a kind of solemn purposefulness about Louise Reiner as she parked her car, having found a space between two others that was just big enough to allow easy access and exit, alighted from the vehicle and walked a couple of hundred yards along the street to the bar which she now visited almost every night, as soon as her supper had had time to go down. She used to, and occasionally still did, spend evenings like this playing bridge or going to the cinema with her girlfriends, but what grated with her about such fixtures, even if they didn’t actually bring their husbands or boyfriends along, was the knowledge that each of the women she cheerfully socialised with was happily married.

It was about here that uptown Miami ended, and downtown Miami began. The bar itself seemed to reflect a certain ambiguity, as if uncertain just what kind of joint it was trying to be. The furnishings were tasteful enough, not too garish, and well-maintained, but the place always seemed bathed in a murky gloom whose cause was difficult to establish.

She entered the main room of the bar and paused to scan it carefully, deciding where to sit. She was early tonight; no-one there except a couple of guys she didn’t like the look of, and so sat as far away from as possible. She knew what to do if one or the other decided to make an approach; just look hard and either say nothing or grunt unintelligibly.

One leg hooked over another, she puffed away at her cigarette, staring fixedly in front of her. God, she felt like a hooker waiting for custom. Surely there was some better means of doing it than this. But with dating agencies you had no sure way of knowing what you were going to get, of avoiding embarrassment or disappointment.

As always, she tried to avoid looking too obviously falsely cheerful, or too weary and dispirited. Either might have put a guy off, depending on how desperate he was. But it was getting increasingly difficult.

Sometimes these nights ended in a catch, sometimes they didn’t. And usually it was nothing more than a one-night stand. There had been relationships which lasted for a few days and then fizzled out as she or the other lost interest because at heart, despite everything, they much were too afraid of the big C; of Commitment.

The purely carnal needs had been met, at least for a time. But that, of course, was not everything.

Suddenly a spasm of coughing shook her. Harsh, guttural coughing, whose raucous sound and unexpected violence sent a chill of alarm through her. She realised now what she was doing to herself. Drop the cigs, maybe? The damage to her health was to be avoided, especially when she wasn’t getting any younger. At thirty-five she still had it, especially when she dolled herself up. But how long would “it” last? And then there was the question of how long it was safe to leave it before having a….having a……

Yes, she was still attractive, with a good figure and glossy brunette hair which had not yet begun to show the first faint traces of grey. But if looks were enough then why the fucking hell was she still single?

By now the bar had filled up a little. One man seemed to be eyeing her nervously, trying to pluck up the courage to go over to her. She wasn’t sure if she liked the look of him or not. Finally taking the plunge, he half-rose from his seat; then she saw him sit back again heavily, his face stricken by disappointment. She glanced round and saw the thickset blond guy standing beside her, looking down at her and smiling, beerglass in hand. “Hi, mind if I join you?”

She had been getting impatient with the lack of action, and on impulse said “Yeah, OK.” He smiled his thanks and took the seat next to her, his eyes alight with pleasure and interest.

Louise studied him closely, and liked what she saw. He was kind of cute, with the fair hair and cherubic face, reddened by exposure to the sun, and those lovely brown eyes; but at the same time adult and masculine, a mountain of rigid muscle, like the golden hunks you saw all the time on the beach here or in California. God, the thought of having that inside her, being taken by him and filled to the hilt by his thrusting hardness….she realised he was some years younger than her, probably mid-twenties, but that would only serve to make her feel rejuvenated herself.

A guy like him shouldn’t need to cruise really, but then nor, of course, should a girl like her.

“I’m Frank,” he said, shaking her hand. “You come here often?”
“Oh, every now and then,” she replied. Banal, but it was a start.

His eye fell on her empty glass. “Shall I get you another drink?”
“Yeah, that’d be nice. I’m Louise, by the way. Call me Lou.”
“Lou, right. See you in a minute.”

When he came back they talked about their jobs and how they both spent their spare time, Frank laughing at the jokes and amusing stories she told. He had a pretty good repertoire of gags and anecdotes himself, picked up on his journeys round the world as a travel rep. An interesting job that produced an interesting person, she thought. It beat her dull and depressing life as a clerk in the local tax office, to whose boredom promotion to a higher grade had made no difference.

Hey, it looked like she was onto something good. He seemed a real nice guy, funny and sexy, and genuinely interested in her. He sympathized with her over all her problems, telling her not to do herself down, that it wasn’t too late to make something of her life and that there were still people out there who could see something of merit in her. Made her feel really important.

From time to time he offered to top her up, and she always accepted; drink was a stimulant, up to a point anyway, and she wanted only to keep the flow of chatter going, continue really enjoying herself for what felt like the first time in years.

After a while she began to sway, her head jerking forward in quick darting movements as she stabbed the air with her cigarette to emphasise a point. “I dunno about this Iran thing that’s come up, but it seems to me that all the political people are saying…they’re saying……” She burped loudly. “Ah, excuse me….s-sorry…..”

The waiter paused by their table and looked hard at Frank. “You’d better look after her.” He’d noticed that the blond man seemed to have avoided drinking quite as much as his companion had. “If you’re driving, that is.”

“It’s OK, don’t worry. I’m taking her home now. I’ll make sure everything’s fine.” He turned again to Louise. “Hey, sweetheart, I think we’d better go now. You gonna come back to my place for a bit, yeah?”

Louise managed a vague nod, not really hearing what he said. He took her arm and gently lifted her up with him as he rose. She started to collapse back into her seat and he tightened his grip, at the same time transferring it to her waist, to steady her. “Hey, c’mon.”

A man seated on one of the bar stools raised his glass to them in salute. “Hey, well done pal! You scored!” The blond grinned at the drunken compliment; he certainly had.

It suited him to do it in places like this bar; he could combine business with pleasure. As long as he didn’t use this method too often, at least not in the same places. In fact, although he commuted between here and Nassau fairly regularly, he spent most of his time in the latter place; this job was a one-off, necessary because they had to make up the numbers. Any case, he liked to think he moved around too much for anyone to get a fix on him. Even though he wasn’t a travel rep at all. His name wasn’t Frank, either.

Walking slowly and carefully, he steered Louise to the door and they passed out into the cool night air. She was just about able to remain standing as he directed her to where his car was parked.

By now she was so drunk she hardly felt the prick of the needle as it sank gently into the flesh of her wrist, leaving just a tiny blob of blood which soon dried, and a mark small enough for her to give it scarcely a thought, should she even happen to notice it.


Some of the trucks were a military dark green, others white with the Red Cross symbol on them. They lurched and shuddered as they wound their way over the rocky ground towards the “camp”, a cluster of rock formations in which rain and wind had over the millennia excavated a network of deep caves.

In the passenger seat of the lead lorry, Zulfiqar al-Anwari muttered a quick prayer of thanks to Allah for granting them a safe journey to their destination. Although once the crates had been loaded into the lorries there had never been any danger of spy satellites or reconnaissance planes detecting what was really inside them, because as yet such equipment was still incapable of seeing through walls. The real problem would be if the Americans were watching the area of the camp. It would just have to be assumed they weren’t.

They came out of their caves like a swarm of rats, thought al-Anwari a little disparagingly, scrambling over the rocks to greet him as the lorry juddered to a halt and he climbed down from the cabin. Their leader, robed and turbaned, stepped forward, his teeth bared in a broad wolfish grin, his dark eyes gleaming bright in the sunshine. They embraced like brothers. “My friend, it is good to see you again,” the Afghan beamed. “There was no problem?”

“No problem. All the equipment is there. I have checked it myself, several times.”

“I think we had better be sure. Can we really trust this man?”

“He is one of us. A strange convert perhaps, but there are others like him. Or do you think he is only pretending? It’s a ruse by the infidels to trap us?”

“Who knows? But it is a chance we cannot turn down. Still, there is no harm in making sure.”

“Indeed.” The Afghan began issuing instructions to the men gathered around him. At a signal from al-Anwari the men in the lorries got out and opened the rear doors of their vehicles, lowering the tailboards. The militants converged on the lorries and started to lift out the crates, carrying them over to the foot of the nearest rock formation and dumping them down. Zulfiqar watched a group of them select items from the crates at random, one of each type of weapon, and go off towards an area of open ground to the east where they could safely be tested.


The lorry drivers were leaning idly against their vehicles, watching the proceedings in a casual, disinterested manner. He noticed that one of them was smoking, and felt a surge of anger. But perhaps he ought to understand. Plenty of their people smoked, even though they were not supposed to. He himself had not always been a good Muslim. Even after his conversion to the cause of Osama bin Laden he had often slept with Western women, whores mostly, although quite prepared to kill them if they should get in his way. He knew his attitude towards the West to be ambivalent, confused, but he did not care. He just wanted to do something which would shake people up, even more so perhaps than 9/11 had, and so bring about a change in the current order of things.

He heard a series of loud explosions, whose echoes reverberated among the rocks for several seconds. Then the four militants came into view, grinning, one with the empty launch tube of the RPG slung over his shoulder. Their bobbing heads signified that the weapons had each been found to be in perfect working order. One gave a thumbs-up sign, joyously shouting out words of praise to Allah.

The leader clapped al-Anwari on the shoulder. “Our thanks, my brother. Now will you stay and take refreshment with us?"

Zulfiqar bowed his head sorrowfully. "I am afraid that is not possible. I must not be away from the camp too long, or people will ask questions.”
“Is there reason to think anyone is suspicious?”

Zulfiqar thought of that nosy reporter snooping around. "It may be necessary to arrange for a certain person to have an unfortunate accident.”

“Then do it, my brother. And may Allah forgive this – infidel?” His companion nodded. “This infidel his unbelief, and comfort his family in their loss. Let them turn to the one true Way so that their salvation will be compensation for his eternal suffering in Hell.”
“Allah is the Merciful, the Wise, the Compassionate One.”

On their way back to the camp, al-Anwari wondered not for the first time whether their security was really as watertight as he’d been assured. What if someone found out that the real refugee camp had not received the supplies it had asked for, at least not at a time which tallied with the convoy’s departure from the Centre? He told himself the Englishman was the only one who’d bother about it, and that little problem would soon be taken care of. He’d have his trip out into the mountains, alright, only he wouldn’t come back from it. At the right moment the unsuspecting man would be shot in the back, and afterwards they could always blame the killing on the militants. It amused Zulfiqar to think they would actually be telling the complete and utter truth.

His doubts had more to do with the person who was supplying them with the equipment. Where could it all be coming from, he wondered? Someone must surely realise what was going on before very long. And yet their friend in Geneva seemed to know what he was doing. Probably it was only because the man was a European by ancestry that he was the object of suspicion among the brotherhood, so in the end al-Anwari forgot these qualms, while still thinking from time to time that they might be happier if they knew a little more about him.


Offices of the Samaria aid agency, Geneva Airport, Switzerland
“I think there should be a delay of at least a couple of weeks before we make any more shipments,” Alois Kretzmer told the man at the other end of the phone. “We don’t want to give them too much too quickly, or they’ll decide to go ahead before the time is right.”

“Sensible thinking,” his boss agreed. “The one we sent you this morning goes through, of course. Has it arrived yet?”
“It should be due any minute.”

“Excellent.” They agreed a date for the next shipment, then the boss asked him about security; had the authorities in Germany or Switzerland been showing any undue interest in his operation? There was nothing unusual about an aid agency being privately owned and run, because so many things were these days; but did anybody, for whatever reason, suspect this one was not quite what it claimed to be?

“I’ve had the customs and health and safety people poking around, of course. But they seem satisfied, as far as I can tell. And I think I’d know if anyone was spying on us.” Their counter-surveillance techniques were as advanced as was possible for them.

“I hope so. Well, I suppose you’re doing all you can. Just let me know if you have any problems. Auf wiedersehn.”
“Goodbye.”

Kretzmer, or Khalid al-Islami to give him his Muslim name, now busied himself with a bit of paperwork until the sound of a lorry drawing up beneath the office window heralded the arrival of the latest consignment. He opened it and looked down to see the driver disembark from the huge vehicle and go round to the rear doors to open them. The workmen were already converging on it while nearby the doors of a capacious warehouse stood open.

On its side the lorry bore the name Cobus Pharmaceuticals, a subsidiary of the main company. It was meant to be carrying drugs for use in treating people injured in the Kashmiri earthquake. Of course the crates within actually contained something very different, which was normally used to destroy lives rather than preserve them. Kretzmer rather hoped it wouldn’t be necessary. But it might, which was why he had to keep the trust of the faithful in Islamabad. So far he seemed to have succeeded. Funnily enough, he was actually a Muslim, and not just an actor doing a very good impression of one - he didn’t think he could have pulled it off otherwise. It wasn’t his opinion that what they were doing was necessarily against Islam; given its motives, which were good, he felt on the whole that Allah would approve of it, though some among the faithful might disagree.

Of course he had the power, if he chose, to betray the plotters to the authorities and bring the whole thing crashing down. Or on the other hand, let it go right ahead.

He smiled amusedly to himself at the thought of it. All it would take was one telephone call.


SIX
The venue for the AGM, at which the opportunity was being taken to celebrate the thirtieth anniversary of the foundation of IPL America, was a hotel on the outskirts of Houston, Texas, into which those attending had booked for the duration of the conference.

It lasted five days in all. The assembled executives discussed a wide range of matters, and ended up concluding that IPL’s finances were in as healthy a state as could be expected, all things considered. Relations with local people in all the countries where they had some kind of presence were good; in fact they were doing better in that area than most of the other big companies, which Caroline liked to think was due in no small measure to her own efforts. The renewable energy scheme wasn’t proceeding as fast or as smoothly as she’d have preferred; just have to keep on badgering them, she thought. There were other long-term issues which remained a cause for concern, such as the rise in oil prices and its implications, but so far had still not, if the term was appropriate in the circumstances, exploded.

The general mood within the conference room was subdued. At the end of the fifth and final session of the conference the President of the company, Sir Charles Stamford OBE, KG, took the platform. "Well I think that concludes our business, ladies and gentlemen. As I said, the main worry right now is the tanker sinkings, but as you know the matter is being looked into."
"They'll find out who's behind it, eventually," someone said.
"Hope so," grunted Hennig.

Stamford then launched into a flowery speech paying tribute to the founding fathers of the company and all those who had worked so hard of late to make it a success. As each person’s name was mentioned the gathering dutifully erupted in a thunderous burst of clapping. As always there were those who felt they should have been included in the roll of honour and would darkly resent it for the whole of the following year, at least.

One executive in particular was looking a bit miffed at having apparently been missed out. Then, after a brief pause, Stamford resumed talking. “We finish tonight with our annual Executive of the Year award. This year, the honour goes to Caroline Kent, Director of Personnel and Public Relations at the London branch, and also one of those highly valued men and women whose job it is to pound the globe making sure everything’s in order at each of our many refineries, terminals, rigs, pipelines, drilling sites, soft drink dispensers…..”

Caroline’s jaw had dropped and her eyes were popping from her head. Her enemies were trying not to look sour, her friends beaming at her affectionately. Hennig, Chris Barrett was pleased to note, had the decency to look genuinely appreciative. There followed a list of all her spectacular achievements, the revolutions she’d averted, the strikes she’d brought to an end through patient negotiation and a simper or two at the right moment, the corrupt officials she’d exposed. If her smile had been any broader it’d have split her face wide open.

“It’s a difficult job at times, and a dangerous one as I don’t need to remind you.” For just a moment Caroline shuddered, breathing hard, at one or two particularly unpleasant memories. “Yet in the end it’s what keeps the oil flowing and the wheels of society turning. Yes, I keep on thinking that people like Caroline are the real heroes of the company, though I’m sure that with their usual misplaced modesty they’ll be at great pains to deny it.” Chris seemed for a moment to be choking on something.

“We don’t, I’m sure. So it only remains for me to say - congratulations Caroline.”

She had been tipped to win it, but all the same it came as a surprise and a delight. Chris Barrett, seeing her eyes shine with pleasure, tears brimming in them even, felt proud and happy for her. God, how fantastic her folks will feel when they hear about it, he thought.

“If you’d like to come to the table to receive the award…” With a discreet peck on the cheek, Stamford handed her the framed certificate. She contemplated it for a moment then, managing to compose herself, gave a short and rather shaky speech thanking all her colleagues for their support – even the ones she didn’t like, although Chris knew the bastards wouldn’t appreciate it in the slightest. It wasn’t one of her best efforts, though he was sure it’d have sounded much more impressive had she been less overcome by her emotions. He treated her to a brotherly hug as she returned to sit beside him.

They gravitated to the bar while the room was cleared out and made ready for the meal which was to follow the conference. The company having contributed much to the prosperity of the locality, IPL were always well received and feted whenever they met here.

Hennig's wife appeared, laden down with four bags of heavy shopping most of which he guessed would be souvenirs. Oh God, moaned the MD inwardly, how much did all that cost?

The meal, eaten in the hotel’s spacious banqueting hall, which had a stage at one end where speakers and a piano had been set up, was rich and filling. Caroline sat a couple of places from Hennig. Between them was his wife, a small woman with peroxided hair and a nasal Jewish accent. Caroline rather liked her, and the two of them often did aerobics together.

The food had now been cleared away, and the diners were finishing off the last of the drink. It was a fairly warm Southern evening, and somewhere a window was open letting in the soft, fragrant night air, as cool and sweet as a mint julep.

"What happens now?" Myra Hennig asked. At half-past eight there was still plenty of time to kill before going to bed.

"Nothing much," her husband sighed. "I expect everyone will just go to the bar or watch TV."

In the past the men, Hennig included, had often relocated to one of the seedier bars in the area following the conclusion of the day's business, to watch "exotic dancers" - strippers, of course - strut their stuff, or patronise what in bygone days would have been referred to as a "house of ill repute." And although you wouldn't get that sort of thing in a respectable establishment like this, at another hotel expensive prostitutes had been bussed in to provide an evening’s entertainment.

Caroline Kent and the other female executives usually absented themselves at that point, retiring to a room somewhere for what was more or less a hen party. Rumours that Caroline had stayed behind to personally "entertain" the men were untrue although once her disapproval of what went on was met by a reminder from Chris of an embarrassing incident when she'd had a bit too much to drink and he'd needed to forcibly intervene to prevent an incident which might have done considerable damage to her career. This shut her up for a while.

On this occasion, however, Myra’s presence meant there could be no mucking about. He resented this, just as he resented the close friendship between her and Caroline. Hennig wondered bitterly if they hadn't arranged it between them in order to spoil his fun. Bet she's told her all about my...indiscretions, he thought with a scowl. He was aware she knew a few things about him which he wouldn't want his wife to hear.

His better side dismissed the thought. He knew Caroline wouldn't tell on him; give her her due, she wasn't like that. Especially at times like the present. Right now, they were all in this business together. All in the same b....curse these nautical metaphors that nowadays seemed to be creeping into their thoughts, their speech. It was as if the sea was somehow taking over their whole lives, washing over them in a dark gloomy tide of depression which carried them helplessly along with it.

On the subject of Myra, he wondered if Caroline really needed to spill the beans on him anyway. Myra probably guessed what he got up to on business trips and fact-finding excursions, but had decided to put up with it. And then again, maybe I'm getting a bit too old for that sort of thing anyway, he thought wistfully.

On hearing that he was off to America for the conference, Myra had said oh wouldn't it be nice if she could come with him for a change. Apart from holidays, they didn't often get the chance to go away together and for her to see what he actually did at meetings like this. He tried to put her off by saying it would all be boys' talk etc, but she refused to be deterred. "But Caroline will be there, and I'm sure there's plenty of things to see and do in town." In the end he'd had to give in because the more he put her off the more it would only increase her suspicions as to what he might be doing after dark.

The conversation continued in a desultory sort of way. "Don't they have singers at these places?" Myra said. "I think that'd be nice."

"A cabaret, you mean? I don't think anything’s been booked,” replied her husband, playing idly with the stem of his wineglass. "No-one’s really in the mood." Someone else clearly had done; they could hear the faint strains of a Country and Western song drifting gently to them from another room.

The seat beside Myra having been abandoned, Caroline had decided to requisition it so that the two of them could talk more easily.

"It's because they're cheesed off at not being able to dip their wicks," she muttered into her friend’s ear. Myra nodded silently, a sardonic look on her face.

"It's been mentioned," someone told them. "I don't know if anyone's got it seriously in mind."

"We could do some jokes and sketches," suggested Chris Barrett. "The IPL Revue. The oil executive's ball."
"Mmmmm," grunted Hennig.
"I mean, I don't see why not. We do need some light relief."

Hennig continued to toy with his wineglass, rotating it by its stalk and running his fingers along the curved grooves cut into the surface. Myra noticed his expression. "Do cheer up," she urged.

"I'm not miserable," he insisted. "I'm just.....I don't know."

"Where's Caroline?" someone asked, seeing the lady in question was no longer in her place.
"Gone to the loo I expect," Hennig said vaguely.

They had more or less run out of small talk, and silence reigned for a bit until Myra broke it, just loud enough for all to hear what she was saying, whether intentionally or not was hard to figure out. "I think it's disgraceful the way you treat that girl sometimes," she told her husband. "I really do. After all she's done for the company." Hennig winced. Without specifically meaning to, Caroline must on plenty of occasions have made it clear to Myra what a horrible chap he was.
"So you've said," he muttered. "Lots of times."

Chris, embarrassed by the exchange, turned away and began chatting to one of the American executives.

The gathering seemed to be breaking up. Then a Master of Ceremonies in a tuxedo and tailcoat suddenly appeared and mounted the stage, positioning himself at a microphone. The orchestra came in and took their seats.

"Oooh," said Henning, glad of the distraction. "What's going on now, I wonder?"

The MC clapped his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, we thought we'd provide a little something for your entertainment tonight. I understand the lady who's going to be providing the vocals tonight needs no introduction to you."

He stepped aside with a flourish. Then to everyone's astonishment Caroline Kent entered, crossed the room and stepped up onto the stage, taking the MC's place at the mike. She had changed into a rather stunning blue silk dress, whose cut allowed just a tasteful hint of cleavage above which the pearl necklace she had been given by her mother as a birthday present glimmered against the soft pink-white flesh of her throat.

She lifted the mike from its stand. The orchestra started playing and before the eyes of the assembled throng she began to sing, in soft breathy tones very like those of the late, great Karen Carpenter.

As we eye
The blue horizon's bend
Earth and sky
Appear to meet and end
But it's merely an illusion
Like your heart and mine
There is no sweet conclusion

"I don't believe it," Sir Charles Stamford was heard to gasp, wide-eyed.

I can see
No matter how near you'll be
You'll never belong to me
But I can dream
Can't I
Can't I pretend
That I'm locked in the bend
Of your embrace
For dreams
Are just like wine,
And I am drunk
With mine

An instrumental interlude followed. Altogether it wasn't what you'd call a cheerful song, but instead of gloomy was more whimsical; perhaps the right kind of number for the situation the company was in. For some reason everyone felt compelled to stay rather than retire to their rooms or the bar. She was an accomplished performer, moving about the stage with an ease and self-confidence that somehow entrapped the eyes.

"So she can sing as well," one executive observed, adding disgustedly "is there anything she can't do?"

Chris Barrett grinned. "She's a lousy cook. I've tried her chili con carne; it is absolutely lethal. And every time she tries her hand at a spot of DIY she usually ends up creating chaos. She's at her best under pressure, I'd say."

Rowson, the American Chris had been talking to, was staring at Caroline as if mesmerised, unable to take his eyes off her. "Jeez, she is fit," he remarked.

"What the hell does she want to be in a job like ours for?" the man next to him said with scorn. "I'd say from this she could be a megastar."

"With a bit more training, yeah. Well, she's quite a character," said Chris. "Besides, the showbiz life's not what it's cracked up to be. I think she had the sense to see that."

"It's not a good deal less stressful than what we do," Rowson pointed out.

"She thinks women are already pretty accomplished in that field," Chris went on. "Not so much in business. And she doesn't want to be in a job where she can have everything she wants just because she looks good. She'd rather be valued for more than that."

All the same, Rowson marvelled at how someone could subject
themselves to the boring, or alternatively hectic, life of a business executive just to prove a point.

It wasn't as if her job wasn't exciting at times. In fact, it could be a little too much so. Another thing Caroline wasn't good at was staying out of trouble.

Rowson shook his head. "An oil exec and a singer....no. I don't get it. Sorry."

"It's just something she likes to do. I think she could make money out of it, but doesn't need to, with what she's already getting. I've known weirder things than that. These days, nothing really surprises you. I heard about a woman who earned thousands of pounds as a top-ranking executive and still worked as a prostitute on the side."

One of the Americans got up from his place, went over to Chris and bent to whisper in his ear. "You know her, right?"
"Have done for years."
"Are you and her, uh....."

"Actually no," Chris smiled. "No, she's great but she’s just a friend, that's all."

"Oh, right. Well in that case, maybe you can answer me a question." The man was grinning slyly. "Do you reckon if I slipped her a fifty dollar bill or two, she'd...."

Chris turned slowly to face him, staring hard. "Fuck off," he said.

The American remained gazing blankly at him for a second or two, crushed, then slouched from the room.

The orchestral interlude came to an end and the haunting, melodious strains of Caroline's voice started up again. Removing the mike from its stand she descended the stage and began moving about the room, gliding with seemingly effortless, ghost-like grace.

I'm aware
My heart is a sad affair
There's much disillusion there
But I can dream
Can't I

Can't I adore you
Although we are oceans apart
I can't make you open your heart
But I can dream
Can't I

Can't I adore you
Although we are oceans apart
I can't make you open your heart
But I can dream
Can't I

She held the last note for a few moments. As it died away the entire room erupted in applause. She bowed, her eyes as well as her mouth smiling with pleasure.

The orchestra struck up another tune, and again Caroline began to sing. This time it was a rousing number from the Beach Boys.

“I still don’t see how she can sing like that when you consider the mess we’re in at the moment,” Hennig grumbled.

“Yes,” smiled Chris, with just the faintest trace of sardonicism. “But then of course she’s going to sort it all out – isn’t she?”


SEVEN
The evening had ended with another Carpenters song, Masquerade; Caroline wasn’t sure it was really the best choice, since it appeared to suggesting everyone was falsely making out things were fine when of course they weren’t. But she’d judged the mood of the party correctly, and no-one seemed to mind. They all knew the charade was necessary.

Immediately after breakfast the following morning the IPL delegation went to their rooms to pack. A little later Caroline joined them in the foyer, where they were waiting for the bus that’d been chartered to take them to the airport, to say goodbye. There were kisses and hugs from Myra Hennig and various others; she even got one from Hennig himself, which was unusual.

She went over to Chris Barrett and gave him a sisterly peck on the cheek. "Well, I'll see you soon." Chris would be flying to Nassau in a couple of days, having some work to finish off in England first. But since he would be covering a different part of the islands, they wouldn't be setting eyes on each other again for a while yet.
He returned the kiss. "Take care."

"Of course I will." It was on old familiar ritual they were going through.

It was perhaps best to think of him as a sort of brother. It served to some extent as a substitute for Douglas, and besides any other relationship with him would either be uneasy or inappropriate.

The bus turned up, collected them all and left. Caroline stood looking after it as it disappeared down the drive, feeling sad for a moment at being left behind. Then she turned and strode back inside purposefully. Well, she thought, this is it. Now maybe I'm going to get a chance to find out if I was right.

She thought of the jobs that would be lost, the livelihoods wrecked, the disruption caused if the oil did not get through; the millions of people who would be unable to do what they most wanted, or needed, or die because cars and other motor vehicles were out of action and electricity could not be generated to power life-support machines. It was for all those reasons that she was off to the balmy Bahamas; plus the fact that she'd never been there before and always felt an exhilarating sense of joy at exploring a new territory.

The night before they left England she had sat cross-legged on her bed until late studying a map of the Caribbean which showed the Bahamas, even though they were actually in the Atlantic. Did the answer really lie there somewhere, among that 750-mile string of 700 islands and nearly 2500 smaller islets, or cays, stretching from the northern coast of Haiti almost to the southern tip of Florida and covering roughly 100,000 square miles of ocean?

Where did she start? It occurred to her that what she was looking for was most likely to be on Grand Bahama or Abacos because those were the two most northerly islands, the closest to the route an oil tanker would be taking to get to and from the Louisiana terminal.

But suppose it wasn't? Her main concern was that they might find something which looked like a lead but in fact was a red herring, the real answer lying somewhere else. It could result in a disastrous waste of time, for which the company certainly wouldn't thank them. Once they had seen the whole picture, they could then make a decision as to what most required investigation.

She grinned delightedly to herself. It would be an excuse for a bit of sightseeing, and maybe other leisure activities too. Dedicated as she was to her work, there was no reason why she shouldn't have some fun while doing it. Regard this as a business holiday.

She'd start with New Providence, on which was located the capital, Nassau, followed by Grand Bahama. That would be where the action was going on, where she'd be more likely to learn something. Meanwhile she'd have Chris cover the Family Islands, plus the Turks and Caicos. Altogether they would visit all the larger islands over the next few weeks; she didn't think it was worth bothering with the smaller ones unless there turned out to be no clues anywhere else.

Later that morning, she touched down at Miami and had a snack at the airport cafeteria. With some time to kill before her flight to Nassau, she decided to spend a couple of hours on the beach.

She had always loved the beach. She enjoyed the feel of the sun beating down on her back, the water sparkling in the sunshine, the kiss of the gently rolling waves on her skin. There were other attractions, too. Though she wouldn't have admitted it, she was secretly hoping some hunk with a surfboard would take a fancy to her. Perhaps she'd seen too much Baywatch.

As it was she had to run the gauntlet, enduring the wolf whistles and constantly noting the appreciative looks that were cast in her direction. She supposed she was asking for it by going about in a bikini, with a body like hers. But she couldn't resist the temptation to experience the vaguely wicked sensuality of swimming semi-naked in the warm soothing waters, on which the sunbeams danced and scintillated. Then there was the possibility of getting a tan. She wanted her skin to turn a creamy brown colour, like cafe au lait, while the sun bleached her hair even blonder than usual, to an almost Scandinavian whiteness. So she found herself a bathing hut and changed into her costume.

She had decided on a pair of tie-sided hipsters. Though she had a whole collection of bikinis at home she preferred this type and was glad they had come back into fashion. She felt they revealed enough to be sexy while still preserving an element of decency, unless you objected in principle to the female form divine. The other kinds tended to look ugly, especially the front view, the way they exposed part of the crotch and pelvic bone. Me no Lycra.

The beach was pretty crowded which was a nuisance, but she was able to find a relatively secluded spot, spread out her towel and lie down.

Mmmmmm, she thought as her body began to soak up the solar rays. This is the life.

She alternated sensibly between the beach and the water, not spending too much time exposed to the sun, and coated herself liberally with suncream; a wise precaution for someone of her skin type and colouring. Whenever the heat got too much she lifted herself from her towel and padded down the gently sloping sand before her to offer herself to the sea.

Caroline loved swimming, despite having nearly been drowned off Newquay when a child, venturing out too far while her parents had been occupied dealing with one of Douglas’ tantrums. After this near tragedy it had been decided it would be best for her to take swimming lessons. Her fear of the water had taken some time to overcome, but by her teens she was thoroughly proficient in it. She often thought she might have taken it further than mere recreation. Though not the sort of person to be embarrassed about her body, and indeed proud of it, she sometimes regretted that her bust was just too big for her to be an Olympic standard swimmer. Small breasts created less friction to slow you down. Champion swimmers had the best physiques of all athletes, but not always in terms of what was considered sexually attractive.

Step by step she waded out, the warm water, stirred up by her movements, lapping against her flesh. Once deep enough, and clear of any other bather, she threw herself forward, arms outstretched, like someone embracing a lover.

She struck out, all the muscles needed for swimming, in her arms, wrists, shoulders, legs, feet, elbows, knees, back and buttocks contracting and expanding to push her forward, competing against the resistance of the water. Soon she was ploughing along fairly smoothly, at a slight angle to the coast.

She wasn't a trained athlete but she was young, healthy and very fit. She exercised regularly - swimming included, at the local pool and in the sea during the summer months - and ate a sensible diet which included plenty of orange juice, fruit and vegetables, full of vitamins and giving the right balance between water, minerals, proteins, fats and carbohydrates. As a result, and because of her genes, she possessed a trim slim figure. All this told in her favour as a swimmer.

Of course as a woman she didn't have quite the same muscular strength as a man. Her legs were similarly powerful - as one nasty character had discovered at his loss when he had tried to rape her a few years back – but her arms weaker. She made up for this by possessing more body fat and thus buoyancy, leaving her free to use more of her energy for propulsion. At the same time her smaller muscle and bone mass made her lighter and faster.

All the same she could feel the water dragging her limbs back, the bow wave created by her passage pressing against her sides and slowing her down. The drag increased the faster she swam. Soon she was breathing harder and faster from the exertion, but as she got into her stride ceased to notice it. In fact, her breathing and heart rate gradually steadied.

She tried a variety of different styles: front crawl, breast-stroke, backstroke and butterfly. She found the first two were the most strenuous, the third and fourth actually the most difficult.

She'd always been a little better on her back than on her front; for one thing the water didn't get into your mouth. And with the backstroke there was a relaxing feeling that the water was buoying you up. Sometimes it was nice just to stop swimming, lie back and let the waves rock you gently to and fro for a while, like a baby in its cradle. She did that for a bit, then tried the breaststroke again, covering quite a distance before realising she had gone a little too far out and turning back towards the shore.

A few minutes later, tired but happy, she staggered onto the sand, panting and gasping from her exertions. Flopping onto her towel, she stretched out taut and offered herself once again to the sun.

A few hundred yards away Louise Reiner was just stepping out from her bathing hut. She weaved her way in and out of the crowds until she reached the wet sand near the water's edge. Then she stopped and looked around for the lifeguard. Good; he was still looking the other way.

Louise sighed in sensuous pleasure, feeling her bare feet splash in the warm liquid as it lapped the shore. Her arms held out to balance her against the waves set up by other swimmers, she waded out till she felt the water slap against her chest. Then she launched herself forward and struck out with her head thrown back and mouth open in a cry of sheer, animal ecstasy.

Her arms swung up and down, her legs kicked out. Soon she was leaving the other bathers far behind, ignoring the buoys with their warning messages bobbing up and down on the Atlantic swell. Her only thought, only desire was to keep on swimming.

So she did. And by the time her arms and legs started to tire several pairs of hands were taking hold of her and drawing her down, one clamping the oxygen mask in position over her face as she sank deeper and deeper into the warm, comforting, life-giving sea.


FBI HQ Miami
At the desk he shared with Hurtwood in a corner of the open-plan office where most of the Special Agents worked, Moses Jameson sat back from his computer to ponder what he’d learned from it so far that morning. He glanced briefly at the screen erected against the wall nearby, to which had been taped copies of the notes and photographs from the file on the case. The victims’ faces were starting to haunt him. And Shannon Richards’ most of all, for some reason he didn’t yet fully understand.

He’d cross-checked with the records of every other FBI station in the country, plus the police forces of a range of other countries including Scotland Yard and Interpol, going back the last twenty years. And it seemed there’d been nothing like this case ever before, not on such a scale and within the broad parameters the perp appeared to have set himself, or herself. The Behavioural Sciences Unit at Quantico had come up with a psychological profile of the kidnapper – or killer, whatever – concluding that they were a highly intelligent but withdrawn and socially maladjusted individual who believed that by making people disappear they were demonstrating their power over the rest of society, getting their own back for having been excluded from full participation in it, as they saw things. They were probably not working alone, in view of the difficulties involved in an operation of this size, but were the driving force behind what was going on, the planner and instigator.
But who were they, and how were they doing it?

One possible clue to the means had come up while he was interviewing a couple of Shannon Richards’ friends. They had told him that while their group were out on the town the night before her disappearance, walking through the main shopping centre to get to their favourite dance joint, someone or something seemed to have pricked her sharply on the wrist. It was like a jab from a hypo, leaving only a small mark and causing no lasting pain. It was typical of Shannon not to have bothered telling her parents, in whom like any rebellious teenager she didn’t care to confide much, about it. And if they had pressed her to have a proper medical check she probably wouldn’t have listened.

Hurtwood came in and sat down opposite him. “Any luck?” Jameson asked.

“Maybe. I’ve interviewed about half the families now, and it’s the same old story. One or two of them had..issues, reasons why they might want to take a hike or kill themselves - same as with any bunch of people. But the rest seem to have been normal, balanced individuals with no reason to be pissed off with life. And no-one had seen anything suspicious or knew where their relatives might have gone if they were specifically intending to disappear.”
“I ain’t had any different. “But you said “maybe”.”

“There is one thing. According to people they’d been with, not long before they disappeared a couple of them reported incidents where they felt a sharp pain in the hand for a moment, like they’d been pricked with some kind of needle. It usually happened when they were in a crowded place.”
Jameson started, sitting bolt upright. “You don’t say?”
“Uh?”

“I had that with one of mine.” He described what he’d learned from Rhoda and Leanne, Shannon’s pals. “Smells like a lead to me, the only one we got right now.”

"Yeah. Some nut is going around injecting people with something, a drug that makes them want to disappear...it’s abduction, got to be. Later they get picked up somewhere by whoever’s behind it. It’s clever, means there’s no need to use force and risk drawing attention to yourself. I’ve never seen it done this way before.”

“In a crowded place,” he added, “there’s less chance anyone’s gonna see what you’re doing.”

“If they thought they mighta been injected with something, why didn’t they go and see a doctor to check they were OK? Some sicko mighta been trying to poison them.”

“That’s what I can’t figure out. None of them seem to have done so. I’ve a feeling this business is going to get weirder the more we know about it.”

“So what do we do? Put out an alert saying someone’s going round stabbing people with a hypo? That’d cause mass panic.”

“We just have to catch this guy,” Hurtwood said softly. “Would help if we knew what the stuff was. But since none of the victims went to the doctor to report it, and got a medical examination, we’re in the dark there.”

“They’ve got to stop this thing,” Jameson muttered.
“It’s not our decision anyway. In any case he or she is one of millions of people in this city. There's no way we'd know what they were going to do before they did it. And if they’re not local it’ll be even more difficult. We’ve just got to carry on with the investigation and hope we can get somewhere before too many go missing.”

“When’s there meant to be “too many” of something,” Jameson wondered. “I’d say there’s too many already.” How long would the disappearances continue, he wondered? Hadn’t the perpetrator proved their point by now?

Hurtwood reached for his copy of the case file. “I’ll have another look at Quantico’s report, see if we can relate it to anything unusual that’s been happening, anyone noticing a neighbour behaving strangely.”

“Uh. Me, I’ve got one or two calls to make, once I know who they’re to.” Jameson went back to the computer, the light reflecting from its screen seeming to glint off the steely determination in his eyes.

*

While Jameson was looking up the addresses he wanted Caroline Kent was catching her taxi back to the airport, where she later boarded an American Airlines flight to Nassau. She wore a loose-fitting, lightweight cotton blouse, T-shirt, white slacks and sneakers. In her suitcase were a pair of flipflops, lightweight casual shoes for evening wear, and a light sweater for wearing at night when it could get suprisingly cold. And of course she had come well protected with suncream.

The flight took just thirty minutes. It was uneventful xcept for when they ran into a spot of turbulence and the other passengers began wailing "Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord Jesus!", crooning His name softly in an appeal for protection against the wrath of the elements. She spent most of the time reading a potted history of the islands.

They rose out of the sea from the Bahama Banks, a vast flat underwater plateau which was part of the Atlantic oceanic plate. Its original human inhabitants were the peaceful Lucayan Indians, who lived primarily off the sea, making bread from manioc and growing corn, yams, and other vegetables, weaving cotton and building boats. They lived in egalitarian communities in caves and worshipped various gods, who were thought to control the rain, sun, wind and hurricanes.

Then in 1492 Columbus had come and planted the Spanish flag. He was followed by an army of colonists who enslaved the Indians, working them all to death, and then departed. The islands them-selves were not deemed suitable for settlement in the long run, but once explorers discovered the Aztec and Inca civilizations of Central and South America, greedily coveting their vast wealth, the galleons were soon passing by laden with treasure for Spain. Many foundered in the shallow reef-encrusted waters which soon became littered with wrecks, many of whom still remained there, to the delight of both recreational divers and underwater archaeologists.

Tales of this sunken treasure lured pirates and other adventurers, including Francis Drake and Walter Raleigh. The archipelago, with its hundreds of islets, cays, and complex shoals and channels, was an ideal base and hide-out for the pirates. In the age of sail, still lacking accurate maps and subject to the vagaries of the weather, hundreds of ships foundered here, often at the hands of wreckers who placed lights on the reefs to guide them to their destruction, afterwards helping themselves to their cargo.

During the next two hundred years the islands were variously claimed by Britain, France and Spain, actual possession going to whichever country happened to be most powerful at the time. In 1629 King Charles had granted the Bahamas to his attorney general, his son Charles II later dividing them up among six of his nobles. The thin Bahamian soil wasn't conducive to growing root crops, at the then level of agricultural technology, and little profit was to be gained from tilling it. The English grandees proved to be absentee landlords, and soon seafaring rogues came to the islands in large numbers to fill the vacuum. The population of the largest settlement, Charles Town, was soon almost entirely made up of pirates, prostitutes, wreckers and other sordid elements, who had the final say in who should be the islands’ governor. Sometimes the governor was a pirate. Since the Royal Navy couldn't effectively patrol the Caribbean the crown sponsored privateers to do the job, capturing French, Dutch or Spanish vessels, and piracy became a lucrative profession for ambitious miscreants, political refugees and escaped criminals.

Spain attempted to suppress the buccaneers and on at least four occasions attacked and razed Charles Town, beginning in 1684 when the settlement was destroyed. However it was promptly rebuilt, soon resuming its wicked ways.

Whenever peace broke out, pirates suddenly became outlaws. These were the days of Henry Jennings, of Edward Teach, the notorious "Blackbeard", who terrorised his victims by wearing flaming fuses in his hair and beard, "Calico Jack" Rackham, so called because of his fondness for calico underwear, and Rackham’s Amazonian sidekicks Mary Read and Anne Bonney. Eventually direct rule was imposed from London and a Governor (himself a former pirate) appointed who suppressed the pirates.

In the later eighteenth century loyalists who fled the United States after the revolution settled in the islands, bringing their slaves with them. After parliament ended slavery in 1834 many of the plantation owners left, often bequeathing their lands to their former slaves, who turned like the free blacks around them to fishing and subsistence farming. The turmoil of islands such as Jamaica, where the wealthy vigorously opposed emancipation, was avoided.

For most of the nineteenth century the economy muddled along based on subsistence agriculture, fishing, wrecking, smuggling, and diving for sponges. An illicit rum trade grew up during the Second World War. The islands did not remain a backwater during that conflict; in 1940 joint US-UK naval bases were established on five of the islands because German U-boats were hiding in the canyons between them. In those days the Duke of Windsor, the former King Edward VIII and a known Nazi sympathiser, was Governor and certain rumours surrounded the appearance of one such vessel in the neighbourhood.

Since the war the islands had made their living mainly from tourism. During the 1980s there had been a similarly lucrative but less legitimate trade, that of narcotics, until the damage to the country's reputation abroad prompted a massive crackdown with the help of the US Drug Enforcement Agency. Now the Bahamas draw thousands of foreign yachters, anglers and scuba divers each year, a good many of them American.

The Bahamas had a population of approximately 290,000 people. About 85% of them were black, this figure including those who had multiracial ancestry. Whites constituted about 14%; most were of British descent but there were a few Americans, Irish and Greeks. And a few Chinese, Middle Easterners or Haitians. In fact, the vast majority of Bahamians were to some degree of mixed ancestry and distinctions were sometimes muddied. Finally there were the thousands of North American expatriates whose houses were dotted throughout the islands.

Outside Nassau most whites lived in a few settlements where they formed a majority, such as Man O'War Cay and Green Turtle on Abacos. The population of each was descended from just one family. Most of their inhabitants could claim descent from the earliest English settlers, Loyalists who fled the American Revolution – or, occasionally, from the former English ruling elite. A far greater number were descended from pirates and vagabonds. In Nassau they formed a clannish community dominating the upper echelons of economic life, in which the British in particular excelled.

The Bahamas had been likened to a string of pearls, shimmering in the sun. Certainly, as Caroline looked down from the window of the plane's cabin that day, the sea beneath her seemed shot through with filigree patterns of light, like the surface of some great gleaming jewel; a delicate tracery not unlike a giant spider's web glittering in the sunlight. The Bible spoke of the sea passing away after the Day of Judgement when all things were reshaped; she rather hoped this passage was meant in some way to be metaphorical, rather than literally true, because right now it seemed rather a pity. The clear and unpolluted appearance of the sea was due to the nutrient-rich waters of the Gulf Stream, which current moved in a northward direction preventing Florida’s rain and river run-off, containing effluents from industry, from reaching here.

It was the height of summer in the islands, and the weather would be breezy but sunny, as indeed it was most of the year, leading George Washington to call them the “Isles of Perpetual June.” They were well into the tourist season, but the effects on the world economy of the tanker sinkings would have had a knock-on effect on people’s private purses, meaning there wouldn’t be quite so many holidaymakers about as normal. All the better, because it meant she could move around more freely; and have the beaches to herself.

From the airport she caught a taxi into town where she booked into her hotel and unpacked. Once these tasks were accomplished the first thing to do, she thought, was to get the feel of the place. So for a while she wandered around among the quaint colonial-era buildings, the clapboarded houses painted in a variety of different colours. Everywhere prosperity was evident; a prosperity that derived from tourism, plus banking, and benefited from the close proximity of the United States, enabling the Bahamas to be far more developed than the rest of the Caribbean (though strictly speaking, the Bahamas was not geographically part of the region). It was reflected in the elegant clothes, the expensive new cars. Things were different, she understood, in the Family Islands, still relatively backward. But even here in Nassau there were poorer people evident as well; they were the ones in the polyester suits with white tie over black shirt, alligator shoes and fedora, baggy jeans and ostentatious gold medallions and wristwatches.

It was a colourful, bustling place. In the main street a Goombay dance band was performing, the musicians and dancers of both sexes dressed in bright flounced costumes. She paused to listen and to try and identify the different styles of which Goombay was a blend; calypso, African folk songs, English folk songs, and slave folk songs developed in the cane fields to ease the backbreaking labour. The musicians beat on goatskin drums, rattled castanets, played flutes, rang cowbells and blew through conch shells. It was a fast-paced, sustained, infectious tune and without making a conscious decision to do so she suddenly found herself dancing along.

"Hey, snow white!" someone shouted. "Snow white" was a colloquial term for a white woman, not here being used derogatorily. "Soul sister!"

She appeared to have arrived right in the middle of an election. It was a time when outrageous charges - sexual competence was a favoured topic - were made by competing candidates. Everyone seemed to be wearing T-shirts emblazoned with the emblems of their party, badges were being handed out, and posters were plastered on every lamp-post and tree. Voters were packing the streets, jostling one another and arguing noisily; surprisingly, the arguments rarely ended in fisticuffs.

Turnout for the last election, she understood, had been 90%. It provided an astonishing contrast with Britain, where apathy was now reaching alarming proportions.

Another thing that struck her, and it seemed to her encouraging, was that although the blacks and whites didn't intermarry much, no doubt because whites being in the minority were afraid of losing their identity and culture, they did get on OK despite all the slavery and racism there'd been in the past. Here the whites had never expected to be anything but a minority from the start, and so didn't regard the blacks as a threat to their way of life.

In some ways she was to find Bahamians terribly British. They were peaceably inclined and not likely to lose their tempers when things went wrong. Everyone had an air of casualness, going about their affairs with a benign, nonchalant calm. But an American influence was also very much in evidence, in the accents she heard on the streets and through the doors of fast-food outlets. Everywhere you go they're taking over, she thought. It was two-way however; at this time of year many Bahamians visited south Florida for either business or pleasure.

She was to find that Bahamians appreciated a sense of humour, especially if the joke was on the bawdy side. They liked to make fun of people, but without any malice. Although they didn’t care for being pushed around, they didn’t mind if the joke was on them and if anything respected people who gave as good as they got. They wouldn’t be gratuitously rude to a foreigner, of course; they appreciated that tourism was their lifeblood. The only real irritant for the visitor was that their easy-going approach to life meant planes and boats didn’t always arrive when they were scheduled to, the response of airport staff when asked when the next flight from Miami was due to arrive often being that it would get here when it got here.

Generally she felt safe. Apart from the mysterious murder of Sir Harry Oakes during the Second World War, which according to some theories was tied in with the Mafia, the Bahamas had never been renowned for crime. Whether male or female, you should be alright on your own as long as you avoided places that looked dodgy and exercised discretion when giving lifts to strangers.

She divided her time between the beach or sightseeing, in the mornings and afternoons, and the bars at lunchtimes and in the evenings. She was careful not to patronise the same establishment too often; for then it was possible people would think she was cruising for a sexual partner, and she would either be treated disparagingly and shunned or attract the wrong kind of attention.

Bahamians were so fond of gossiping that once she had hired a car in order to get around fast it wouldn't take her long to find what she was looking for, if it existed. She had excellent hearing, as many a colleague who muttered something rude about her under their breath as they left her office with their tail between their legs had discovered. Wherever she went, and not just in the clubs and bars, she chatted to the local people at every opportunity, from time to time gently probing in order to find out whether anything interesting or unusual had happened in or around the islands
recently.

She enjoyed her time in Nassau. But after a few days spent there without learning anything of particular significance, she decided it was time to move on. And so, with her usual feeling of pleasure at the prospect of acquainting herself with somewhere new, Caroline Kent set off for Grand Bahama.

*

Jameson had checked with all the establishments, whether private or government-owned, where a drug of the sort that might produce irrational or uncharacteristic behaviour could be developed. But although there were various things it could have been, no samples of them were known to be missing.

The perp would run out of the stuff sooner or later, wouldn't he? Either that would be the end of their kidnapping spree, or they’d try to obtain a further supply. Security at these places was already as tight as possible, and there was little chance of anything being stolen or of any employee with the right knowledge manufacturing the drug secretly at some other location. In fact, everyone Jameson spoke to was puzzled as to how the kidnappers could have got their hands on the stuff in the first place.

They’d now interviewed all the families of the victims, including the two more who had been reported that morning. Nothing they’d learned gave them any clues. And the numbers were continuing to rise, with nearly a hundred cases where the circumstances suggested something strange was afoot.

Where the hell were they putting all the bodies, live or dead?

While Hurtwood continued to work on the psychological report from Quantico, Jameson was going through the case file attempting to identify some further factor which all the victims – they were victims of something, that was for sure – had in common, scribbling down extensive notes in the process.

After going through the file several times, he was none the wiser. Perhaps he needed to employ a bit of lateral thinking, or follow a hunch rather than try and work it out through any rational process. Did he have a hunch yet? The cause of it would have to be something which made a kind of sense, could be significant, but remained unproven.
There was just one thing.
He had a sudden flash of intuition.

In one case a girl had disappeared after a trip to the beach. Shannon Richards had last been seen waiting for a bus that would have taken her there; although there were other stops on the way, that was where she had been observed to get off. And then there was the woman someone had observed, or thought they’d observed, walking into the sea.
The sea.

An idea began to take shape in his mind. But there wasn’t enough evidence at the moment to give it credence. Could just be coincidence.

Not yet, he told himself. Not just yet. He shoved the theory to the back of his mind, to wait until anything turned up to buttress it, and went to make them both a cup of coffee.


The only really fast and convenient way to get around within the Bahamas was by air. Caroline had had the foresight to get the Bahamasair Great Value Airpass, which was good for travel to up to eight flights and could be used to island hop. The only hassle was having to go through customs upon arrival at each airfield because of the country's drug policy. That and the consistent lateness of the flights. Everything seemed to move at a slower pace here than anywhere else in the West; the phenomenon was known as "BT" (Bahamian time). With so long to wait before anything much happened, it was why she didn’t feel guilty about spending so much time on the beach.

Grand Bahama was a long, thin island, 85 miles long and 17 across at its widest point. It was the second most popular tourist destination in the Bahamas. It had good beaches, two nature parks, a good social life in the town of West End, as well as diving, day-cruise excursions, and plenty of opportunities to indulge in some duty-free shopping. She took advantage of all of these. She thought it best to avoid the casino, since she didn't want to gamble away the money IPL were spending on her assignment; one could guess what Hennig would say about that. Although money was cabled to her regularly by the company for necessary expenses, on leisure activities she was careful to spend only her own.

On her first day on the island she visited a Marine Life Centre where following a two-hour educational lecture she stood waist-deep, supervised, in a pool where the semi-wild creatures swam around her, smiling as she felt their sonar checking her out, trying to decide if she was friend or foe; perhaps inviting her to communicate in the same way, which of course she couldn't. Rather a pity, that. And no feeding or touching was allowed; it was rather disappointing really.

She was warned her to take care should she ever encounter dolphins in the wild. Despite their cheery smiles they were animals, and unpredictable, which was the reason for the precautions visitors to the Centre were obliged to take. It was not unknown for them to attack people. You had to remain still if a dolphin approached you and not swim, chase after or touch one; they might perceive you as a threat and bite you. If a dolphin became aggressive you should exit the water slowly. The guide told her the creatures were far more approachable with snorkels than noisy scuba gear, the vibrations from which tended to alarm them.

She declined the invitation to swim among sharks while a diver in a chain-mail suit hand-fed them with fish meal to take their mind off the human flesh which would otherwise have monopolised their attention.

In spite of its varied attractions, Caroline did not like Grand Bahama. It was too developed and touristy with very little of the traditional Bahamian culture in evidence. Freeport, the main settlement and the nation's second-largest city, was a soulless collection of concrete blocks as was the other main town, Lucaya. There were too many American tourists who just wanted to lounge on the beach and gamble and shop. The whole place had adopted their culture. She gathered the Family Islands were much more interesting; perhaps Chris was having the better time of it. Their laid-back, simple lifestyle contrasted with the Bondian world of casinos, water sports, luxury yachts, golf courses and grandiose mansions that was Grand Bahama or New Providence.

Though the rest of the island was not quite so prosperous even the little fishing villages, she was to find, lacked character, colour, and energy. It was all so tacky, she thought snobbishly.

Freeport and Lucaya were popular with day-trippers arriving on cruise ships from Florida and with college students enjoying their spring break. They liked to consume copious amounts of alcohol, resulting in rowdiness that was an annoyance and an embarrassment to the locals.

But you could get away from it all if you needed to, on the ever-present beach.

Like the other islands Grand Bahama was uninhabited except around the coast where all the activity went on, the interior being one huge pine forest with an underfloor of dwarf palms and scrubby bushes. This meant she could concentrate her search, and that it might not take her long to get the information she wanted.

It was now her third night on the island, and she was sitting in a bar in Freetown sipping at her Daiquiri, and listening to the cheerful banter of the other customers; relaxing, affecting without strain a casual disinterested manner the way only an actress could. For she had trained as an actress at one point, before deciding such a career wasn’t for her. The main reason she gave it up, and a source of friction with her teachers at drama school, was her refusal to take on roles for which she felt no sympathy.

The room was just beginning to fill up. Most of those present were men but a group of women sat apart in one corner, talking volubly about weight, hair, clothes (whether theirs or someone else's wasn’t clear), when they weren't complaining about the infidelities of their menfolk. Nearer her, a couple of men were discussing the general election. Or at least they were until that topic exhausted itself and they turned their attention to her, not caring it seemed about whether or not she could hear.

"Hey, check out that blonde chick."
"Which one - oh, her." The Bahamian took a long, whistling breath. "See what you mean, man."
"Look at that hair. That's angel hair, that is. And that ass, them titties. Hey, you reckon she easy?"
The other hesitated, thinking, then shook his head firmly. "No, she ain't easy. You can tell."
"Oh yeah? How you so sure?"
"Man, you ain't never learned to read a woman's body language. She’s saying “leave off me, I don’t wanna know.””
"You reckon we should ask her? Won’t do no harm.”
"She looks the kind who won't just jump into bed 'cause you want her to. She's choosy 'bout 'oom she sleeps with. Reckon we should leave her alone."
"I say we ask. Only way we gonna find out, man."
"Forget it, she's too hot." They abandoned the subject of Caroline, although the conversation still centred on sex and who was copulating with who, along with fast cars and money.

Caroline smiled to herself. Despite the commonly held local belief that foreign women were free and easy with sexual favours, she wasn’t in any danger of being seriously molested. It was true, however, that in spite of their Christian beliefs Bahamians were relatively sexually promiscuous, starting from an early age. Couples might marry as young as 15, with parental consent, and even 13-year olds could if given special permission by the courts. The pleasure of sex seemed to be regarded as one of God's blessings, which it was a sin not to enjoy. Extramarital affairs were common, as were unmarried are unwed mothers. 57% of all births in the Bahamas were to single women, and 24% of those mothers were teenagers. But rape was almost unknown.

In any case it was the indigenous women who were most aggrieved by it all. Their disgust at their husbands’ behaviour led them to seek a better man, with whom they would engage in secret liaisons, thereby contributing to the trend. After all, it took two to tango. There was no stigma attached to illegitimacy, the child being accepted into the father’s home if he were a married man. However a woman who became pregnant by another man was usually thrown out of the house. The standard joke was that you could ask who your mother was but not who your father was. These tendencies became more pronounced the further you ventured from Nassau, and it was also claimed that the whites - the "Conchy Joes," as they were called - were less promiscuous than the blacks.

Although making major strides in politics and business, women still complained about their husbands’ infidelity – which the men roundly resented – and of being generally treated like cattle, expected to do nothing more than keep the house in order and cook the next meal. I’d soon sort out all of that, Caroline thought with a contemptuous curl of her lips.

From behind the bar came the clink of beer glasses being stacked, and the melodious strains of a popular song. "Mama look up in daddy's face all night long…." She grinned at the deliberate double entendre. Most Bahamian popular ditties had a sexual content, sometimes subtly disguised, sometimes not.

She finished her drink and went to the bar to order another, this time selecting a Malibu. The barman fetched a clean glass and proceeded to fill it.

"It's a beautiful island you've got here," she remarked, perching herself on one of the stools. "Hope nothing ever happens to spoil it.”

"Oh, we don't get no trouble from pollution. That ain't the problem round here these days, never has been."

She paid for the drink and gently twisted it from his grasp, holding it between thumb and forefinger. "Oh? What is the problem, then?"

"Well, this oil thing, the tankers goin’ down and all that, ain’t too good for the tourists. An’ fish stocks been goin' down to, no-one knows why. There's a guy from America lookin' into it but he had a bit of a setback a while ago; two kids that were helpin' him got killed."
Her eyes lit up with interest. "Killed? How?"
"Them just vanished. Drowned, I 'spect."

"But they must have been experienced divers." He'd said kids, but anyone too green surely wouldn't have been allowed in the water, at least by any self-respecting outfit.
"You can't be too careful out there. Make just
one small mistake somewhere, and well, the sea ain't too forgivin'. It's one big mean mother and you've no idea just what's in it." The corners of his mouth turned down wistfully. "I guess one of them got into trouble, the other went to help them and they both bought it."
"Oh dear," Caroline said, eyes closed.

The man nodded in sympathy with her. "Too right. They were young folks straight from College, so I heard."

She rested her elbow on the bar and her chin in her hand and sipped thoughtfully at the Malibu while the barman got on with polishing his glasses. She let a few minutes pass before asking her next question – it was a question, though you might have taken it for a casual remark, uttered more or less on whim.

"I don't suppose a lot happens out here." Grand Bahama was more lively than most of the other islands, but on a global scale still a backwater.

As she had anticipated, he didn't take this as offence. "Guess you're right there. Ain't all like that though. Some company or other got somethin' goin' under the sea, 'bout ten miles out." Any new development counted as newsworthy in a place like this. "Dunno a lot about it, 'cause they don't have much to do with the local folks. Can't even think a' their name, offhand. A coupla their people come ashore every now and then to one or other o’ the bars, but otherwise they keep themselves to themselves."
"What are they doing under the sea?"

"Can’t say, but you sure don't see them above it very much. Just a coupla guys and a boat, sometimes a helicopter, sort of patrolling to make sure folks keep well away from their territory.”

"Interesting," she commented. "It seems they guard their privacy very well."
"Guess it does."

Again a pause for a moment or two. "So who's this American guy who's trying to find out where all the fish have gone?"

"Dunno his name but he's over at Indian Quay, got a boat there. Big feller."
"Is he?"
"No, ah'm talkin' 'bout the boat."
"Oh right," she grinned.

She remained in the bar for a good hour or two more. If she'd left as soon as she’d been told all the things which might be regarded as particularly interesting, it could have got people talking. And until she knew exactly what was going on here, she didn't want the Bahamian predilection for gossip drawing attention to her.

"So it’s having a bad effect on the economy, all these disappearing fish?" she said as she rose from her stool and shouldered her bag.

"Not that much. We make enough cash from the tourists to get by. But we still have to eat the fellers." Caroline presumed he meant the fish. "There's plenty of folks make their living from the sea and nothing else. S'always been like that. They wouldn't know what to do with all these Americans, that's for sure."

"It's a shame this company you were talking about can't put something into the local economy. I mean, from what you say it doesn't look as if they do."

He shook his head. "That's right. They ain't done us no harm but they ain't done us no good either, if you see what I mean. I just can't figure them out....funny people." He broke off from his work to stare intently into space as if looking for some answer to the puzzle; and somehow it seemed to Caroline as if he was searching for it not in the ether but rather in the dark, mysterious depths of the sea. "Funny people."


Southampton, England
"I still think the tanker bombings were not necessary," said Igor Putyachev.

"It could have happened," Sir Edward Greatrix insisted. It was always something that had worried him, right from when he had first conceived of the project fifteen years before.
"Would have been a pretty slim chance," the American grunted. "Maybe not one in a million, but in quite a few thousand I'd say."
"Not really. Remember what I said about chaos theory."
"Even with chaos theory. You got a thing about chaos theory, haven't you Ed?"
"If you say so, Bert."

"We shouldn't have blown the whole plan just because it might have happened sometime in the future," Bert Hammerstein growled.
"So are you of the opinion that I have "blown" the whole plan?" For the first time during the conversation there was an edge to Greatrix's voice.

The routine business had been got out of the way fairly quickly; in the long run none of it would matter anyway, if their long-term goals were successfully achieved. All the company's national branches reported that profits were increasing, or at least holding steady.

"Surely all we have done is draw attention to ourselves," the German woman said. "It is taking too big a risk at this stage.”
"So you agree with Mr Hammerstein, then, do you Gerda?"
"I am not saying that."

"And what does your colleague think?" enquired Greatrix, casting his eyes to the other German present, a bear-like character named Otto Kleistmann.

"I am inclined to agree with Frau Wenge," Kleistmann replied. "The danger of exposure is far greater than that of an oil spillage in the area of the project. The risk of attracting attention to ourselves was not justified.”

“There’s no danger, believe me. We should be able to avoid any repercussions until it’s too late for them to ever damage us. After all, the unfortunate matter of Mr Kobenhavn didn’t cause us any problems in the end.”

He felt himself deflate as he threw himself back in his comfortable chair, fed up of arguing for the time being. “Now may I suggest we all relax a little, and enjoy some liquid refreshment? We can’t afford to start falling out, not when the completion of the project is in sight.”

On a table at the side of the room a buffet lunch had been laid out, including half a dozen bottles of wine, with glasses neatly set out in a row. At first no-one moved, then the mood of the gathering changed, calmed to some extent by Greatrix’s reassurances, and the executives left their seats and gravitated towards the food and drink. Hammerstein, as usual, uncorked the wine and poured for everybody.

Everybody except Greatrix, who didn’t immediately join them; he didn’t really feel like it. Instead he got up and went over to the window, looking out at the view across the grounds.

Yes, it had been a gamble. He didn’t know at the time whether it had been the right decision, couldn’t have done. But now he’d have to face the consequences of it, whatever they were. If there was any trouble, they’d be all the more angry because he hadn’t told them what he was planning.

From this height it was just possible to see the sea, shimmering between two clumps of trees. He gazed at it for a long time, thinking how much he’d loved it as a child. Whenever it was calm and peaceful, such serenity had always seemed the more sublime because he’d always suspected it hid a fathomless well of fascinating mysteries. Answers, maybe?

There was only one other thing he had loved so much during his life; well, two things to be honest. Their photographs sat facing him on the desk in his office, a reminder of his past he couldn’t bear to be without no matter how much it hurt him. It made it all the more terrible to think that he might have thrown everything away by the tanker sinkings. But then perhaps there’d been an equal risk either way. All they could do now was take things as they came.


EIGHT
Caroline dreamed she swam in warm, crystal-clear seas, liquid glass through which the slanting sunbeams danced; in just her swimsuit and snorkelling gear, and buoyed up both physically and mentally by the warm pillow of the water she felt happy and free, totally relaxed.

Until from the Stygian depths below something huge and monstrous rose up, seeking prey. It had a mass of writhing tentacles, huge bulging eyes that glared malevolently, and an enormous mouth filled with razor-sharp sharklike teeth. The tentacles curled around her body, seizing it in a grip she could not break, and began slowly to squeeze tighter, crushing the life out of her. And at the same time, drawing her remorselessly towards those terrible jaws.

Then suddenly out of nowhere another diver appeared, streaking through the water like a bullet, propelled by the kicking of his powerful muscular legs. He had a spear gun, and just as she felt sure her ribcage would crack open from the pressure of the squeezing tentacles the harpoon shot from the muzzle and embedded itself deep in the mass of pulpy flesh that was the beast. Abruptly the creature let go of her and swum away.

She felt strong arms wrap around her and bear her upward. The next thing she knew she was bursting through into open air, gasping for breath as she stumbled from the water. Her rescuer held and steadied her while she recovered her wind.
"Are you alright?" he asked in a Scottish accent.
She nodded without speaking, still a little breathless.

"That'sh got "shot" of him," the man joked. He was tall, handsome, well-built, and darkly good-looking. There was a scar down one cheek which made him look cruel but in an incredibly sexy sort of way. She took in the hairy barrel chest, the bulging biceps, the muscular washboard-flat stomach.
He studied her closely. “You sure you’re OK?”

“Yes, thanks,” she replied in a sort of strangulated sob, unable to take her eyes off him. “Must be..delayed shock…..”

“Perhaps you’d better lie down for a bit. I know a nice spot near here where we – where you won’t be disturbed. Will you be alright on your own?”
“Well…I suppose so,” she answered without much enthusiasm.
“Only I didn’t want us to…get on top of each other.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, really,” she gasped.

She followed him up the slope of dazzling white sand which swept majestically down to the water to a sunlit lagoon fringed by palm trees gently waving in the sea breeze. At its edge they sank slowly to their knees, and he put his arms around her again, holding her tight and close. She returned the compliment, drinking in the warmth of his embrace and the scent of his maleness. His mouth came down hard on hers, and they kissed long and passionately. She felt him reach behind her and fumble with the knot of her top as she lay back, sinking gently onto the soft carpet of sand beneath them....
And it would bloody well have to be then that she woke up.

With a wistful sigh she threw back the bedclothes, heaved herself to her feet and padded across the room to the shower.

After the meal had gone down she left the hotel in her hired Dodge Neon headed for Indian Cay. On the way there she passed a school party, and noted with benign approval the line of smartly dressed children, moving in an orderly well-behaved fashion - presenting to say the least a strong contrast with how the scene might have looked back home - and smiling cheerfully at the world around them, white teeth flashing in dusky faces. A mile or so on a preacher was giving a sermon underneath a tree, complete with amplifier and speakers; his powerful booming voice held his audience spellbound. There was no doubt religion mattered to Bahamians. On Sunday all the churches seemed packed, yet another marked contrast to the UK, and she was frequently to see processions of women in high heels, silk dresses and fancy hats, accompanied by men and boys in suits and ties - in England it would mostly have been casual wear – on the way to pay their respects to the Lord, all the time hanging on tight to their Bibles.

A funeral was taking place at a roadside church, where the car park was filled with people in smart new clothes, probably bought specially for the occasion. All were wailing and keening inconsolably. Bahamian funerals often lasted for a whole day, which was why they were almost always held at weekends, and like everything else were a source of gossip. Indeed it seemed to her that any religious gathering here was as much a social event.

Leaving Freeport she drove on along the long, straight, seemingly endless coast road, with the sea on one side and the forest on the other, which linked the main centres of population. Finally she came to the sleepy fishing village of West End, on the island's western tip. Here there was a store that sold fishing gear and other aquatic supplies, with a sign in the form of a plaster swordfish swingling gently above the door, a few other shops, a bar, a jumble of clapboard cottages, and beyond all of that the quay. Visible for some time before she reached her destination, gleaming white in the sunshine, had been the boat. A huge affair, it bristled with masts and aerials and satellite dishes and there was a thing like a crane mounted on the stern.

A few vehicles were parked on the quay. She stopped the car, got out and went towards the boat. The salty, fishy tang of the sea filled her nostrils.

The survey ship dwarfed all the other vessels moored at the quay. On its upper flank near the prow it bore the name Oceanus. In Greek mythology the god of the primeval waters, as she was later to learn.

A middle-aged black man sat on an upturned fish crate mending a net. His right leg ended below the knee in a wooden pole. He looked up at her curiously as she approached. "Hi!" she smiled.

A nice smile, the man thought, rather childlike somehow. The healthy white teeth flashed brilliantly in the sunshine. "I'd like to speak to whoever's in charge round here," she beamed.

"Oh, yeah?" His manner changed, Caroline feeling wariness cut in like a shield descending with a thud between the two of them. "Do you mean Doc Ivarson?"

"If that's his name." She suddenly realised she was being unconsciously sexist - her, of all people. "Or hers."
"Oh, he's a he alright. What's it about?"

"Matters of mutual concern, let's say. It'd take a long time to explain."
"Uh-huh. Who you from then?"
"I'm with International Petroleum Ltd."

The man frowned and pursed his lips. His eyes rolled skyward. “Nothing wrong with that, I hope," said Caroline.
He lifted himself to his feet. "I'll just see if he's free." From his expression he clearly doubted whether the approach would have much chance of success.

She hovered by the gangplank while he ascended it onto the boat, the wooden leg clattering on the planks.

Not exactly encouraging, somehow, Caroline thought apprehensively. She turned away and stared began studying the flat expanse of sea to the west, psyching herself up for the forthcoming encounter. A little later she heard the gangplank creak and looked round. A tall, bespectacled, bearded man was descending it with the slow, ponderous tread of someone who resented being disturbed from whatever it was they had been doing. She sized him up. He looked every inch an academic, yet at the same time clearly relished the outdoor life. He had the tanned, healthy complexion of someone who spent a great deal of time on the coast or at sea. The dark hair and beard were flecked with grey in a way that made him look distinguished. He seemed about fifty - give or take a few years each way - but for his age was clearly in good shape, the arms well-muscled and the stomach youthfully trim beneath the white T-shirt.

He looked decidedly sour. She kept up her friendly expression as he came down the last few feet of the ladder and swivelled stiffly to face her, staring hard. The look on his face clearly said, if you reckon because you’re a babe you’re gonna be able to twist me round your little finger you better think again, honey.

"Dr Ivarson, hi. I'm Caroline Kent from IPL." She put out a hand for him to shake. He contemplated it dubiously for a moment or two, as if it might in some way contaminate him if he touched it, then accepted it indifferently.
"May we go inside?" she asked.
"Is it important?" Ivarson grunted. "I'm very busy."
"Oh it's extremely important, I can assure you."

Gesturing curtly for her to follow, he reascended the gangplank. Once they were on the deck he stopped and swung round to her aggressively. "So what's all this about? What do you oil people want with me?"

“Well, I guess this will seem a bit odd to you but we think there may be something going on in this area which is connected with the oil tanker sinkings - you'll have heard about them, I presume. I just wondered if you'd noticed anything unusual."

Ivarson thought. "If I had," he said finally, "don't you think I'd have told somebody?"
"Maybe you haven't noticed it yet," she smiled, "but you might do."
"How'd they be connected, anyway?"

"The tankers that were hit were all going to America by the Bahamas. We reckon that's the key; someone's worried about the effect of an oil spill on the local ecology."
"Maybe it was me," he said drily. "I'm an ecologist."

"Well can I ask you to stop it, then? I mean, it's a bit naughty really."
Something in her manner elicited the ghost of a smile - a good-natured smile - from Ivarson. His frosty demeanour melted just a little. "So you want me to keep a look-out for anyone who might be out to blow up your ships?"

"Well....if you could. Anything unusual, anything at all. I mean, it is damaging people's livelihoods. So if you can see your way to helping...."

"I'm not here to bail out the oil barons," he told her, the hostility returning. "You should go and work in some other industry. One that doesn't pump millions of tons of poison into the atmosphere."

Suddenly the thought occurred to her that perhaps it was Ivarson sabotaging the tankers, or at any rate mixed up in the business somehow or other. She couldn't rule it out. If she did seem to win him over, would it just be a ruse of his?

Unsettlingly, it flashed into her mind that she might be putting herself in danger. Then again, if it wasn't him, and they were going to be co-operating on this, she'd need to trust him and to show that she did.

He couldn't have the right connections, surely. But the Children of Gaia had, and if he was a secret member of theirs or of some similar organisation....

She was trying to decide whether he was the type to be capable of such activities when his gruff voice cut through her thoughts. It was tinged with bitterness. "You think I did it. And while you do, you won't leave me alone. I know you people.”

Now it was her turn to get a little frosty. If anything, she suspected, he preferred that to an obviously artificial pleasantness. "I can assure you we wouldn't accuse anyone without proof."

"You have done in the past," he snapped. "Big companies like yours. Got up nasty rumours, planted evidence. Don't tell me that's not true, it happened to some people I know. Good people."

Something in his tone caused a pang of sympathy in her. Her voice dropped a fraction or two. "Well, I won't deny that goes on. I was asked to do something of the sort myself once. Of course I refused."
"Of course?" He sounded sceptical.

"I did. I told the person concerned where to go and reported them to senior management. I got threatened for my pains, I'll have you know." No-one was going to dirty her hands by involving her in criminal activities.

She folded her arms. "You don't have to help me, Dr Ivarson. I'm not trying to encroach on your time, I'm sure you're doing lots of valuable work here. But please understand I've a job to do, just as you have, and my reasons for asking your assistance."

Again there followed one of the long silences that seemed to punctuate the conversation from time to time. Caroline waited patiently while he evaluated all she had said, inwardly more than a little annoyed.

Eventually he spoke. "So," he began; his voice soft, steely and unnaturally calm. "You work for an oil company."

"Correct. And you don't like the fact, do you? Because of the pollution?"

"Too right it's the fucking pollution," he snarled, his anger breaking surface. "The God-damn global warming, the oilspills. If someone's blowing these tankers up at sea, where the oil doesn't do so much damage, then as I see it they're doing Mother Earth a big favour. Getting rid of the problem with no harm done."

A little more ice crept into her voice. "People have been killed, Dr Ivarson. Or at any rate, they've disappeared and we can't be sure they're still alive. Humans are living things too, aren't they?"

The harsh lines in which his face had set shifted. His expression changed, and he let his head droop slightly. "Yeah," he muttered. "Yeah...I guess you're right. Sorry."
"You're welcome."

After a brief pause, Caroline spoke again. "You may not like the oil companies," she said gently, "but they're at least trying to show they care about the ecology. They have to, for the sake of their image. So sometimes they lend organisations like yours equipment or money, for help in your research. You couldn't do without their help."

Another silence. Then the American's head jerked up. as something of his former assertiveness returned. "Let me ask you something, honey. If there was a company which had found a way to make renewable, non-polluting, energy work, and it made you an offer, would you resign from your....International Petroleum Limited and take a job with it?"
"I expect so," Caroline shrugged. "If it paid enough."
"So it's mainly the money you're concerned about."
"I have to make a living."
"So do we all," muttered Ivarson.

"You can't help wanting to have as high a standard of living as possible, that's only natural. But if there was a company which paid its staff just as much, and into the bargain didn't pollute the planet, I'd go for that company rather than stay where I was.

“But at the moment there isn't such a company. Whether you could make renewable energy work, in the long run, I don't know. It could do with a bit more investment, I'm sure. Of course," she added wryly, "the oil barons would try to stop that."

"I mean," she went on, "the oil itself is nothing to me. It's just the way I earn my keep, I don't have a fetish for it." She pulled a face. "Personally I hate the stuff. Yuk."

She looked guilty. "Actually I'm not sure I....I mean, to leave all the people I'd worked with for so long..it'd be a hard decision."

"Well, we'll worry about it when you have to make it," he grunted.

"So," Caroline finished. "In the end, I'm just doing my job. Someone's got to, because if we had to go back to the Stone Age we wouldn't have the resources any more to support everyone, would we? I'll say it just once more, Dr Ivarson. You don't have to help me but I'd be jolly grateful if you would. So what's it going to be, eh?"

Ivarson was in deep thought again. He rubbed his chin for a moment. Then he spun on the balls of his feet and made for a door in the superstructure of the ship. "This way."

She followed him along a central corridor to what was obviously his office. It was comfortably furnished, with a carpeted floor, but not ostentatiously luxurious. She saw a desk with two computers on it, one of them a laptop; bookshelves filled with works on marine biology; a framed degree certificate from the Institute of Oceanography and Marine Biology, Kennington, New Jersey. Illumination was provided by a porthole window in one wall. Various bits of paper were pinned to a notice board.

He pushed a chair forward for her, then turned his round so he could face her, and sat down, leaning forward slightly.

"I don't know what this has to do with your oil tankers. But just lately, fish populations in this part of the Atlantic seem to have been going down. We came along to try and find out why, because as with you and your oil, someone's got to. The local economy's starting to suffer. Goes without saying that fishing is one of the principal ways people round here earn their keep. And there's plenty of folk fish for recreation, mainly from the States. The tourist industry will be hit bad, if it goes on long enough."

"Pollution?" Caroline suggested. “But I was told these waters were relatively clean.”

"Well I sure dunno where it could be coming from. No major oil or chemical spills in recent years, and the nearest big industry is hundreds of miles away in the States. Of course, that doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen somehow.

"I've already taken some water samples, but I'll need to check the whole of the area within a fifty mile radius. Trouble is, that's going to take a while. And I can't do it without an assistant, preferably two. Devon’s a good guy but with that leg of his, quite frankly he's no damn use at all. I can do a little bit of it but that’s all. To be honest I was on the point of packing up and going home, though they seem quite happy to keep me on here doing next to zilch.

"When I started I had a couple of students from the Institute to help me. That's them over there." He nodded towards one of the photographs pinned to the wall. It showed two young people, smiling and cheerful, in wetsuits and scuba gear. A blonde girl in her early twenties and a darker man, of similar age. From the way they were smiling, and sitting so close to one another, you somehow knew they were "together." Caroline's eye fell on another photo of the couple, this time with Ivarson on the deck of a ship which was presumably the Oceanus, all three grinning happily at the camera. A portrait of a team.

"I...I heard they died," Caroline said softly, clasping er hands together in her lap. "Er, what, what happened to them?"

"I don't know what happened," said Ivarson. It sounded like a plea for help from someone or something. "All I know is they disappeared. Went down diving one day to fetch a core sample and didn't come back."

His voice broke as the words were forced from him, painfully. “And seeing as it’s been so long now, I don't think they ever will."


NINE
"I'm sorry," Caroline said awkwardly. As always at times like this, words were never entirely adequate.

They must have been keen, motivated, full of enthusiasm for their work...and now they were dead.

Ivarson took a deep breath. "Nothing anyone can do about it now. They're gone for good, least I assume they are. The sea's a dangerous place however good a diver you are."
"And they were?"

"You bet. Young, but pretty smart. Wouldn't have let them go down otherwise. They were the best, those kids. I don't just mean at diving. Always ready to help out....and always so careful. It just ain't fair."

"So what do you think happened to them?" she asked softly, breaking the silence.

Ivarson shrugged. "Anyone's guess. Doubt it was something wrong with the gear, though. We were pretty careful how we stored it; sure to keep it all clean and dry."

"'Course," he mused, "someone could have got on board the boat and messed about with it. But you always check your gear thoroughly before going on a dive, if you're sensible. Any sabotage, they'd have spotted it right away."
"Who'd've wanted to do it?"
"I dunno," Ivarson said. "It was just a thought."
"I suppose it could just have been an accident?"

"Sure. They happen in diving same as anywhere else. Anyone, anyone at all, can make mistakes; I'd never begrudge 'em that right. And there's some things you just can't foresee." Unconsciously he echoed the words of the barman Caroline had spoken with the night before. "I expect one of 'em got into difficulties, the other went to help - they would have done - and bought it too."
"And no-one's found their bodies?"

"No. That's funny, if you ask me. My feeling is the sea always gives up its dead sooner or later, like she's trying to say "this is what happens if you mess with me." But we did a big search of the bottom and didn't find any traces. ‘Course they couldn't have vanished into thin air, or thin water if you like. We'll know the answer one day."

"Perhaps something...got them," Caroline suggested. "A shark?"

"That would normally leave some remains. Plus you don't often get great whites, which are the really dangerous kind, in these parts." He got to his feet, crossed to the porthole and gazed reflectively out through it. "A shark's most likely. Could be something else, but what exactly..."

He seemed about to voice a thought, until Caroline spoke and dismissed it from his mind. "The question is," she said, "whether it's the sort of thing that plants bombs on oil tankers."

Ivarson took her at her word. "Well you can train some animals to do that, so - "

"I was being rhetorical actually. What I'm saying is that your two assistants could have been murdered. By other divers. Who then took away the bodies to hide the evidence."
"It's possible. Why, though?"

"To stop you from finding out what's causing all the fish to disappear. And which may be the same thing that blew up those tankers."
"Where's the connection?"

"That's what we're going to have to find out," she said briskly. "I was going to ask you; I understand there's a company in the area who have some kind of operation going under the sea?"

"Oh yeah, Marcotech they're called. It's been going for about five years now. Experimental project; some sort of revolutionary new process for farming the sea. Mineral extraction, too. They don't talk about it much."
"Probably scared of industrial spies," Caroline suggested.

"They've been at it for a long time. You'd've thought by now they'd've got far enough to be able to make the results public."

"Very mysterious," she said, her voice dropping to an eerie whisper.
"You think they're up to no good?"

"Well it sounds pretty dodgy to me. The place might be worth checking out."

"I shouldn't think they'd let near it, not with their obvious aversion to publicity where this project is concerned."
"I was told they don't mix much with the locals, either."

"That's pretty much how it is. There's a guy you see around the island who they say is with them, but that's about all."

"So. They've actually got a permanent...installation on the sea bed off Grand Bahama?"
"That's how it looks."
"How do they supply it?"

"By submarine from their onshore place near Miami. Would have to be, since it’s all underwater. Also helps them to keep a low profile."
"From Miami? That's quite a distance to travel."

"Not sure what sort of a sub they've got. Or the personnel at the base may be semi-permanent, unless it's all automated.

"No, there's no way of proving they're up to something. But I'll tell you this." Ivarson's eyes narrowed. "The decline in fish stocks got suddenly worse around the time they first set up that place."
"Have you spoken to them about it at all?"

"They said they couldn't offer any assistance; I think they thought that somehow or other it would mean making public the exact details of what they were doing down there. But as far as they could tell, nothing to do with the processes they were using was causing it. Without any proof we couldn't press the matter at all, force an official investigation."

"Hmmmm. And what would the effect of an oil spill here be on their project, have you any idea?"

"Without knowing more about it I can't say. But it would be worse than in mid-ocean, because here the water's not so deep. The word “Bahamas” comes from Baja Mar, Spanish for "great shallow sea"."

"So," Caroline said, "where do we go from here then? As far as we can tell the answer, whatever it is, is at the bottom at the sea here. But if we haven't got enough staff we can't even begin to look for it. Can't they send you some replacement assistants?"

"Institute doesn't seem willing to send me any more people or equipment. Funding's been cut lately, which doesn't help. Even with the four of us it was hard to manage at times. But the main thing is, they don't want to risk any more lives until we find out exactly how Kate and Ryan died. And I can’t do that unless I get more help, so it’s Catch-friggin’-22. As for the people round here, they're mostly too damn superstitious. They probably think there's a curse on the expedition and anyone involved with it."

A sudden mischievous gleam appeared in his eyes. "Two could do it, just about."

Caroline realised what he was saying. "Er, you don't mean...?"
"I mean, have you ever done any diving yourself?"
"Er....."

Her immediate thought had been "who, me?" Then she sat back, tight-lipped, realising that her reaction was making her appear scared.

"If you're really serious about helping, you might have to," Ivarson told her.
She gulped.

The idea didn't seem...she was alright on the surface, or underwater for just a few minutes at a time, but more than that...
But with the company losing millions of pounds every day....
Oh, Lordy, she thought. What have I just gone and done.
Did she really have to.....
But it was their only lead.
"I don't blame you for chickening out," he said.
"I'm not chickening out," she protested immediately.

"No shame if you are. The sea's a dangerous place, like I said." It wouldn't be fair of him to goad her into it. "But I need a hand and I doubt if anyone else is going to offer one. I can't stick around here forever waiting for the Institute to come up with the money." He contemplated her thoughtfully. "Can you snorkel?"

"Yes, actually I can," she said enthusiastically, her manner changing as she saw the point he was about to make.

"Then it shouldn't be too difficult. Think of it as an extension of what you can already do. Only this time you'll have your air with you so you can stay down longer. It's just a matter of checking your pressure gauge regularly to make sure you don't run out."

"Someone'll still have to teach me. There's more to diving than that."

"I'll do it. I'm not as young as I used to be, but I can still dive alright. In fact, there's people taking it up for the first time who are much older than me. I'm not qualified as an instructor, but I don't need to be. Any trained diver can make another, given enough time. So - you can swim, let’s say, 200 yards nonstop?"
"That's right."
"Using any style, or a combination of them?"
"Uh-huh."

"You're obviously comfortable in the water, then. That's more important than being able to swim fast. What about your health, is it good?"
"Never felt better."

"You're not the sort who catches colds easily?" A cold when diving could prove fatal, obstructing the airways and increasing the risk of an embolism.
"I don't get them more often than anyone else."

He looked uncertain. "'Course, strictly speaking I'd be breaking the rules. You should really be properly qualified." He didn't want another tragedy so soon after the loss of Katie and Ryan. Another young life extinguished.

"Mmmm," said Caroline absently, her resolution wavering. She was someone who believed in living life to the full; who knew what she liked and wanted to have it. She didn't like being defeated in striving for it. But the difference between snorkelling and scuba diving was greater than Ivarson had seemed to suggest, and he must be aware of it.

It was a nightmare she had often had, a nightmare of drowning, not being able to breathe. In snorkelling you could simply surface whenever you ran out of air. But diving....God, if you were really deep down, and something went wrong with your breathing apparatus and you had no way of getting to the surface in time....

She almost hoped Ivarson would decide he couldn't allow it. "It could be dangerous. Only right to warn you."
If she backed down, Ivarson wouldn't blame her, and there was no reason anyone else should know about her failure of nerve. But would she forgive herself?

Conquer your fears, she thought. It was what she'd done in the past.
What if one day she had to dive for some reason or other, she didn't know what....

For Ivarson's part, the scientist was wondering if he was subsconciously trying to put her off, so that he wouldn't have to make the decision. Because although he’d been trying to convince himself he didn’t like her, he’d completely and utterly failed?

That apart, he'd have to be mad to do it. He was jeopardising his reputation, his career, and if she wasn't really as brave as she was trying to be that could be dangerous in a real diving scenario.

He was about to say no when Caroline finally made up her mind. "All right," she said firmly. If any residual misgivings remained she was doing a good job of hiding them.
The moment had passed. "Great. You'll do it?"

In the long run, it was to be her determination to take on the task despite her obvious terror that won him over. Something in it aroused admiration, along with a certain tenderness he couldn't quite have described in words.
"I'll have a go," she said.
"It's not about "having a go,"" he cautioned.
"Sure."

"But if we do meet a shark, or anything like that, do you have a harpoon gun or something?"
Ivarson gave her a look of some distaste. "A harpoon gun?"
"You mean you don't?" she gasped in alarm.

His eyes narrowed. "What do you think this is? We're into conservation here. We save living things, we don't kill them."
"But what happens if - "

"If a shark goes for you," said Ivarson, "you just bop it on the nose."
"R-r-r-really?"
"Really. As for anything else, nothing nasty will happen to you if you're sensible. You leave it alone, it'll leave you alone."
"Oh," she said, unconvinced.

"Besides, it could be the real problem's human sharks. We were talking about them earlier."

"There's nothing we can do about that," she said wearily. It was an issue which always came up when she got involved in something like this, and she wasn't prepared to go through any more anguished soul-searching over it.

She shot a glance at him. "But you’re prepared to take the risk?"

"We don't know it's people who're causing the trouble. Till then we may as well give them the benefit of the doubt. Besides, if they killed Kate and Ryan I want to settle accounts with them."

Caroline bit her lip. She had left the most worrying issue till last. "There's one other thing. I know it sounds silly but...but if anything did go wrong...if I really was in trouble, and I couldn't see a way out, I...."
"Say it."

"Is there any way I could kill myself…. to stop myself drowning?" It seemed an incredibly stupid thing to say. But there were forms of death she could think of that might be preferable to the agonising pain in the lungs, the sensation that they were on fire and being crushed in a giant vice at the same time.

"Well," said Ivarson, "you could shoot yourself with your harpoon gun."

"It's not funny," Caroline snapped. She was angry because she was getting cold feet again, knew it, and was rattled.

"Yeah, well I didn't invite you on board," Ivarson retorted bitterly.
"Alright, alright," she scowled.

He softened a bit, understanding her fears. "You'll have a knife with you. You could use that. I mean, if you really wanted to..."
It won't happen, she told herself.

But if it did, and she didn't use the knife, she would probably die anyway.

Would she have the courage to use it, though? Would she be able to stay cool and collected when the only value in doing so was that she could end her own life?
She nodded, her mind to some extent relieved.

"Well, if that’s settled there’s one thing I ought to let you know about before we go any further. Blue holes.”
"What are those?"

Blue holes, Ivarson explained, were giant sinkholes, formed by rain and seawater dissolving the soft limestone rock on which the Bahamas rested. Most islands in the chain had them, usually located on or near the coast. They were water-filled, circular pits that opened into submarine caves and went down as much as 600 feet. At a certain depth the fresh water met saltwater that had seeped into the rock from the sea. Here bacteria broke it down, generating heat in the process and colouring the water orange, resulting in an eerie and unnerving environment for divers. The bacteria produced sulphuric acid, not necessarily poisonous but quite corrosive. Further down in the gloom of the underwater caverns, unique creatures suited to that environment, such as a species of blind pigmentless fish, had evolved as well as the more familiar forms of marine life. According to local lore even stranger things - mermaids, mermen and sea monsters - lurked in many of the holes. Some of the caves were accessible from the sea, others weren’t.

Many commercial dive operators offered blue-hole dives for certified scuba divers. It certainly wasn't a pastime for amatueurs. The strength of the incoming and outgoing current could be colossal, sucking a diver inexorably down, and the waters below a certain depth could be dangerously cold. Diving was legally restricted to 80 feet and you had to remain within sight of the exit at all times. To go down further you needed a special cave-diving certificate.

"Upshot of it is, they're very dangerous. You ever heard of Alan Palmer?"
"No."

"The expert on blue holes, mapped the entire cave system. The most experienced and knowledgeable person there ever was on the subject. Used to dive blue holes all the time, wrote the definitive book about them."
"And?"
"Well, he's dead." Ivarson left it at that.

"Oh," he added by way of an afterthought, "and watch out for the octopus."

"I didn't know they were supposed to be dangerous," said Caroline.

"I don't know if this one is. But it's said to live in one of the blue holes and it's pretty big - bigger than all the others. Just a legend, that's all."

They returned to the subject of her induction into the world of diving. "I'd feel happier if I'd done a spot of snorkelling first," she said. "Just to warm myself up."
"Well, when you're ready come and find me."
"I'll pop along tomorrow morning."

"You do that, and we'll make a start. But I warn you, I've got serious doubts about this."
"It's your choice," she told him.

He saw her off the boat. At the bottom of the gangplank, she turned and looked at him searchingly. "Don't tell anyone too openly I've been talking to you. Just in case."

"I wasn't born yesterday. Well, see you tomorrow then. Oh - " He had been about to turn away, but now hesitated. "I guess I owe you an apology. For being a bit hard on you in the first place."
"That's alright," she laughed.

"You see, it was the oil industry which killed my wife. In a way."

Caroline regarded him in shock. She realised she knew nothing whatsoever about any family he might have. "What happened?" she said quietly.

"My wife was fond of going on demos, that sort of thing; a little too fond. But she was that sort of person. She and some of her friends were picketing AOC, the American Oil Corporation, 'cause of some of the things it was doing in Nigeria. They were trying to stop the tankers, road tankers, or any other traffic from getting into one of its refineries in the States. This top exec of the company happened to be there and he didn't like it. Francine had an argument with him and ended up saying just what she thought about it all; she wasn't economical with strong language when she got really mad about something, was my Francie. Well, later on this guy was leaving the plant in his car and he saw they were all still there and decided to teach them a lesson. They were standing at the side of the road, shouting out slogans and holding up placards, etcetera. Once he'd picked up enough speed, this...this asshole suddenly changed direction and went straight towards them. Maybe he only meant to shake ‘em up a bit, I dunno, though several people reckon he was laughing as he drove on. Fact is he knocked down Francie and a couple of the others and drove right over them. She died in hospital an hour later."

Ivarson had gone very quiet and his head had tilted to look down at the ground. Quite involuntarily, Caroline reached out to touch him gently on the wrist. "That's horrible," she whispered.

For the first time it penetrated her consciousness that there had been a photograph of a rather plain, but pleasant-looking, dark-haired woman amongst the others in Ivarson's office. A woman who if Caroline had known she would probably have liked, politics apart, from what he’d said about her.

Ivarson swallowed. "He was arrested and put on trial, but managed to get off. Money, big money, crept along and had a quiet word in someone's ear. The company transferred him to another position overseas, but reinstated him in his original job once they reckoned the public and the press had forgotten the whole thing. He's still earning about two hundred thousand pounds a year."

Ivarson felt her go cold. The coldness extended to her eyes, turning the irises into points of such intense blue that it somehow screwed up your mind to look at them. Thank God, he thought, that she was one of the good guys - he was certain of that by now.

"If anyone was working for me and they did something like that," she said slowly, "I'd kill them." He wasn't sure she didn't mean it literally.

"Well," he sighed eventually, "let's just hope it doesn't come to that in this business."


Moses Jameson sat at his computer typing up a report on the progress so the case so far. It had reached something of a dead end, and until they got any more leads or something else came up that required the Bureau’s attention a lot of their time would be spent doing routine paperwork.

Every now and then the words came back to him. It’s too late now to say we’re sorry….

His eyes went to Shannon’s photograph again, and lingered there for just a moment.

So far Hurtwood’s investigations had produced only a series of dead ends. There were always people who behaved strangely, but none of them seemed to be the serial kidnapper. A few arrests had taken place but the suspects were all released after a day or so in custody, or charged with quite different offences.

He was alone, the other staff who used the room having by now gone home. He wondered if there was any point in staying here till he finished the report; it would keep till the morning. And few things were more depressing than working late in an otherwise empty office.

He could have gone for a burger and coffee with Hurtwood in the canteen, which always stayed open for a while after hours. Hurtwood was OK, but the two of them didn’t really gell outside of work, and after a time had more or less stopped socializing altogether. Jameson didn’t know if it was just what Hurtwood was like, or there was some other, darker reason behind their failure to hook up. You could never tell, because so often nowadays white people weren’t allowed to be racist. Sometimes that only succeeded in driving the problem underground.

Get home to Arlene and the kids, he told himself. If they don’t see enough of you, things will start to fall apart. He saved his work, logged off the computer and shut down. And was just about to grab his briefcase and leave when the phone rang.

“Agent Jameson? Lou Constantinos here.” Constantinos was his contact in the local Police Department. You wanted us to tell you soon as anything came up. Well, we might have a lead for you.”
“Go ahead and shoot, Lou.”

“About Louise Reiner.” The latest one, thought Jameson. Last seen leaving work early one Friday evening; reported at a singles bar downtown the previous Tuesday night, in the company of a blond man with whom she ultimately left the premises, looking apparently a little the worse for drink. But in Jameson’s view there was too big a time lag between then and Reiner’s failure to turn up at the office Monday morning. No-one had turned up any trace of her drinking companion, who might not have been local and wasn’t easily distinguishable from a fair number, ha ha ha, of other American men. Reiner lived alone, which meant there wouldn’t be that many people who could account for her movements during her free time.

“Seems a lifeguard at the beach on the Saturday afternoon saw a swimmer out too far, a woman he thinks, but lost sight of her. Some people blocked her from his view, and when they moved on she was gone. At least, he didn’t see her again. It was bothering him a bit so he had his people do a search of the area. They didn’t find anything. There were a lot of people about, but he was certain he saw her. It was like she was there one moment, and the next…”
“And no body’s turned up?”

“No, not yet anyway. The thing is, it was only when he was told no body had been found that he started to doubt. He was pretty sure before and he must have had a reason to be. See what I mean? Like there either was someone there, or he was hallucinating, and he’s got a pretty good record, don’t drink or take drugs.

“The point is, it could have been Louise Reiner. I wasn’t sure if you ought to know but you did say anything, so….”

“You did alright,” Jameson told him. “OK, thanks. You’d better send us the report, for our files. Just in case.” He rang off.

He lingered in the office for a while, thinking about the call. If someone had drowned or been attacked by a shark then the body, or pieces of it in the latter scenario, ought to be found sooner or later. A trick of the light couldn’t be ruled out on a very bright sunny day. Like Lou had said there might be nothing in it.
Or, he thought, there might be everything.


TEN
They had a few classroom sessions first, on the Oceanus, in which Ivarson taught Caroline the basic principles of diving, the various hazards involved in it, and how to care for and maintain scuba equipment. A lot of the main points were the same as for snorkelling, which helped.

To adapt to diving you needed to learn to use your legs for swimming and your body angle to control direction. These actions freed your hands for other uses underwater; they were not needed for propulsion.

Water temperature altered the rate and rhythm of your heart, as did physical and emotional stress. Diving needed considerable fitness and stamina, but also caution. Your ability to exert yourself was not as good in water as on land; heart and lungs did not function as well as normal when under pressure. When you became excited or began moving quickly, your respiration increased and affected your buoyancy. Breathing underwater required more effort than above it and there was a danger of doing it faster than your regulator could supply the air or of inhaling some water, causing you to choke and gasp. Stress could cause you to overexert, make mistakes, breathe too hard and fast using up too much oxygen. The factors responsible for it were cold, illness, exhaustion, injury, fear, equipment problems, loss of air supply, lack of light, currents and disorientation.

Changes in pressure with depth could cause discomfort and injure the air spaces within the body unless you kept the pressure within them equal to that of the surrounding water. If you didn't, you risked permanent hearing loss or ringing in the ears. The pressure was particularly great when you were nearing the surface during an ascent. If you came up too rapidly after a dive, the gases in your system could turn into bubbles before it could be diffused into the lungs and eliminated; this resulted in decompression sickness, also known as the bends. Failure to allow expanding air to escape from the lungs could damage them and cause an embolism, which had the same effect as a stroke, resulting in paralysis or unconsciousness.

As you went deeper the amount of gas dissolved in your body increased. At depths of 100 feet or more the higher nitrogen levels could bring about nitrogen narcosis or "rapture of the deep". The symptoms were euphoria and/or terror, both of which reduced your awareness and ability to respond to an emergency. With frequent diving experience reduced your susceptibility to it, and it could be rapidly relieved by ascending, though not too fast of course, to a shallower depth.

You had to be watching your buoyancy all the time. It increased by a few pounds when the lungs filled with air, and decreased when they deflated. You could vary the amount of air in them by adding to it or venting it from an inflatable device called a buoyancy compensator. When you descended in an exposure suit pressure compressed the suit and reduced its volume so you became less buoyant; as it inflated the compensator made up the loss, so maintaining a balance which kept buoyancy constant. You weighed exactly the same as the amount of water you displaced, and so neither floated nor sank; you could rise to the surface, sink to the bottom, or hang suspended between the two.

Your buoyancy was affected by your physical size - as a woman Caroline had an advantage there, possessing less bulk than a male, and fat in all the right places providing vital insulation - your lung capacity, the equipment you wore for diving and any items you had to carry. If you lost control of buoyancy for any reason you could slow your rate of ascent by flaring - arching your back, extending your arms and legs, and positioning your fins so they were parallel to the surface.

You chilled quickly while diving, since water conducted heat 25 times faster than air, and the problem increased the deeper you went. An exposure suit insulated you to some extent but it didn't protect you from losing body heat with the evaporation of moisture from the lungs that occurred when you breathed underwater. Small people chilled more quickly in water than large people, since they had less muscle mass to generate and store heat. Caroline was about average in build, perhaps a fraction above it in height, for a woman, so didn't have anything much to worry about there.

As you got colder you would lose strength and feeling in your muscles, maybe suffer cramp in the feet and lower legs - dangerous in a diving situation. A friend would have to be present to help remove the cramp by rubbing the affected muscle.

If suffering from heat loss you would of course start to shiver, in order to restore heat through muscular activity. However the water conducted away the heat produced by the shivering and you got colder. If the shivering became uncontrollable, you had to get out of the water and return your body temperature to normal with the help of warm, dry clothes, generally warm surroundings, and warm nonalcoholic drinks, until you perspired since that was the only way to be sure. Seasickness was dangerous because of the likelihood you would choke on any vomit. If you felt nauseated, the answer was to surface immediately. If you had to puke underwater it was vital you didn't do it through the regulator by which you breathed. You had to hold the second stage of the hose of the regulator against one corner of your mouth and depress the purge fully while you vomited. You should get air instead of water if you gasped. When you had finished throwing up you placed the second stage in your mouth, cleared it and resumed breathing again.

It was dangerous to hold your breath, particularly when ascending. On the way up the compressed air in your lungs expanded as the surrounding pressure decreased, which could cause your lungs to rupture even with an ascent of just four feet, say, unless you allowed the excess air to escape. You must overcome the natural instinct to hold your breath underwater, which was hard. The best way to do it was to swallow three times in rapid succession. If you must cough – an unwise thing to do as the expulsion of air reduced buoyancy - do it through a regulator so you would inhale air rather than water. The latter could cause you to experience illness, nausea or diaorrhea. If you swallowed several mouthfuls of it when diving, you had to terminate the dive.

You must prevent excessive dehydration because the condition made it more likely you would suffer injuries while diving. This meant keeping your regulator well maintained, avoiding diuretic drinks and medications, and frequently drinking non-alcoholic liquids before and between dives in order to replenish body fluids.

If you had been making repeated ascents and descents - which should be avoided if possible - you might need decompression, particularly if your final ascent was at a fast rate. You would also need to decompress if you had been below a long time.

Such were the basics of the trade. Of course you could only really learn them thoroughly when in the water.

She already knew from her snorkelling how to fit a facemask and dive from the surface. Now Ivarson taught her how to remove the mask underwater, should she have to; how to breathe using a regulator, to change from snorkel to regulator and back, share a regulator with a friend if one of you had run out of air, plus the art of buoyancy control, checking depth and pressure gauges, making ascents, all the different signals.

Every morning she went down to the Oceanus for a intensive training programme, followed by a time generally assisting Ivarson on the boat, to help get her sea legs. Sometimes the session extended into the afternoon, sometimes it didn't and she spent the rest of the day on her trawl for information around the islands.

They did four pool sessions, and then four scuba dives in open water, progressing from each of these stages to the next with initial skills taught at standing depth rather than in deep water. Each time they agreed on the maximum duration and depth for the dive – taking into account the effects of residual nitrogen, which could remain in your system for twelve hours – and what the points of entry to and exit from the water were to be. Much of the training consisted of seeing and doing. Ivarson would demonstrate the proper way to use the snorkel and other equipment by doing it himself, then she would imitate him.

In case of trouble, it was vital to practise the art of breathing underwater without a mask. They tried it first of all in very shallow water with her holding on to a secure handhold. She commenced breathing from a regulator and, once a regular rhythm was established, slowly squatted down in the water until it covered her mouth and nose. Should any difficulty ensue, she only had to raise her head a short distance to be able to breathe normally through the nose. As confidence was gradually gained, she was able to submerge the whole of her face underwater and breathe through the regulator for longer and longer periods.

It was also necessary for her to learn to clear a mask underwater. Each time she introduced just a little more water until it was full. The final step was to fully remove the mask to simulate a situation where it became dislodged underwater.

To clear a mask while scuba diving you needed to develop the skill of breathing through your mouth with your nose exposed to water. First you tried inhaling through the mouth and exhaling through the nose, and then inhaling and exhaling through the mouth only; if you feel any water going up through your nose you exhaled immediately to keep it out.

With the technique mastered she was taken into slightly deeper water where she could no longer immediately stand up to regain the surface; this reassured her that it worked equally well irrespective of depth.

Again from the snorkeling, she already knew how to handle the effects of pressure change; how to open the Eustachian tubes leading to your ears at will, at the point where they connected with the throat, allow air to pass through them and equalise the pressure in the air spaces of your middle ears, by blocking your nostrils, closing your mouth and swallowing. When you heard a "cracking" sound in your ears she you knew the tubes had opened. You had to equalise the pressure before descending and about every two feet for the first fifteen feet of descent, about every three feet from fifteen feet to thirty feet, and as needed thereafter. Initially, whenever she ascended she did so in a rather jerky fashion until she become fully accustomed to the technique.

No skill identified a scuba diver's ability as much as buoyancy control. With your buoyancy adjusted to the point at which you could pivot on your fins on the bottom, you pushed yourself about two feet off it and remained motionless. You might or might not remain in a horizontal position, but that wasn't important. You maintained your depth by controlling your average lung volume, but remembering to breathe continuously. If you were sinking, increase the amount of air in your lungs. If you started to rise, reduce it using the buoyancy compensator. With practice she was eventually able to hover motionless just off the bottom, conserving more energy and more air in doing so.

They did some of the pool training at the Underwater Explorers Society HQ at Port Lucaya Marina, the best-equipped dive facility in the area. By agreement with the facility Ivarson, who was well known there, continued to be responsible for her training during those sessions; it would disrupt the rhythm, the rapport that had built up between them, if they changed instructors now.

They aimed not to make more than two dives per day over a period of several weeks, initial training time totalling thirty to forty hours of instruction. The time between class sessions allowed Caroline to reflect upon what she’d learned and absorb and retain the knowledge better than with a more concentrated schedule.

For their first open dive, they chose a stretch of shore where the bottom sloped gently, which would allow her to gradually increase her depth. It was free from the effects of currents and strong tides, and they had made sure they were adequately marked with a diving flag and a surface marker buoy. Ivarson taught the best places from which to dive: you needed sites with good clear water, reasonably deep yet close to shore, preferably sheltered and with easy access. There should be a minimum of currents.

They took the boat out from the Oceanus to the point they had selected as the most suitable one for the dive, and started to unpack the equipment.

It was colour-coded and the yellow flippers and yellow-painted aluminium cylinders matched Caroline's hair, she thought pleasingly. The buoyancy compensator was a bladder mounted on a harness together with the pair of oxygen cylinders, and worn on the back. She put on the harness over her swimsuit, which she had been wearing underneath her clothes. She had seen people so clad in the illustrations in a diving manual in the Leisure section of her local library, back home. Ivarson turned from putting on his own gear, saw her and frowned.

"Oh, I expect that'll be OK," he grunted after a moment. It didn't matter quite so much in initial training.
"Sure?" she asked.

"Uh-huh. You just need to make sure your harness is a bit tighter." He adjusted it for her, taking scrupulous care to ensure his fingers didn't brush her bare flesh.

At the end of the dive, they climbed back onto the boat. Caroline took off her gear and began to towel herself down. The sunlight glinted off the wet material of her bikini bottom. She happened to turn, and at once he had a full-frontal view of her semi-naked body.

There wasn't much left to the imagination. With a speed that took him completely by surprise, Ivarson felt himself swell into erection. A conflicting, confusing jumble of thoughts chased themselves round the inside of his head. Then with a sudden pang of horror he turned sharply away from her, desperate to conceal the bulge in his trousers from her view.
Oh shit, he thought feverishly. If she saw it....

He wished he'd insisted on her wearing a wetsuit. He hadn't thought of it while they were training, because his mind was on the task in hand, but now she was awakening desires in him he had thought forever buried. To his surprise, delight and shock he was harder than he had been for a very long time. Even when he was young, it had rarely felt like this. Caroline did tend to have that kind of effect on men.

He risked a glance at her. Her manner as she struggled into her T-shirt and buckled on her jeans was normal. She hadn’t been flaunting it, but wasn't abashed either. She didn't seem to have noticed the hard-on, or maybe was just too calm and collected to give any sign of it. All the same Ivarson was still shaken by the incident. Careful, he told himself severely, or you'll blow the whole arrangement.

After that he suggested to her that she wear something more...enveloping, because it was generally safer; he didn't of course tell her the other reason why it might be a good idea. She studied what was available, and eventually settled on a one-piece Spandex wetsuit. It was light, thin and stretchy, but comfortable, and provided both insulation and protection against sharp coral, the bites and stings of poisonous animals, and sunburn when out on deck preparing for a dive. It had a detachable hood for use when required.

Exposure suits tended to increase buoyancy, so to offset that the suit had a weight belt of heavy nylon webbing, filled with lead shot, around the waist. It had a quick release system for discarding it in an emergency and thus being able to adjust buoyancy or ascend more quickly. They wore neoprene socks to protect their feet, but no gloves, in case these harmed any marine animals they might handle. Avoiding damage to your bare hands from coral or aggressive wildlife had to be a matter of common sense.

Weights mattered because most submerged objects, including the human body, tended to rise to the surface. Adjusting the weights to a diver's natural buoyancy and air tanks was a skill which took some time to learn.

The aluminium cylinders contained 80 cubic feet of compressed air - not pure oxygen. There was no CO2, for even a small amount of that in your tanks could poison you or cause respiratory problems. The flow of gas from the tanks to the regulator was controlled by an on-off valve, surrounded by a soft circular ring called an O-ring, and channelled into a snorkel tube.

The function of the regulator was to reduce high-pressure air to a breathable level. It was in two stages, the first attached to the valve of the scuba cylinder, reducing the high pressure to an intermediate pressure of about 140 psi and connected via a hose to the second stage which contained the mouthpiece. The hose was flexible but with rigid metal connectors crimped on the ends. It was a demand system, delivering air only when you wanted it by inhaling. There was a failsafe system which turned it into a free-flow one in the event of component failure. The second stage was shaped like a cup with a pliable diaphragm across the top, a mouthpiece attached to the bottom, and a purge valve on the lower side.

It took effort, needed to overcome resistance to breathing, to inhale and exhale through a scuba regulator, and Caroline found it hard to manage at first.

Both of them wore various items on the wrist. There was a depth gauge in the form of a hollow, air-filled, transparent plastic tube sealed at one end and placed around a circular dial. A waterproof watch helped them to keep track of how long you dive, how long they were are at the surface between dives, and how many dives they made. Integral with the depth gauge were a diving compass and a pressure gauge indicating how much air was left in your tanks. The compass was necessary because of the inability of the human eye, in most conditions, to see for more than a hundred feet underwater. If you dived without a directional reference you could end up a long way from your planned exit point. The compass was also useful for relocating a precise area underwater and as a surface navigation device.

You could best find your way about underwater by a combination of natural and compass navigation. With the former you used light, shadows, plants, rock formations, water movement, and depth to determine where you were. As you moved about you had to note your surroundings, asking yourself which way you were going relative to the movement of the water, sand ripples on the bottom, and the angle at which the sun’s rays slanted.

One or the other of them always carried, in a pouch attached to the belt around the waist of their suit or clipped to the belt itself, a spare equipment and first aid kit. It included a knife for use in freeing yourself from seaweed, fishermen’s nets etc.

Caroline marked all her personal equipment so that it could be identified, carving "Caz" in the metal of the cylinders with a penknife.

Ivarson was pleased with the progress she was making. She was a quick learner, often working things out without having to ask him too many questions, except when it was as well to be sure of something. She mastered it because she wanted to, bearing that in mind and letting it override any fears she might have. She chose to look upon what she was doing as just an extension of snorkelling, which helped. By self-control she learned to stay calm, to control her breathing, to not become disorientated and panicky when weightless in a dimly lit environment, as so often happened. Under some conditions you might have difficulty telling which way was up if you relied on your sense of balance. To prevent this she learnt to recognise clues to her orientation in the water; ascending bubbles, water in your mask settling to the lowest point. Whenever she did feel disorientated she grasped a solid object to use it as a point of reference until the feeling passed. Ivarson told her that if suspended in the water and overcome with vertigo she should hug herself to reduce its effects, although she found this never happened because the water usually felt like a cushion buoying her up, rather than a medium through which she was falling.

With time and experience she adapted to low light levels and magnified vision underwater; in fact she adapted so quickly that she had to readapt to the changed conditions when surfacing from a dive, a problem commonly encountered by divers. At the end of a dive, the distance to a boat or to the shore could look much greater than it was.

They did a couple more dives to bring her up to the required standard. At the end of it all, Ivarson declared himself satisfied with her progress. The three of them – he, Caroline and Devon - celebrated with champagne back on board the Oceanus. The only problem was, there could be no certificate to proclaim her new-found skills to the world, since Ivarson hadn’t gone through the proper channels and didn’t want to advertise the fact too widely. He was guilty about not having told the whole truth to the guys at Fort Cumbernauld.

Fort Cumbernauld was the local diving centre, which as well as a whole range of other activities provided equipment and training to those exploring the depths for scientific or recreational purposes.

"If anyone asks where you learned it all," he told her, "you're going to have to be very circumspect."

“Don’t worry, I can stand that,” she said. She was used to keeping secrets. It was yet another thing she couldn’t tell anyone about. What will I be remembered for in the end, she wondered? Being a good oil executive, plus that business with Saddam Hussein and those white slave traders which had got into the press and made her famous for a time, the full details being suppressed by Six (as she still thought of her one-time employers)? It wasn’t quite enough, in her view. Oil executives weren’t glamorous, judged by the work they did, nor were they popular.

But she was young, still, and the rest of your life, spread out before you like a whole new realm waiting to be discovered, was a long time for things to happen in.


Moses Jameson stopped the car and glanced to his right, towards the beach now gradually starting to fill up with people. And the calm, tranquil sea beyond it. He sat there gazing at it and thinking for a very long time.

It couldn’t be, could it? And if it was, then how? Not to mention the still-niggling question of why.

Maybe he was getting in too…too deep. He smiled faintly at the analogy. Not that this was funny, of course. Some of the anxious relatives didn’t care much what had happened to their folks; you got that sometimes with these cases, especially if there’d been some kind of family falling-out. And quite a few of the missing were down-and-outs from the poorer districts of the city; easy to spirit them away, and not quite so likely that anyone would care about their fate anyway. But some people did care, while the others certainly ought to. Maybe it was partly because Jameson had been born into relative poverty himself that he felt this way.

He tried to see it from the point of view of richer people, who of course didn’t matter any less, as people, than those who you might have more reason to feel sympathy for politically and economically. Perhaps in a way it was worse for them, because they lived secure and easy lives and weren’t accustomed to tragedy, being thus ill-equipped to deal with it when it hit them. He knew it was better for him to think that way, because it stopped him from disliking them.

Crossing the road to the beach, a youth in jeans and T-shirt passed in front of the parked vehicle, and Jameson registered the look on his face. It seemed to him too rigid, too immobile, and he frowned, wondering whether the guy was planning on popping somebody. You saw a similar expression on many serial killers, although it didn't necessarily mean he was out to commit murder. He just looked...strange.

It proved nothing. After a moment Jameson started up the engine, trod on the accelerator and drove off.

The stretch of beach was many miles long and there was no way all of it could be constantly patrolled. Which was good, thought Wayne Parelli, because if the life guard spotted him and decided he was putting himself at risk, they might interfere. And he didn't want anyone interfering.

He already had his costume on underneath his clothes. Stripping down to it, he left them in a pile on the sand and walked into the sea. He swam out until he was beyond the range of human eyesight, then dived. As it happened one or two people did see him disappear beneath the waves, but then they looked away again and went on chatting to their friend or just relaxing in the sunshine with their eyes closed against it, and forgot all about him. And when his disappearance first came on the news the following today they made no connection with what they had seen.

As for why he did it, he didn’t really know. He had no particular reason to be dissatisfied with his life; stable family background, plenty of money, secure job with a one of the big insurance companies, steady girlfriend. He just knew that if he went down to the beach, stripped off, and when no-one was looking walked right into the sea things would be even better.


ELEVEN
Having schooled Caroline in the basics of diving, the next step was to discuss the various hazards you might encounter while doing it. How to free yourself from nets or seaweed if caught in them; and how to deal with dangerous animals.

"I expect the ones you're most worried about are the sharks. Fact is, though, sharks aren't as bad as people make out. Apart from the great whites maybe, and that’s a moot point aming us marine biologists, they'll usually leave you alone unless you provoke them. Same as most animals." What he was saying was that attacks by sharks on scuba divers were rare. If anything, sharks generally avoided an area where humans were active, as if scared by them.

The shark, of course, had a vital role at the top of the food chain - it was as crucial a part of the marine ecology as any other living thing. Sharks were a fascinating species, and a very old one. And despite their fearsome appearance they were motivated merely by a desire to survive, another score on which they were no different from other members of the plant and animal kingdom, Man included.

You were possibly in more danger from turtles and moray eels, which could deliver a serious bite when angry. That of sea snakes was potentially fatal. All three species needed to be treated with respect.

Some animals stung. The sting might merely be annoying, as with fire coral or stingrays, round flat creatures which tended to lie on the seabed and cover themselves with sand, blending into it as camouflage, and which you had to be careful not to tread on. Ditto the sea urchin, whose long, thin spines could penetrate an exposure suit and break off in your flesh producing a red, swollen wound. The stings of jellyfish were sometimes more serious, that of the Portuguese Man O’War proving fatal or permanently debilitating if not immediately treated.

Then there were scorpion fish and stonefish, which had spines like the sea urchin on the base of which were sacs filled with venom, capable of causing serious illness; the bristle worm, whose fine silky hairs became embedded in the skin resulting in a painful burning sensation; and various others.

Once she was fully conversant with how to handle animals, and avoid the dangerous ones, they could go down again for her to familiarise herself with the various species, although she already knew them to some extent from her snorkelling. "You've picked a good time to do it,” Ivarson grinned. Diving was especially fascinating at this time of the year, the season when marine things tended to spawn in vast quantities, filling the waters with seething life.

He took the opportunity to fill her in on the environmental issues currently facing the region. “Fortunately, as I said we don't get too much pollution. Some harm gets caused to the reef by boats dropping anchors, or fishermen squirting chlorine into those little channels and crevices in the reefs to drive out lobsters. But on the whole Mother Nature does a lot more damage - hurricanes and the like.

"Species can get hunted to extinction for commercial reasons. We're likely to lose the conch if we're not careful, although I expect they'll bring in legislation to protect it. That's where people like me come in, checking every now and then to find out whether the numbers of any species are dangerously low."

The subsistence needs of the Lucayans had had little effect on the ecology of the islands. The discovery of the West Indies by Europeans changed all that. The vast aquatic herds of turtle were now much reduced through development and tourism, leading the Department of Fisheries to put a ban on fishing them during the egg-laying season. The shells of hawksbill turtles were popular for their value as jewelry, but you weren't allowed to catch them for that reason, or buy the products. That wasn't to say it didn't happen, of course.

"In the last hundred years or so we've lost the Caribbean monk seal and the West Indian manatee." There were still the humpback whales, though, passing through the waters windward of the islands en route to their mating grounds south of the Turks and Caicos. Blue whales were also frequently sighted, and dolphins. "The Bahamian crocodile's gone, though."
"I'm glad to hear it," said Caroline.
"Crocodile's a living thing same as any other," he replied.
"I know," said Caroline. "I'm still glad."

Ivarson returned to his theme. "Recently everyone's become a lot more eco-friendly, because they know tourism depends on it. There’s now twelve national parks and protected areas, and a lot more slated to be created in the next few years.”

Her eye caught by the pink conch shell resting on Ivarson's desk, Caroline began handling it absently. Ivarson nodded towards it. "They mate sexually, you know. The penis is considered a bit of a delicacy by eels. They come along while the conches are...you know....and start eating it."
"You’re disgusting," said Caroline.

He returned to his theme again. “Outside the national park system there is some overfishing, plus commercial poaching by Dominicans and Cuban-Americans which has become more of a problem in recent years.”

"Do you think that explains the drop in numbers that was worrying the Institute?”

"That's what I'm trying to find out. Maybe; but I don't think so somehow. It's all happened too suddenly for that."

"Well," she said, "we won't find the answer by sitting around in here. So if we've quite finished the lession in ecology, I'm willing to go down again."

So later that day they did a wildlife filming session, which provided an opportunity for her to see all the creatures they'd been talking about at close quarters. As well a video camera or waterproof Nikonos, equipped with a powerful flash unit for use at greater depth or at night, she took with her a torch, waterproof pen and plastic writing slate for recording information, all contained in a pouch at her waist.

She found the equipment cumbersome, restricting her freedom in a way a swimsuit didn't, but with her own air supply, not needing to surface regularly to breathe she could stay down longer, and see more; she had time to study, and to interact with, the marine life. Weightless and able to move in all directions, up and down, she felt free as a bird; especially with the sunlight streaming down through clear water, bathing her in a celestial radiance not unlike that which must shine upon the inhabitants of Heaven, it was a fantastic feeling, all but beyond the power of words to explain. Uplifting and at the same time soothing. A sense of peaceful solitude within your own "inner space" – a realm just as fascinating and rewarding, if no more so, as any which astronauts might explore. She recalled spending some time in a flotation tank once; but this was better. Even more so than on that occasion she felt totally cut off from the nasty things going on on the surface, in this strange, silent, bizarre, alien, underwater world. There was an easing of stress which brought with it a sensuous, almost sexual pleasure. If only one could swim forever among the coral reefs, the kelp forests, the incredible rock formations. She was captivated as a child would be by this place where plants like delicately woven lace handkerchiefs, or Spanish mantillas, swayed gently to the rhythm of the currents, where fronds of seaweed spread their fingers up towards the light, reaching out like all things to the life-giving sun, where an astonishing variety of fish swam in and out of the winding valleys within the convoluted, brain-like mass of the coral. Some of the fish were grotesque, comical, others beautiful and graceful in their movements. Over the days that followed she came to know all of them: moray eels, grunts, barracudas, stingrays, queen triggerfish, sand tigers, angelfish, snappers, bonito, kingfish, jewelfish, deep blue Creole wrasse, inflatable porcupine fish, moray eels, the parrotfish with their bodies of irridescent plum-purple and blue-green.

At night this underwater world became even more ghostly and eerie; fish darted away from the beam of her torch, flitting about sprite-like, and tiny bioluminescent life forms swarmed like fireflies.

Ivarson explained to her how the ecosystem here functioned. The coral reefs were formed by colonising polyps - tiny animals, that looked like plants but weren’t, which secreted calcareous external protective skeletons, production of which was dependent on the algae living inside their tissues. They reproduced by releasing clouds of spermatozoa that turned the surrounding sea milky white. Dispersed by the current, the larvae went on to form new colonies elsewhere, and so the reef grew in size. It was composed of scores of different species of coral, each occupying its own niche and with its own characteristic shape. The staple diet for all of them was plankton.

The reefs were a complex and sensitive ecosystem which took thousands of years to form. When a polyp died its skeleton turned to limestone which another polyp might use to cement its own reef, composed of a layer of living coral colonies growing on the surface of older, dead material. This happened at just a fast enough rate to replace the coral eaten away by parrotfish and other predators.

Coral reefs had been referred to as the rainforests of the sea; partly because, like the rainforests, they were home to an enormous variety of animals and plants. A single large reef system might support around two hundred species of coral and the reefs in turn were believed to support a third of all living fish species. The high productivity of the area around a reef, which explained its ecological richness and diversity, was due to the corals' efficient cycling and re-use of nutrients.

Aquatic life could be divided into three categories: that which drifted with the currents - called zooplankton if animals, phytoplankton if plants - those that swum freely and were able to move against the currents, and those that dwelt on the bottom. But there was another way of classifying them and that was by their place in the food chain. The drifters, the microscopic zoo- and phytoplankton, were at the bottom of the scale. The small animals like the copepods, little crustaceans whose constantly moving limbs sweep their prey towards their mouths, ate the plankton and the large animals, fish up to the size of sharks and whales, ate the small animals. That was basically how it worked but such an analysis didn’t do justice to the full complexity of the system. Zooplankton preyed on phytoplankton and predation could occur within each branch of the animal kingdom, the smaller fish falling victim to groupers, sharks, tarpons and barracudas.

Each level of the sea had its own ecosystem, the number of carnivores relative to herbivores increasing the further you went down as there was less sunlight for plants to photosynthesise. It was here, in the shallower parts of the ocean, that they were most common and where, consequently, the ecosystem was most diverse.

There must be millions of plankton multiplying in the rich, warm, nutrient-filled water. Ivarson had told her that sometimes they multiplied too far and the vast red blooms which resulted, known as red tide, coloured the water destroying visibility while the toxins they produced poisoned other animals, making clams and mussels unsafe for consumption.

Like above this was a harsh world, concerned only with reproducing itself. Many of the smaller octopuses and squids died after mating or spawning, having served their purpose. No less than ten times a year the female conch laid eggs in huge masses of 300,000 or more, ear, but only a fraction survived to adulthood the majority being eaten by rays, turtles, octopi, fish or crustaceans. As long as enough creatures survived for each species to fill the role allocated to it in the ecosystem, while leaving enough food to go around.

Animals obtained their prey in a variety of ways. Some actively sought it out, sensing the vibrations from its motion as they travelled through in the water. Fish and large mammals hunted in this way, just as they were also alerted to the presence of predators through the latter’s movements. Barnacles, which remain throughout their lives attached to rocks and unable to bodily move, swept their limbs in and out to draw suspended particles into their mouths. The tentacles of sea mosses performed a similar function, while those of corals were armed with stinging cells which immobilised the prey before transferreing them to the mouth. Crabs, lobsters, sea urchins and brittle stars grazed among the sediments on the ocean floor which contained large numbers of the bacteria on which they thrived. Corals were "grazed" by crown-of-thorns starfish, which extruded their stomachs over the surface of a mass of coral, drawing out the polyp from the skeleton and sucking it in.

The protection strategies were varied too. Some sea slugs stored the stinging cells collected from corals they ate and used them for protection against other predators. Anemone fish were so called because when threatened they darted behind the protective cover of an anemone’s stinging tentacles, which they themselves always seemed to avoid being harmed by. Many reef animals were brightly coloured, advertising the fact that they were distasteful or poisonous. These techniques, which didn’t always work, were part of a complex system of checks and balances designed to avoid over-predation.

As well as being finely balanced, the system was also thrifty. When the large animals died their remains sank to the bottom and decomposed. The decaying matter was eaten by animals lower down, or rose towards the surface becoming food for the plankton on the way, and the cycle began again. Nature never wasted anything.

It was a joy to watch the diverse denizens of the deep as they went about their daily business, and interact with them wherever possible. She laughed at the rather comical queen conch, a marine snail which looked like a large mossy rock crawling along the sea floor, and instead of gliding like most snails used its muscular basal foot to hop along. Wondrously, she reached out to touch an octopus, a large blue lobster, a five-foot stingray, letting the latter take food from her hand while she stroked it gently. Mindful of the fate of Steve Irwin, she was careful not to allow her knowledge that the creature could be dangerous to alarm her, which would have an effect on her body language, the stingray maybe misinterpreting it as aggression and responding likewise. She told herself that even dogs were unpredictable and could cause serious injuries, but that didn’t stop people from patting them on the head. However if no trouble occurred with the stingray it was because, having conquered enough fears to master diving, she found it easy to manage the required self-control in other matters. Caroline wasn’t really a dog person.

She would place some food on a rock close to the surface and film the fish and other creatures as they came to eat, taking care to keep perfectly still in the water and not startle her subject by making sudden movements or splashing with her fins. If you needed to approach them more closely you had to do so carefully so as not to stir up the water and alarm them or cause a cloud of silt which could choke and kill some organisms, preferably moving by sculling with your hands and keeping your fins still. All the time she observed the conservation rules: don't leave litter, don't take too many immature members of a species for examination as it would be likely to die out, don't feed them things they wouldn't normally eat. And don't chase the fish; apart from the danger of startling them, causing them to start to avoid divers and making them difficult to approach, you wouldn't be able to catch them anyway.

As well as studying the local wildlife they explored a sunken freighter and various other of the numerous wrecks scattered about the area; did a wall dive down the sheer rock face at the edge of the Bahamas Banks, an exhilarating experience. Always they took care not to go further down than was safe. After 185 feet the effects of pressure and nitrogen narcosis began to appear, and they couldn’t stay at these depths more than a few minutes.

The camaraderie she was developing with Ivarson was good. It must have been great when Kate and Ryan were there, she thought. That sense of fellowship which had bound the three of them together came from helping each other progress within a harsh and dangerous environment where teamwork was important. But Kate and Ryan weren't there, not any more, and she reminded herself that they needed to find out why.


“Jesus, what the hell’s got into you?” said Arlene Jameson. “You’re sure letting this case get on top of you.” Since coming home that evening her husband had said very little, eaten his dinner without much enthusiasm, and was now staring fixedly at the television.

“Someone’s got to stop it,” he replied. She knew by now what “it” meant.

“So you keep on saying. Look, sooner or later these guys are gonna make a mistake, and someone’s gonna notice something. You’ve just got to be patient, keep working away at it. That ain’t the same as getting a fixation with the business.”

Jameson looked round at her, meeting her eyes. “You take care…and Georgia. Seems they go for anyone.”

“It ain’t the first time you’ve said that, honey. We got the message, you know.”

“I’m off now, folks,” a voice piped up from the doorway. They looked round.

Georgia, their eldest daughter, stood there in jeans and a denim top, a handbag with a snazzy kaleidoscopic design on it slung over her shoulder. Her midriff was bare almost up to her chest, and a silver star glimmered in her navel.

Jameson’s eyebrows shot up. It was the first time he’d seen her like that. She mimicked his goggle-eyed expression. “What’s the matter? You don’t like my outfit?”
“Georgia, where are you going?” he asked.

“Out with the girls, that’s all. We’re going to a club, then back to Roxanne’s to watch some movies on CD, then we’re going out for drive…”

“You ain’t gonna go around like that all the time, are you?” he asked her.

“Well, not at home,” she smiled.

“You think you look sexy like that,” he snorted. ”I’m telling you you don’t. That thing you got in your belly button is a real turn-off.”

“I don’t care what guys think about it,” she said. “It’s just the way I want to be.”
“Just be careful,” he muttered.

She looked at him peculiarly, then trilled goodbye to them both and walked proudly out the door. Arlene turned to her husband worriedly. “Hey, it’s you I’m worried about, not her. You growing old before your time?”
“Probably,” he muttered absently, things still on his mind.

Did he really need to have been so prudish to Georgia? To dress the way she did was so common now it oughtn’t to bat an eyelid, let alone be an incitement to rape. And it was happening all over the country, if not the whole Western world. He certainly couldn’t stop her doing it, just as he couldn’t stop her sleeping around.

They had found some cocaine in her room once. It had been some time ago, and to their knowledge there had been no further dabbling in drugs since. Or it’d probably show in her appearance, her behaviour. She’d just been experimenting. Lots of people had flirted with drugs, hard or soft, back in the sixties and were now totally respectable, wouldn’t dream of touching the stuff. It had been a rebellion against decades of repression, which in most people’s case exhausted itself within a few years.

Personally he suspected Georgia would grow out of it all; Arlene seemed to think she would. You could never be sure, though. Hard to tell, these days, what was just changing fashions and what was genuinely harmful.

Again and again a mother’s words kept coming back to him. It’s too late now to say we’re sorry….


Marty’s Bar and Disco, Seafront, Freeport
In long pants and a long-sleeved shirt and trainers, Caroline was dancing to a vibrant Gloria Estefan number when a man came up to her. She found it hard to know whether to classify him as a light-skinned black or a dark-skinned white.

"Excuse me," he shouted above the blare from the jukebox, "may I have this dance?"

She nodded, seeing nothing wrong in itself with the proposal. So they bopped together to Miami Sound Machine for a couple of minutes, smiling blandly at one another whenever their eyes met.

Then, seeing that her face was turned away from him, he slipped behind her and suddenly she felt him cup her breasts and squeeze them, while grinding his loins hard against her backside as if performing a rear entry.

She broke free, whirled round and delivered him a hefty slap across the face, then went on dancing as if nothing had happened. All the people in the bar, white and black, cheered loudly while the man went back to where he had been sitting, grinning sheepishly as he nursed his stinging cheek.

The commotion had attracted the attention of a man sitting at the bar, a well-built man in his twenties in a T-shirt and jeans. He came over and sat down beside her as she sipped coolly at her Tequila Sunrise. Like many white Bahamians he was blond, his hair bleached by constant exposure to the Caribbean sun. His green-brown eyes and the slight freckling of his skin identified him as a "Conchy Joe," probably from one of the Family Islands.

"You look like a lady who can take care of herself," he said. The incident had provided him with a useful chat-up line.

"Too right I can." She allowed just a note of warning to enter her voice.

"What are you here for?" he asked.

"I'm on holiday. But you're from round here, judging by your accent."

"Well, sort of. I'm from the Bahamas originally. But my Dad was American." With that he seemed to regard the subject of his background closed.

"What do you do for a living?"
"I work for a travel firm. I thought I'd just check out the place while I was here, for a brochure we're doing."

"How do you find the place?” she asked. Might as well try and get some information out of him. “Does there tend to be a lot going on?"

"Not between general elections. But people are worried about this problem with the fish, I can tell you. Though we're all dancing the night away and trying to forget about it."

They talked for a while, but without her learning anything of real value. "What about this company who've just moved into the area - Marcotech or something, isn't it?"

The blond man shrugged. "I don't know much about them." He paused, and said "do you want to, er, meet me here again tomorrow night?”

"I'm sorry. I'm going to be flitting around a lot while I'm in the islands. I shouldn't think I'll have the time." It was quite true; she wanted to cover as much ground, and in as short a time, as possible and there was no room in her schedule for amorous liaisons.

"It doesn't have to be here. Do you have a card or anything? If you can't manage it while you’re here I could look you up later sometime - if that's OK."

"That's very sweet of you, but I'm afraid I've no plans to change my way of life at the moment. I'm quite happy the way I am. Sorry to disappoint." She smiled sympathetically.

His face clouded over. "Oh....OK. Well, er, nice to have met you. Take care."
"And you." They shook hands.

He got up, crossed to the bar and leaned on it, his expression wistful. After a while he seemed to buck up, and went over to chat up an attractive American tourist who had come in in the meantime. Caroline recalled the look on his face when she had turned him down, and felt her heart go out to him. There had been nothing untoward, nothing sinister, in the approach. Not for the first time she felt genuinely sorry for the male sex. It was they who had to do the asking and when, as so often happened, they were rejected their vulnerable emotions took a battering.

And was she really so happy the way she was? Had she just missed out on an opportunity? There’d been something about the guy she liked, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on….

With a busy life like yours you've no time to think about these things, she told herself, aware it was an excuse that would grow less convincing, and more and more tedious, as the years went by.


There was nothing wrong, by and large, with Moses Jameson’s marriage. He and Arlene disagreed, usually over something to do with Georgia, but no more so than millions of other couples. Kids usually were one of the main causes of friction. He doubted they’d ever split up, at least not for that reason. Certainly, when after Georgia had retired for the night Arlene appeared in a see-through negligee, smiling seductively and suggesting he forget all about the case and come to bed, it had worked. There was still that chemistry between them which the physical side of their relationship both added to and itself profited by. The sex did help him to forget about the case, at least for a while.

Afterwards they hugged each other in a tight embrace, to lie in that state waiting to go to sleep so that they would awake in it the following morning, each person’s first sight being of the other. Arlene drifted off first, which was just as well as otherwise, after a time, she would have felt him grow cold and unresponsive as he started thinking about the case once again. In bed was one of the best times for being able to think straight, if not the only one.

He doubted if Quantico’s profile would be of much help in the end. Because here the person or persons responsible weren’t like your average serial killer or kidnapper. Though some psychologists would disagree, he couldn’t accept that those people were in any way normal, to do what they did. Something about the pattern, the fact that there were parameters and yet within them the perp’s tastes were so catholic, suggested there was a rational reason why the victims were being taken. This had all been planned, with a particular motive behind it.

Serial killers killed because someone reminded them of their mother whom they had hated, because they sought sexual pleasure and then to prevent their victim being able to tell the police anything useful, because they didn’t like black (or perhaps white) people, or gays; or they slaughtered purely at random. None of these factors seemed to apply here.
But it had to be a case of abduction and not murder. If it was murder, at least some of the bodies would have turned up by now, because they nearly always did. Maybe they were to be killed eventually, which was one more reason why the mystery had to be solved as quickly as possible. But so far, the abductees were probably all still alive.

And he was still baffled as to how the victims were able to vanish so completely, leaving not the slightest clue, the merest trace of what had happened or the manner in which it had taken place. It didn’t make sense unless they were being whisked off the face of the earth by some magic ray from a flying saucer, or…..

The other possibility did seem marginally less crazy, so Jameson continued to flirt with it. It was the reason why he had started to walk the beaches a lot, sometimes late in the day – or during it, in the case of the lonely ones where people didn’t go quite so often. He could always make the excuse that he’d been on Bureau business. But if people saw him, they’d think he was going crazy or had something on his mind, and try to work out what the problem was. If they knew him, the word would go round that much faster. Arlene would think he was seeing someone else. To be honest, she was already getting a little concerned – he could sense it - about the way he was spending more and more time away from home, even if she attributed it to the case rather than some other, less understandable reason.

That was it. He had to bring matters to a head or the marriage would suffer. And although Georgia was old enough now, just about, to cope emotionally with the shock he somehow didn’t think it’d have too good an effect on her.
He decided it was time to share his suspicions with Calvert.


TWELVE

Caroline was taking a short break from her underwater activities, remembering she was supposed to be on a mission for her company to find out some clue to the identity of the mysterious oil tanker saboteurs. She had spent some time in Abacos and was now checking out Bimini. So far, though, all her efforts had turned up no clues; nor had Chris' in the other parts of the archipelago, or Lion Petrochemicals' in the Gulf of Mexico region and the area around the terminal at Louisiana. There was absolutely nothing of any interest to report. MI6 were attacking the problem by generally investigating the global arms trade, which was a part of their brief anyway, but they presumably hadn’t got anywhere or Rachel Savident would have been in touch.

It was getting late, and she was walking the beach a short distance from the guest house where she was staying, in search of a quiet spot in which to reflect on what she’d achieved so far and the use to which it could be put.

A party was going on on the sand, with a barbecue and a steel band in full swing. To find peace and solitude was difficult because after work the native Bahamians tended to avoid the tourist beaches in favour of more secluded spots like this one. They spent a lot of time just hanging about in the water; the ocean shallows were favourite places for making love, it was rumoured.

She strolled along munching a mango, savouring the feel of the grains of sand between her toes. She had a bikini top on and a flowery skirt swept down from her waist. The flower in her hair completed the image she felt appropriate.

At length the pounding of the music receded into the distance, and it looked like she had got away from it all. She sat down under a coconut palm, her back against the trunk.

Bimini wasn't too bad on the whole. The beaches were no more than OK but there was snorkelling and diving to be had, and a couple of good nightclubs, although they tended to be too full of college kids from Florida. That afternoon a guide had taken her out deep-sea fishing, and she had managed to catch a marlin and a swordfish among other things. She threw all the fish back in afterwards, unharmed.

Whatever its faults, the island had been a favourite of Hemingway's. He had loved the Bahamas, along with Ian Fleming who made them the setting for Dr No and Thunderball. It had been there that James Bond had hauled in big cash in the casinos of Nassau, had encountered Honeychile Rider in the famous scene where she had emerged Venus-like from the sea with her conch shell, met Claudine Auger's Domino in an undersea coral garden and swum with her to a perfect beach to make love on the sugary sand beneath the shade of the tall palms. Ah, romance....adventure....

People didn't seem to have adventures any more. Except me, she thought a little ruefully. They had sometimes been dangerous and frightening.
But fun.

She never solicited them, not really. Odd the way things always seemed to lead for her. Was that her fault or was it something else, some sort of unfathomable Destiny?

She thought again of Hemingway, Papa Hemingway. His kind were rare nowadays. He had been an adventurer; he had also been a bully, and in her opinion overrated as a writer. There was no real depth to his novels. But what you did get from them was a wonderful sense of the rawness of life when lived hard and fast; to the full. Despite his faults she couldn't help admiring him because he didn't take any crap from anyone.
Neither did she.

Caroline sat watching the setting sun stain the sky and sea with red and listening to the faint sounds of music from the beach party while the darkness gathered around her, enfolding her in a warm comfortable cocoon.

She gazed out over the water, towards where she knew her home to be, thousands of miles away to the east. In the night sky and sea blended together, into one mysterious unfathomable blackness. It was hard to see just where one began and the other ended.

There was one way of telling, of course. Higher up, the darkness was speckled with glimmering points of silver-white light. She remembered a trip to Australia as a small child to visit her aunt's family, when for the first time she had looked up into the night sky and seen the stars of another constellation.

A cool night breeze, bringing with it the salty tang of the sea, stirred the leaves of the palm trees. The beautiful strains of a Calypso tune drifted to her on it, mingling with the gentle rhythm of the waves breaking on the shore.

I want to stay here for the rest of my life, she thought. But wouldn't it get boring after a while?
She wasn't bored yet.

It was a paradise: beaches like fine talcum powder, some dazzling white, some peachy pink, and all washed by waters that seemed like liquid light. That was how the guide book had put it, and the description wasn't far wrong. It seemed to her that the Bahamas, however you regarded it, must somehow remain its own unique, barmy self whatever happened to the rest of the world. And that was precisely what attracted her to it. She understood the appeal it had held for Hemingway, Zane Grey and a host of other literary figures. Had they been alive today they would appreciate it even more. The remainder of the globe was a hectic confused mess, dissolving faster and faster into bloody chaos, but here in this heaven on Earth, far distanced from the increasingly nasty and alarming conflict between the West and Islam, from the crawling horror of the Russian school siege, you felt you were a world - a galaxy, a constellation, a universe - away from all that. One tended to forget places like this existed; to think they ever could exist.

It wasn't quite perfect, it couldn't be. But compared to everywhere else....

If only everyone could come and live in the Bahamas. But then, of course, it wouldn't be the Bahamas; it would be spoilt. And that would be a tragedy because it was one of the nearest things in this life to Eden. To the kind of world we had once, if you took the Bible literally. The kind we certainly wanted; the kind which perhaps we might one day have again.
One could dream.

Under the vast dome of the star-studded heavens, and conscious of the immensity of the sea stretching away around her, she felt very small. It was the kind of sensation which caused you to reflect on your life. It had been a funny life, in which she had known great happiness and great sadness.

I've plenty of achievements to my credit. And I’ve been to so many places, met so many people, made so many friends in so many countries....I've talked with kings, presidents, prime ministers, seen wonders most people could barely dream of, had so many weird, wonderful, scary, exciting, fantastic, incredible adventures.
But what's it all about?
I don't know. Does anyone know?

She thought of James and what he might be doing now, of whether she had been right to break away from him. If she hadn't, they might now be married, with children.

She knew that hard as it was, she had been right to do it. But it had been good when they were together, and she would always remember that.

Almost unconsciously she found herself breaking into song as another Carpenters tune came suddenly to mind.

I'm going way down south to Louisiana
Well, I'll just close my eyes
And everything's alright
And though I'm really far away
I'll make my getaway
And no-one need really
Know that I've been gone
One more time, for the good times
That far outweigh the bad
One more time, for the good times
When love was all we had

I'm going way down south to Baton Rouge
Well, I'll just close the door
And turn out all the lights
And all the images dance by
Of folks and friends Who lie
Back home where things are slow
And easy going

One more time, for the good times
That far outweigh the bad
One more time for the good times
When love was all
When love was all
When love was all we had
One more time.

She sat there wrapped in her thoughts until the "no-see-'ums," the tiny insects with a bite quite out of proportion to their size, drove her away and it was time to go back in.


“I’m trying to make sense out of what you’re saying,” smiled Assistant Director Calvert.

“I know it sounds crazy, Sir,” said Jameson apologetically. “But I’m thinking it’s the only way we’ll ever crack this. It’s the only reason that comes to mind why all these people are just…vanishing. This drug or something that’s being injected into them, it’s making them walk into the sea. And it’d explain why we haven’t found any bodies; the sea’s a big enough place to put them.”

Calvert’s corrugated brow and narrowed eyes made plain he wasn’t convinced. “You’re right, it sure does sound crazy,” he muttered. “You’re positive you’ve explored every other possibility?”
“Yes, Sir,” said Moses patiently.
“A drug….”

“It’s obviously not a side effect because it’s happening to everyone who’s being injected by it. They’re meant to do it. God knows what it’s all about. I’ve done a check to see if there’s anything on the market, or off it for that matter, that could have this kind of effect on someone. Result, negative. But there are a few sources of information, mainly military, that are classified and I’d like permission to access them.”

“I’ll do my best to get the authorization. Of course some records will be out of bounds even to us.” For just a second he squinted at Jameson, scrutinizing him closely as if trying to establish what he was thinking at that moment. “So who do you think might be responsible for it?”

“I don’t know, Sir. I don’t see why any government department would do this kind of thing. But then you do hear stories.”

“I know what you mean, Agent Jameson.” Calvert gave an enigmatic smile. “Uh, does Agent Hurtwood support you in your theory, might I ask?”

“I don’t think his mind is quite made up yet, Sir.” Hurtwood had stared at him as if he was mad.
“So what are you suggesting we do?”

“I think we should start patrolling the beaches, Sir,” Jameson said. “Regularly. So there’s always someone looking when they decide to take a dip.”

“Well, like I said I’ll see what I can do about that authorization. But I dunno about patrolling the beaches.”

“If people still go on disappearing it’ll prove me wrong. But I think we have to know.”

“It means expenditure of time and resources. I suppose we could let the Police Department do it…OK, let me think about it.” He nodded briefly to show that Jameson was dismissed. The agent rose and left the room, with the feeling that at last he was getting somewhere towards preventing any more disappearances like that of Shannon Richards.
But something about Calvert’s manner had bothered him.


Now that Caroline was to all extents and purposes a fully qualified diver, she could help Ivarson with his research. So the two of them along with Devon took the boat out to a part of the area he had not yet covered. Though they might not need to do any actual diving, Caroline and Devon nonetheless inspected the cylinders and other equipment first to make sure they were free of the corrosion caused by saltwater, while Ivarson checked the weather forecast, the wind speed, air temperature and other factors. Strong winds and turbulent currents weren't ideal conditions for diving. The current could be estimated by looking for telltale signs such as kelp bent over, the presence of a wake around their anchor line, the speed at which objects drifted on the surface, how long it took floating objects to move the length of your boat. It all seemed OK, so off they set.

Caroline had found and appropriated a yachting cap she had found somewhere, perching it on her head at a jaunty angle. She wore a striped T-shirt, shorts and sandals.

She rested her elbows on the deck rail and leaned over it, gazing at the sparkling sea before her and listening to the pleasantly monotonous chugging of the boat's engines. A pair of dark glasses shielded her eyes from the sun's blinding glare; you improved your ability to see underwater by avoiding bright daylight before a dive.

They rounded the north-west tip of the island and turned eastwards. All along the shore at this point were mangrove trees, their thick tangle of roots, which compacted the silt and formed a barrier protecting the shoreline against erosion, looking like enormous tentacles. After a while the trees gave way to wetlands where she glimpsed birdwatchers moving about stealthily with their binoculars and notebooks trying to spot guinea fowl, coots, herons or gallinules. A large seagull, with that spot of red on its bill that looks disturbingly like blood, alighted on the rail for a moment then flew off again before she could make friends.

Ivarson came and leaned on the rail beside her. Glancing at him, she noted the broad grin on his sunburnt face, the way his eyes twinkled with the joy of living.
"Great day," he smiled. "Isn't it?"

Caroline nodded. "You really love the sea, don't you?" she commented.

It was pretty obvious he did, but Ivarson didn't react with sarcasm. "Sure. It's....well, the truth is you can't really say why you like it, any more than those guys who like old trains, that sort of thing, can explain what they do, though it's those types who get thought of as a bit crazy. I just love the sea for what it is. And I guess I'm fascinated by what it may be able to tell us. Only a third of it’s been explored. And even with all our technology, satellites, sensing equipment and the like there's still a lot we don't understand about the ocean, the way it influences climate and weather." His face darkened for a moment. "And how global warming fucks it up."

"But it does," she prompted, feeling this was something about which she ought to know more. ""Fuck it up", I mean."

“Uh-huh. Now oceanography’s a relatively young science. We still don't know enough about how the ocean functions and that's why we've got to be careful in the way we treat it.”

It seemed she had hit on one of his favourite subjects. "There's something called the air-ocean interface, and it matters to us or ought to. Let me give you an example. You heard of El Nino? The winds off the coast of Peru drive the surface water west across the Pacific and draw up colder water. Then the warm water flows back - partly because of global warming - and the cold water becomes trapped where it has a bad effect on the productivity of underwater plants and plankton. It also affects the climate over land, causing high rainfall in Latin America and the western Pacific. Global warming makes the winds stronger and the whole problem worse. The sea's important because so much depends on it. Like the food we eat – not enough fish if there ain’t enough plankton – and our safety from floods and other natural disasters."

A flock of seabirds was circling not far to their west, indicating the presence not far below the surface of a school of fish.

"By the way, we're in the Bermuda Triangle here," he grinned suddenly.

"Oh, thanks," said Caroline, feeling a certain shiver of unease. She wasn't mollified to realise he'd only been winding her up.

He became serious again. "Actually, I think all that's just a load of crap. Least it is if there's supposed to be anything supernatural about it. Here's one of the few places where the magnetic compass points due north. Confuses pilots, screws up their navigational instruments, that's why you get all those planes being lost. Nothing to do with UFOs or time warps. Still there's plenty of things going unexplained, I'll admit. Plenty of mysteries. Especially under the sea; it's so big I don't think we'll ever know just what's down there."

"While on the subject of mysteries," he added, "the Bahamas claims part of the lost city of Atlantis."
"Who knows," Caroline said.

By now they were quite some distance from shore. "We're near the Marcotech site here," said Ivarson. "You can just about see the marker buoys."

“Let’s have the binocs.” Borrowing them, she took off her sunglasses and peered through the lens to see the buoys bobbing gently up and down on the waves. As the Oceanus drew nearer you could make out the large red warning letters they bore. "RESTRICTED AREA. KEEP OUT. BY ORDER THE GOVERNMENT OF THE BAHAMAS AND US DEPARTMENT OF COMMERCE."

"So they've got an arrangement with both the Bahamian government and the Americans," she commented.

"They probably didn't have any trouble fixing it. Got a lot of bite with the big boys. And," Ivarson muttered solemnly, "there's no doubt the Bahamas is home to a lot of funny money."

The throbbing sound of a motor carried to the boat on the sea breeze. Squinting against the sun, Caroline watched an indistinct blob in the distance gradually resolve itself into the shape of a motor launch. It was heading in their direction.

She took the binoculars again and scanned the approaching boat. On its side were the words "MARCOTECH INTERNATIONAL".
"Will they mind us being here?" she asked.

"Shouldn't think so. We're outside the exclusion zone. There's not a lot they can do."
"What if they think we're spying on them?"

"We're just going about our normal business. Any case, they can only tell us to piss off."
"What does Marcotech mean? Is it an acronym?"
Ivarson frowned. "Marine technology consortium, I think. There's about ten companies involved. One of the biggest and most powerful commercial organisations on the planet. Other than that, I don't know very much about them."

The launch had cut its engine and was drifting. Marcotech had no reason to suspect they were up to anything, but all the same it stayed where it was for several minutes, during which the two men in it seemed to be observing them closely. One was peering at the Oceanus through what they assumed to be binoculars. They were just too far away to see that it was in fact a Camcorder, fitted with a telephoto lens.

They heard the droning, chattering sound of a helicopter, and glanced skyward. The chopper had "Marcotech" on its side above the company's logo, a globe within which three wavy blue lines presumably stood for the sea.

"I see what you mean," Caroline said. "Very security conscious."

The helicopter hovered fifty feet or so above the Oceanus and they had the distinct impression it, too, was observing them. After a moment it tilted and swung sharply away from them, taking off into the vast blueness of the sky.
"How big is their site?" Caroline asked casually.
"Seems to extend over about fifty square miles."
"That's pretty big," she said, startled.

"Uh-huh. It's some operation, whatever they've got down there. I'd sure like to know more about it but they've always refused to work with anyone else, even though I dropped one or two hints the Institute might be keen to help."
"But we're definitely talking some sort of - installation?"

"That's the rumour anyway. There've been experiments with undersea habitats before; a bunch called the Marine Resources Development Foundation set one up off Key Largo, Florida, in 1984 and as far as I know it's still going. It's mainly for scientific purposes, meant to be a permanent undersea laboratory. The same guys had a similar project going off Puerto Rico for a while in the 'seventies. What Marcotech are doing is supposed to be different from either of those set-ups."

He straightened up briskly. "I’ll go and fix us something to eat, then we’ll get started." He headed for the galley, leaving Caroline alone with Devon.

She turned to the black man. "It's a shame you can't dive with us," she said, though wondering if it was tactful to remind him of his disability in that way.
"I used to," he sighed nostalgically. “Used to a lot.”
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have – “

Devon smiled. “That’s OK. These things happen..happen all the time. They’re a part of life and you just got to ‘cept that. Fate, mebbe. What happened was, I used to work at the harbour in Freeport. I was supervising something being loaded when a rope broke, I dunno why, and a crate fell on my leg..crushed it…..now I just help out anyways I can. Doc Ivarson seemed by my recknin’ to be doing a good job, so I tagged along with him.”
“You did the right thing. Do you like living here?”

"Yeah, sure. There’s no trouble most of the time, least there wasn’t before this fish thing. Y’see, folks’ll help each other out when things is bad, like they all got together to raise the money when had my accident and couldn’t work no more, couldn’t s’port my family. That’s what counts.”
“You have a wife and children, then?”

“Shevaughn’s gone now, buried her a year ago this Christmas. My two boys is grown up and workin’ the fishing boats going out of Freeport. One got married last year and’s due for a chile soon, by my recknin’. Life goes on.”
"But it’s really all right here then?"

"I wouldn't live anywhere else. It's my home." He left it at that.

"I sort of meant, is there any trouble because of....er...." She flushed a little with embarrassment. Devon raised his greying eyebrows quizzically.

"Oh, I get it," he grinned. "You'm talkin' 'bout white folks and black folks."
"Well, yes."

"No," he answered. "Not really. We got over that a long time ago. Round here we measure folk not by the colour of their skins but by their character. Everyone can hang out together. That's not to say folks don't see colour as a mark of….of status, don't try to "lift" theirs by marrying a white person – whiter, anyways. Often it's the darker people who are poor, you see." Which rather begged the question, Caroline thought.

"The whites, 'specially the old families who came over hundreds of years ago in George Washington's time, won't often marry a black person but I guess it's ‘cause they're afraid of getting’ bred out. You can understand that. What counts is that folks get on well with each other, and generally that's the case.

"The ones who really get it bad are the Haitians, 'cause they're darker than everyone else, white or black. Also, they come over here looking for work ‘cause their country's so poor and of course folks think they're gonna take all the jobs."

Devon turned away slightly from her, to gaze out over the gleaming ocean. "The way I look at it, it don't do no good to hate or to worry about other folks hatin’ you. I just sit and look at the sea and feel happy. Better that way."

"Easier to do it here than in London or New York," she sighed.

“Uh-huh. You know why things are so peaceful? Because nothing much seems to change here, not the way it does in America or Europe. There's some who'll still eat goat shit ‘cause it's s'posed to cure the whoopin’ cough. And if you ever see a new-born Bahamian baby with a black cord tied round its wrists, that's to guard against the evil spirits."
"Do you believe in them?" she asked.

"I dunno. Don't think they're all evil, though." He looked a little strange, or perhaps thoughtful, for a moment. "Sometimes I think I can hear the souls of the Indians, the Lucayan people, sighing in the wind."
"Are they angry or just sad?"
"Both, I think."

He hummed a few bars of a traditional sea shanty. He had a beautiful voice, deep yet somehow soft at the same time.

The spirit beliefs, he went on to explain, were rooted in the animist religions of West Africa, which had become mixed up somewhat with Christianity. The spirits were supposed to inhabit inanimate objects, like rocks or stones or trees, most of the time but could communicate themselves directly to humans, who would use them for either good or bad purposes depending on what sort of person they were. People who were cantankerous, difficult, and overbearing tended to attract evil spirits; those who were kind and thoughtful, good ones.

"Now you," he said, studying her with interest, "I wonder what kind of spirit you'd attract?"

Caroline's eyebrows drew together suspiciously. "What kind were you thinking of?"

"There's all kinds," said Devon. "Not bad ones, that's for sure." He beamed broadly, giving her a genuinely friendly wink.

She replied with the kind of smile that said they were quits. He'd sussed her out quickly enough.
"But people out here do believe in God," she said.

"Most of them say they do. Mix in a little obeah with it from time to time, even the priests." Obeah was a term meaning spirit worship. "Everything good or bad that happens to someone is either the work of God or of Satan. Everyone carries a Bible around with them." Church affairs made headline news in the Bahamas, while major international affairs were often relegated to the inside pages. "Them politicians are always talkin’ ‘bout how God's on their side and we got to do the right thing by Him."

He gave a dry little laugh. "There was plenty of God-fearin’ people involved in the drug trade during the eighties. They're still doin' it now, by my reckoning. Then there's all the sleepin’around...."

"That sort of thing tends to happen on small island communities," she observed.

"All the same, " he grinned, "at the funerals, they say such nice things about the feller who's died that you reckon you ought to check the coffin to make sure they been talkin' 'bout the right person."

He was teaching her a few of the folktales, stories which dated back to the slave era and were similar to those of black residents of the southern US, when Ivarson appeared and announced that lunch was ready. They had their coffee and sandwiches and then went straight into the core sampling.

The problem was either in the water or in the plankton which the fish ate; or both. Some foreign substance there was acting like a poison. It need not be harmful to the plankton themselves, but it might harm the fish. And of course if the plankton did die then the fish would too, being the next link in the food chain, the next rung up on the ecological ladder.

The water sampler consisted of a cylinder, open at both ends, on the end of a cable. Devon lowered it slowly into the water, and once a gauge on the cable showed it had reached the required depth he dropped a weight down a guide line, causing the two halves of the cylinder to snap shut.

After a moment he tugged on the cable, and gradually it began to rise. They waited patiently. Suddenly it tautened with a sharp jerk, and stopped rising. Devon gave it several sharp tugs but still it refused to budge.
"Reckon it's stuck," he called out.

The three of them pulled on it together, but it remained caught.

"One of us'll have to go down and fix it," Ivarson said, and grinned at Caroline. "This is your chance to put it all to the test." It was at moments like these that their diving skills were most likely to prove useful. As long as the sampling equipment was functioning properly, there was usually no need to make a dive.

Caroline could probably have done it on her own, but to be accompanied was generally safer. A friend provided reminders and assistance in an emergency and saw things that you might not, notice that you were about to make a mistake. For that purpose divers needed to remain close at all times, each constantly checking the other’s position. It was a bit of a nuisance, she supposed, despite the companionship.

She checked her buoyancy compensator was working properly by first inflating, making sure it didn't leak, and then deflating it. She put it on, inflated it again, then donned her wetsuit, buoyancy compensator and weight belt. Finally Ivarson helped her put on the harness with the scuba tanks. They each inspected their own equipment, then the others', to make sure it was functioning properly. After checking the buoyancy compensator, valves and regulators they made sure their weights were in place, the quick release working OK, and their tanks full.

Glancing briefly at Caroline, Ivarson noted her quick, deft movements, the brisk efficiency with which she carried out these tasks.
They sat on the platform on the Oceanus' stern, backs to the water. Breathing through her regulator and holding her mask and its strap securely in place with both hands, Caroline leaned backwards, holding her knees close to her chest to turn herself into a ball. She felt herself somersault as she plunged towards the water, and experienced a giddy feeling of disorientation.

She hit the surface, sank a little and then bobbed up, regaining her bearings. Ivarson came up beside her.

They set a reference on their compasses, made sure their depth gauges were at zero. Their faces in the water, they exchanged their snorkels for their regulators, first clearing them of water.

Once they had pressurised their ears to begin the equalisation process, Ivarson gave the signal to descend and she acknowledged with a thumbs up. They vented their buoyancy compensators once more then went down, each holding the valve in their left hand throughout the descent so they could add or release air from it at any time.

They stayed close together throughout the descent. Once near the bottom they hovered while they added more air to their compensators to increase buoyancy, so that the weight of their equipment would not drag them too close to the ocean floor, the action of their fins raising a cloud of silt that would reduce their visibility. There was no need to check on their air, as they shouldn't be down for very long.

They levelled off, tilted themselves into a swimming position and set off to where the sampler had touched bottom, Ivarson beckoning her on with a jerk of his thumb.

They found the sampler appeared to have snagged on a charred, twisted piece of metal several feet across; a piece of wreckage from what Ivarson thought was a World War Two American fighter plane - a Mustang. Another victim of the Bermuda triangle. It was a fragment of the wing, he reckoned, carried along the sea bed from the original crash site by currents.

Ivarson could exert considerable strength for his age, and Caroline was no weakling. Between them, they managed to shift it enough for the cable to come free.

Ivarson gave the ascent signal, and she acknowledged. After noting the depth and the amount of air remaining to them, they vented their compensators and began rising slowly. All the time they made sure to keep breathing at a continuous, steady rate, their gaze darting between each other and the depth gauges on their wrists. They were rising at the maximum recommended rate, which was quite slow - about 0.5 feet per second. Anything above this was potentially dangerous. Although their instruments would warn them if they started to exceed this limit, it had been better for Caroline to learn to stay within it without recourse to them, just in case they should malfunction. This had needed particular concentration.

As they neared the surface they looked up at it, rotating through 360 degrees to check there were no obstacles visible. They made sure to come up close to the warning flag they had put up to serve as a signal for boats to keep at least 100 feet clear of the exit point.

On breaking surface they reorientated themselves, looking out for any hazards, then inflated their compensators to establish buoyancy. Glancing over at the Oceanus, Ivarson gave Devon a thumbs-up. The Bahamian tugged on the rope, and a couple of minutes later they saw the sampler break the surface.
Switching over to their snorkels to conserve the air in their tanks, they struck out towards the Oceanus. Reaching the ladder on the stern, they climbed up it onto the deck. Weighed down by the cylinders on her back, Caroline stumbled a little with the rocking of the boat. She held on to the handrail to steady herself, moving slowly and carefully so as not to overbalance. She shut off the valve on her tanks, disconnected the hoses from them to the regulator, disconnected the regulator from the tank and the tanks from the buoyancy compensator, then slipped off her harness. Finally she sat down on the bench which ran part of the length of the deck and began to remove her flippers.

Ivarson glanced at her once or twice while she divested herself of her equipment. He almost wished he hadn't insisted on the wetsuit. The tightly clinging rubber material emphasised far too much the taut firm buttocks, the perfectly formed thighs and calves, the flatness of her stomach, the curves of her hourglass figure and narrow waist. If possible it was even more erotic than the bikini.

They made their way to the equipment store, where the various items of gear were stowed away carefully in separate lockers so that they would not bump against each other, and cause damage should rough seas buffet the Oceanus. Before doing this everything was rinsed in clean, fresh warm water to get rid of sand and dirt; it didn't take long for the corrosion they caused to render a scuba tank, valve or regulator unusable and dangerous.

They changed back into normal everyday gear, washing their wetsuits until thoroughly soaked and then hanging them up to dry in the cool, dark interior of the cupboard set aside for the purpose.

Everything would be checked at regular intervals to make sure it was working properly; wetsuits examined for tears, and the O-ring on each scuba cylinder valve, which formed a high pressure seal between the valve and scuba regulator, for nicks and cuts and dirt. It was a time-consuming and monotonous business, but it was better than drowning.

Devon detached the sampler from the cable and carried it into the laboratory. Then they lowered another cable with a series of nets along its length, for trapping plankton at different depths, into the sea. They used thermometers to measure the temperature of the water. They took samples of sand from the ocean floor, using a drill on the end of a cable which contained a piston that moved up inside it as the drill bred through the sediment, creating a vacuum which sucked up the debris. The technique had been copied from technology developed for the oil industry, as Caroline was keen to remind Ivarson.
"Yeah," he smiled. "I know, honey."

When they had all the samples they needed, Devon started the
engines and the Oceanus swung back round toward Grand Bahama, chugging away from the scene at a reasonable pace. Somehow, Ivarson preferred not to remain under the eyes of the Marcotech helicopter for longer than was necessary.

They looked back at the aircraft. It hovered for a while, as if satisfying itself they were really going. The patrol boat was motionless too, the men on board staring fixedly after the disappearing ship. Finally as if deliberately synchronizing their actions both vessels turned away at the same time, to resume their constant patrol.

Over the next couple of days the Oceanus’ crew repeated the various tests at different locations within a fifty mile radius and at different points along it. At the end of that period Ivarson thought he had enough to provide a representative sample for the area of his study.

One day he called Caroline into the laboratory and showed to her a large plastic test tube, full of sea water, with a gauge on it where a green light was winking. "See that? There's nothing toxic in this water. The salt level is normal. Its chemical composition is unaltered from what it should be. The samples I took before with Kate and Ryan were the same. So whatever explains the decline in fish stocks, it isn't pollution."
"What about the plankton?"

"No change there. The numbers of specimens per each layer of water are constant. Nor is there anything wrong with them. In fact, there's just too darn many plankton down there, because the fish aren't around to eat them. It's upsetting the ecological balance, which is why this thing's got to be sorted out."
"So if it's not pollution that's the problem, what is?"

She saw him draw himself up slightly, compressing his lips. His voice dropped an octave or two. "There's only one explanation; predation. Something is eating those fish. Something too large for the plankton to be enough of a meal for it.

"There's something down there...something that hasn't been there before. Something big. By my calculations very big, to have disposed of that much fish." He paused briefly, seeming to stare down once again into the dark, unfathomable depths of the sea. "Very big indeed."


THIRTEEN
It was late evening, and Caroline stood looking out of the window of her room at her guest house on Grand Bahama, which she had opened wide to let in a warm, gentle night breeze.

The scents of jasmine, honeysuckle, passionflower and corallite mingled in the air and turned it fragrant. It rang to the whirring of cicadas and other insects, and from the church over the road there floated on it the beautiful sound of a negro spiritual. The ghostly form of something that might have been a bat, or perhaps a giant fruit moth, darted about the building’s wooded grounds.

The mobile phone on her dressing table shrilled. It was Marcus Hennig, his smooth tones sounding exaggeratedly polite and friendly. "Ah, Caroline. I just thought a call to you was long overdue. Had any joy? Thanks for the postcard, by the way."

"You're welcome," she said. “Had any luck with the government in the States, yet?”

“They’ve been looking at who might have the kind of equipment the saboteurs would need. No leads so far.” He paused. "So what, er, what are you actually doing out there, might I ask?"
She told him.

"I see. Well I certainly didn't send you out there to study marine biology," he grumbled.

"Oh come on, Marcus, you know me. I wouldn't be doing it if I didn't think there was something in this disappearing fish business. It's the only lead we've got, there has to be a connection. It's not as if anything's come up anywhere else, is it?"

Hennig had to admit this was true. All the same, he clearly wasn't convinced by her reasoning. "Listen, Marinegirl, I'm gonna make a deal with you. I'll give you another couple of weeks. If you haven't turned up anything by then you're coming straight home, got it? You'll find your cash flow suddenly cut off, at any rate."

"When we started on this business," she said, "you told me that as far as you were concerned I was on company business until the matter was cleared up. However long it took. I had carte blanche to do whatever I liked."

"A little less cheek from you if you don't mind, young lady. I'm not paid to sit here listening to you tell me what an awkward bastard I am."
"I'm sorry," she said sweetly.

"It's just that I find it hard to believe our friendly sea monster is also an explosives expert. In any case, it's the people above me you have to watch out for. One or two of them are already making noises to the effect that you’re just lying back and having a lovely time in your little earthly paradise while the company's falling apart around us. Pretty soon they'll be shouting for action."

"Well I suggest they leave me to get on with it," Caroline said, "then they might see some."

A long drawn-out sigh issued from the phone. "Just remember what I said, OK? Prove you’re worth your Executive of the Year award." Then Hennig rang off.

For a while she sat and thought about his last words. “Too right I will,” she murmured softly. “Too right.”

She returned to the window and stood gazing out into the night, lost in her meditations. You had to admit, a connection did seem unlikely. Wasn't it probable she had made a mistake, that the presence of some large unidentified sea creature in the waters through which the tankers would have to pass to get to America was merely coincidence?

At least, she told herself, if there was a connection they had taken a step further towards discovering it.


Beneath the moon and stars, Donald Ivarson stood at the rail of the Oceanus looking out over the sea, the sea he liked to roam just as his Viking ancestors had many centuries before; thinking not only of them, but about himself and Caroline. How he felt about her, not just her physique but her personality. Obviously there was still life in the old dog if she could arouse such responses in it. He was surprised, pleased, and also a little shocked by it all.

Oh, to be young again, he thought. And in a way, he was. It wasn't just his enthusiasm for the project she had revitalised. Her youthful keenness, which reminded him a little painfully of his two vanished assistants, and her general presence made him feel rejuvenated himself, and he was sure the physical consequences of that were good. Mens sana, etcetera. But there were dangers there too.

He continued to search for inspiration, for some resolution to his dilemma, amongst the vast immensity of sky and sea.

Yes, that was it. He had to remarry; he had to start again. Otherwise, if he met another girl like this one there was no telling what might happen. Something nasty and embarrassing, maybe. It meant he'd have to snap out of the rut he'd been stuck in these last few years.

No reason why it couldn't be a younger woman, someone of similar age to Caroline. Such things often happened, and perhaps it was the best way of satisfying his desires legitimately. Young or not, it would be an opening, a new beginning, a regenesis. The doctor could prescribe Viagra, and then....

Time to live again. He grinned in a way which he hadn't for a very long time, his eyes gleaming. O beautiful creature, he whispered. You have touched my life in ways you could hardly imagine.

His thoughts turned back to his work, and the meeting he'd had that afternoon with the Bahamian Minister of Agriculture, Fisheries and Local Government. "Something is eating the fish," he had said.
"An animal? Do you know what sort?"

"No, but it'll help once I do. Trouble is it's probably dangerous and I dunno how I'm going to get close enough to photograph it. Or do anything else to it, for that matter. I've put in a request for more equipment from my Institute and I can only hope it'll be forthcoming." It should be, he reckoned. The Institute had been on the point of sending him home, but now he seemed to be making progress they ought to view the whole enterprise in a new light. It was just a matter of waiting for their call.


Early the following morning, a man climbed into the brightly-coloured beach buggy parked outside the house in Freeport of the woman with whom he had been spending the night - a wealthy young heiress whose activities proved that Bahamian whites could be no less promiscuous than their black compatriots - and drove off very fast towards the main coast road, his long blond hair trailing behind him in the slipstream.

People thought he was just a drifter, and wondered where he got the money from to drive around in fast cars, usually accompanied by a pretty girl or two. In truth he was Marcotech's agent in the islands, keeping an eye on anything that happened there in case it affected the enterprise they had established off Grand Bahama. He spent most of his time hanging around the clubs and bars at the company's expense.

After thirty minutes he left the coast road a few miles west of the town, turning off down a short and bumpy access road to the rented beach house where he lived and loved. Marcotech's generosity had stopped short of actually buying him the property. The house was a two-storey building with a wooden upper section above a lower one of massive stone blocks cemented together with lime. There was a balcony at second floor level, supported by wooden stilts to allow airflow beneath the living quarters on the upper storey and keep them above water level should a hurricane result in serious flooding. It stood more or less alone – there was a similar structure about a couple of hundred yards away - with a scrubby little garden to its rear.

He parked the buggy on the concrete forecourt and dismounted. Inside, he climbed the stairs to the upper floor and entered a little room at the back of the building which was bare except for a table, a chair and a pin-up calendar several years old hanging on the wall. Scores of dead flies lay scattered about.

The main purpose of the room was to contain, and conceal, the apparatus which sat on the table. It was like a radio set with a telephone attachment, and was connected to the Marcotech installation off Grand Bahama by a system known as Gertrude and officially in use only by the US Navy. The submarine cable had been laid by the company itself, with the full knowledge and co-operation of the appropriate authorities within the Government of the Bahamas.

Pulling down the venetian blind against the dazzling sunshine, he seated himself at the Gertrude unit, picked up the phone and tapped out a number on a keypad. A red light came on to tell him he was connected.

He picked up the receiver and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Shore to Seabed. Got some news for you. Something I thought you ought to know."
"Anything serious?" the radio operator asked.

"Might be, I dunno. There's a woman been going round the island, also Abacos and the Biminis, asking about the country, what it's like living here and if anything interesting's been happening. Seems to be deliberately scouting the clubs and bars. I thought she was looking to be fucked, till she turned me down. And she asks the same questions everywhere she goes."

As part of his job for the company he tried to alternate between different bars, in order to get as much information as possible; his employers rebuked him severely whenever he spent too much time in the same one. He had his favourites, whose pull was sometimes very hard to resist. In any case it probably didn't matter because the Bahamian love of gossip usually ensured that any useful information was soon spread far and wide.

"The boss is here, I'll just get him," the radio operator said. A couple of minutes later Greg Bromhead, the installation's supervisor, came on line. "Charlie? You did right to report this. I don't like the sound of it." Ivarson they could deal with, but somehow what Charlie had said about the girl gave Bromhead an uneasy feeling. "What d'you reckon, could she be a journalist?"

"I dunno. She's claiming to be just on holiday, but she's already spent quite a lot of time out here, going by what I've picked up from all the bar talk. I don't think she's telling the truth, somehow."
"What does she look like, this girl?"

"Quite tall, blonde, nice-looking. I tell you, I wouldn't mind screwing the fucking ass off her."
"Yeah, yeah." Charlie heard the other turn away from his Gertrude and speak to someone nearby. "You said Ivarson's boat came pretty near to the perimeter the other day, and there was a girl on it."
"Yeah, that's right. Looks like he's found himself a new assistant. They've been diving together."
"Did you get that, Charlie? We'll send a picture over. You may not be able to tell, though. I mean, all pretty blondes look much the same."
"Well, they're not the same," Charlie replied. "No-one is."

He heard sounds of movement and muffled conversation, then Bromhead's voice again. "Charlie, the boss has just walked in. He'd like a word with you about this."

"Hello, Charlie," said Edward Greatrix. "You say you've actually spoken to the girl yourself?"
"Once. Gave me the brush-off."
"I expect she did," Greatrix muttered.

"So I don't think she was cruising. Seemed to be more interested in picking up the bar talk than in anything else. No, you can tell she's here for a very special reason. And her body language, her whole behaviour; she's trying to find out something. The whole thing sets an alarm bell ringing in my head.

"I'm sure I'd recognise her if I saw her again. She's got...she's got presence. I dunno how else to describe it. She ain't a bimbo like so many of the others. Hang on, the picture's just coming through."

The fax machine in the corner whirred and clicked, and the photo shot out. The quality was as good as you’d get with any conventional, terrestrial transmission system; better in fact. It showed a blonde girl in a striped T-shirt, shorts and sandals standing on the deck of the Oceanus beside Donald Ivarson. She had pushed her sunglasses up onto her forehead, allowing a full view of her face.

Charlie studied the image closely for a second or two, then returned to the Gertrude. “Yeah, that’s her alright. I’d swear my life on it.”

“Right,” breathed Greatrix. He made a clicking noise in his throat. “I don’t like the feel of this at all. I think we need to know more. Find out exactly what it is she’s up to.”
There was a sly relish in Charlie’s voice. “You want me to pump her?”

“I know exactly what you mean by that, Charlie.” He weighed the thought in his mind. “Ah….maybe, eventually. If you think it might prove useful, and if you can somehow contrive to get back into her good books. In the meantime, this is what you can do.”


FOURTEEN

FBI HQ Miami, the Assistant Director’s Office
Calvert gestured to Moses Jameson to sit down. “I’ve got answers to some of the questions you were asking. Those sources you were talking about are still classified. However I’ve spoken to the State Department through Quantico, and they assure me they’ve got the case very much in mind. They’ve carried out a thorough check of all the places where something like this mystery drug could have been manufactured, and they’re certain nothing’s been stolen or that there’s any covert programme going on.”

That’s great, Jameson mused, as long as we can take their word for it. It was, of course, a simple matter to deny you were doing something, if no-one had any means of knowing you were lying.

Calvert seemed to compose himself. “Uh, I’m not sure you’re gonna like this somehow. It’s the sort of thing no agent ever does.”

Jameson steeled himself to receive bad news. What could it be? He hadn’t done anything to be fired, disciplined or transferred somewhere else, not that he could figure out. Unless it was part of some departmental reorganization.

“We’ve been asked to suspend our investigation into the disappearances,” Calvert said.
Jameson stiffened. “Mind my asking why, Sir?”

“Well, there just don’t seem to be any leads – unless you’ve found out anything since we last spoke?” Jameson shook his head. “You see, that’s just it. I know you’ve put a lot of effort into this case, Moses. But there’s no point in wasting time on a case which simply can’t be solved. That’s Quantico’s reasoning, and mine.”
“What about patrolling the beaches?”

“Not enough evidence to support your theory. I did put it to them but they decided there wasn’t enough evidence to justify the cost in terms of time, human resources and money.”
“May I ask on whose authority this was done, Sir?”
“The head of the Agency himself.”
“Couldn’t we ask for help from the Police Department?”

“They say they’re overstretched. I mean, there’s a lot of crime in this city.” Which was true, Jameson had to agree. “They haven’t got the resources to spare for testing what you must admit does must seem a pretty wild theory..” He coughed. “No, that’s not what I meant to say. A shot in the dark…if an understandable one.

“So,” he sighed, “all we can do is ask the Coastguard to keep a close watch on the beaches.”
“Sir, I figure that’s not gonna be enough. If these people really wanted to do it, they’d find their moment. The Coastguard don’t have the resources or the personnel to cover every mile of beach all the time.”

“OK, so maybe it isn’t going to be enough. That’s just too bad, I’m afraid. We can’t do it if Quantico have told us not to, can we?”

Moses sat up straighter. “Sir, we can’t just let it go like that. There are families being screwed up, torn apart by this thing. We’ve got to stop these kidnappings before there’s any more heartbreak. Any lead that comes along, we should grab at it.”

“Agent Jameson….” It was “Agent Jameson” now, not “Moses”. “I think you’re perhaps getting a little obsessive about this case, I’m not sure why. I know we’re human beings deep down, we can’t be emotionally entirely distant from the public we serve, but there are other cases out there that need our attention, and maybe can be solved if we don’t allow ourselves to be diverted down a dead end.”

“There’s never been anything like this before, that affects so many people.” Jameson’s voice was rising in agitation. “What about an appeal to the Department of the Interior? Or even the President?”
Calvert eyed him oddly. “By who?” he demanded.

Moses realised he’d overreached himself. “Well, I guess if the families….”

“That’s up to them,” Calvert snapped. “You surely weren’t thinking I’d go over the Director’s head?” He fell silent, and the atmosphere in the room became distinctly uncomfortable.
“Uh, no, Sir,” Moses gasped. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t step out of line,” the AD warned darkly. With a curt jerk of his head he indicated that Jameson was dismissed.
“I won’t, Sir.” Moses lingered for a moment, crushed, then with a respectful nod to his superior left the office. He paused just outside the door, trying to absorb all he’d just been told. Then his face darkened, twisting into a scowl, in line with his thoughts.


When Caroline returned to the hotel she found her room had been burgled. Fortunately she had had her wallet and all her valuables with her; the only thing missing was her personal organiser-cum-address book, but that angered and upset her because it had people's private phone numbers in it as well as her own personal details other personal details in it and she was worried in case whoever had it tried to ring them up, for which she would feel personally responsible. It was all the more annoying because she couldn't see what possible use it would be to them.

She instituted an immediate inquiry, demanding to see the manager who interviewed all the staff. No-one reported seeing or hearing anything suspicious. There was no way of telling whether they were telling the truth. She had no reason to think corruption didn't exist on the Bahamas as it did everywhere else, especially given the islands' history. Hopefully the missing item would be found, but in the meantime all she could do was put it behind her.


"Her name's Caroline Kent," said Charlie. He was seated at the Gertrude, Caroline’s personal organizer open on the table beside it. Her name had been written inside the front cover. "There's lots of addresses and phone numbers; mostly friends of hers, I guess, but there are two numbers which are separate from all the others and one seems to be for a workplace. D'you wanna note them down?"

He read them out. Bromhead rang off and a few mintues later called back sounding agitated. "Charlie, those numbers. One's some company in London called Global Datasystems Incorporated.” The name was in fact a cover for MI6, but of course they didn’t know that. “Presumably people she does business with somehow. But the other - Charlie, she's IPL. International Petroleum Limited. Obviously some kind of troubleshooter."

"That's what I thought. Anything else there we ought to worry about?"
"Not that I can see. She seems to have quite a lot of friends, though. A lady with connections."
"It's obvious why she hooked up with Ivarson." Charlie whistled through his teeth. "Looks like she took up scuba diving just so she could get to the bottom of it all. Literally." He felt a surge of admiration. "Quite a character."

"And a problem. The Boss thinks we ought to have a little talk with her."
"You mean warn her off?" Charlie quite liked the idea of having a chat with Caroline, but didn't want it to be in the form of a threat. Even if the company's interests demanded it.
"There are better ways of doing these things than by making threats. We don't know how she'd react to that, it might just make her more determined to stick her nose in."
"But we're not going to hurt her." He sounded anxious.

He heard Greatrix's plummy tones again. "Not if it can be avoided. No, I've got a better idea; and since you're so keen on her you can handle this, Charlie. Pin your ears back...."

*

Whatever else might be said about Grand Bahama the beaches, all of them on the south shore of the island, were top-notch. Stretching in an unbroken line for nearly 60 miles, their sheer length meant that despite the crowds of tourists you were not short of places where you could sit and think, or just lie in the sun and wind down. As private as your innermost thoughts, the Lonely Planet guide had described them. And startlingly beautiful.

This one was no exception. The fine white sand, like sugar, gleamed brilliantly in the rays of sunshine, which almost dazzled you as they scintillated off it.

Caroline had felt safe leaving her clothes tied up in a bundle underneath the shade of a mango tree while she swam. She was quite unaware of the man watching her as she rose from the waves and padded through the shallows toward dry land, her long hair hanging down in a wild tangled mass about her shoulders, the sodden tresses darkened a little from their immersion.

An ochre-coloured crab scuttled away from her as she stepped from the water. She paused for a moment to savour the view, her gaze following the dramatic sweep of the coastline to as far as the eye could see. She felt again the sense of inhabiting a Paradise on earth.

There was only one thing missing. A smile played across her face, and softly she began to sing. "Underneath the mango tree...."

She decided to walk a short distance along the beach and see what she could find. Spotting a starfish washed up on the sand, she threw it back in the water. A little further on she came across a conch shell, and picked it up and studied it, noting the patterns on the whorled shell, the clockwise way in which it had grown. It was of a mature adult, with the distinctive upward-pointing spires. To her delight she found a large pink pearl inside it; another souvenir of the Bahamas to put on her mantelpiece at home.

Out of the corner of her eye she registered the man walking along the beach towards her, but at that moment had no reason to spare him more than the briefest glance.

The water was still trickling down her to form little pools in which her feet splashed. Feeling the need to dry out, she returned to her tree, got out her towel and spread it out on the sand, just beyond the shade of the mango. She sat down and stretched out on it, offering her body to the sun. There wasn't much she and Ivarson could do until the extra equipment arrived from the Institute, so she may as well relax. Bugger Hennig.

She heard the sound of feet scuffing in the sand, growing louder as their owner drew near to her. A shadow fell across her, and a cheerful voice said "Hi there." A male voice.

She sat up sharply, annoyed because he was blocking her sun, and eyed him in some disapproval. He was not dark but fair, and spoke with an American - it sounded most like that anyway - rather than a Scottish accent. She realised it was her would-be paramour of a few nights before.

"Can I help you?" she asked in her snooty voice, tense from the natural wariness of a woman caught not wearing very much.

"Sorry to disturb you, but I needed to get you alone," he smiled.
"Did you now," she muttered.

He was a handsome blond hunk with a tanned, well-muscled body. Had the circumstances been a bit different, she might not have said no. But something wasn't quite right here.

She got up and walked over to the mango. The Bahamian followed her, either not clocking her body language or deliberately choosing to ignore it.

She began taking her clothes out of the bag, intending to put them on over her costume. His hand shot out and connected with the trunk of the tree, only a few inches from her head. She winced.
"How are you then?" he inquired.

"Haven't changed much since the last time we met," she said. There was intended to be a message in the remark.

He took her at her word. "So are you enjoying your stay in our country?"
"It’s alright."
"What have you got lined up for today?"

"I thought maybe a bit of sightseeing. Then I'm going to have lunch, do some shopping, do some more sightseeing, have supper, write some postcards, go for a drink or two, then finally go to bed. So you see I'm going to be very busy. So if you wouldn't mind...."

"Uh-huh." He hesitated, then his lips parted with a smacking noise. "Listen, I've a proposition to make to you."
"Oh yes?"
"You work for an oil company, don't you?"

Caroline stiffened. Letting go of the bag she turned round slowly, locking her eyes with his. "How did you know that?" she asked in a clipped icy voice.

He lowered his voice sheepishly. "Because it's in your address book," he grinned.

The blue eyes seemed to flash at him, like a camera taking a snap of his very soul. "It was you stole my things?"

"Can't be too careful these days. We needed to find out just who you were and what you were doing in the Bahamas."
"Oh, I see. And who's "we?", might I ask?"
"We are Marcotech International. You may have heard of us."

"Oh, a few times. But I'm really not very impressed with your company right now. If my employers went round stealing people's personal possessions I'd sack them, I really would."

"It's a cut-throat world, baby. The big companies are always spying on each other. If you're not in that sort of business yourself then you're at a disadvantage. We're just rooting for ourselves, like everyone else."

"I see. Do you do this as a matter of course, or was there any particular reason you chose to pick on me?"

"It's quite obvious," he said, "putting two and two together, that you reckon we've got something to do with the tanker sinkings. So, how did you decide the answer was here in the Bahamas?"
She explained the reasoning which had led her there.

"That's good thinking," he said admiringly. "Maybe the answer is here, I dunno. But it's got nothing to do with us, I can tell you."
"I'm not saying it is," she said sincerely. "But hang on." Her eyes glinted and she smiled triumphantly. "You're obviously trying to warn me off. And you wouldn't be doing that unless you really were up to no good."
He seemed to be winking at her.

She wriggled into her T-shirt. "You've got some kind of project going on here, under the sea."
He grunted an affirmative. "You were checking it out earlier, weren't you? So you are interested in us."
"We just happened to be in the vicinity," Caroline answered honestly. She buckled on her shorts. "And since it started, your project, there's been a major decline in fish stocks."

He shrugged. "We've been looking into that but we can't see how anything we're doing can have been causing it."
"And are you telling the truth there?"
"'Course I am." He looked the picture of angelic innocence. "But you don't look convinced," he said plaintively.
"I'm not." She sat down and started pulling on her socks. "What if I was to go to the police and tell them you'd admitted to stealing my address book?"
"All we'd have to do was deny it. You've no proof. However, we can arrange to return your address book any time.”

“Because you’ve got what you want, you know who I am now. And what would I have to do? Promise to stay off the case? It's not up to me in the end, you know. I'm here because my company sent me."
"I'm not making you a deal. More of an offer. How'd you like to work for us?"
She regarded him in amazement mingled with distaste. "What, after you stole from me?"
"Like it or not, babe, everything's a matter of money these days."

She was about to retort indignantly that that didn't apply to her, and don't call me babe, but stopped herself just in time. This might be an opportunity to learn something.

He noticed the change in her expression and smiled. "Tell me, how much do you earn per year?"
"About fifty thousand."

"We can better that. Would a hundred thousand suit you? You’re obviously a professional kind of lady. With your experience, your abilities, I'm sure you deserve it. They still don’t pay woman executives anywhere near as much as the men.” True, thought Caroline. “We don’t happen to think that’s fair.”

She had sat down at the base of the tree with her arms folded. He squatted down beside her. "We're a large firm and very powerful. And I think we're maybe less scrupulous, on the whole, than IPL - than you personally, certainly. I'm not saying we'd do anything bad to you, but..." He was clearly hinting that he might if it was considered sufficiently necessary. "You'll find us a tough bunch to take on. As an alternative, it might be worth your while to consider a career change. We're in a developing field which is going to be very important in the future. And everyone likes a change of scenery after a while."

Caroline tried to look as if she was thinking about it. She waited about a half-minute before speaking. "Tell me more."
"We've just had a vacancy come up for an International Operations Supervisor."
"Where would it be?" she enquired, trying to sound interested.
"All sorts of places. It’s a troubleshooter job, basically. Just like what you're doing now with IPL. We need someone who can butter up governments – Japanese governments, German governments, American governments, British governments - when they won't give us what we need. You could be sent anywhere. A lot of your time will be spent travelling, but you'd be based at our British HQ if you'd prefer. You are English, aren't you?"

"Definitely," she said firmly, nodding with vigour. Her patriotic pride felt somewhat insulted; of course she was bloody English.
"So, you like the idea then?"
"I'll think about it," she said guardedly.

"No hurry. Now why don't you call in at our British office sometime for a chat? We'd be delighted to see you."
"Where is it?"

He produced a scrap of paper and scribbled down the address and telephone number, with a few directions as to how to get there. "There you go." She nodded as he handed her the flimsy.

"My name's Charlie, by the way." He held out a hand, which she shook. "Nice to have met you. We'll look forward to seeing you at Southampton." He stood up, prompting her to do the same.

"Enjoy the rest of your holiday," he smiled, and with a final wave departed, leaving Caroline to her thoughts.

Play devil's advocate, and under threat as well. Never. With a disdainful sniff she dismissed the proposal from her mind and as soon as Charlie was out of sight stripped off again, baring her body once more to Sol.


Moses Jameson stashed away the folder he’d been compiling in the filing cabinet in the corner of the office – the Bureau thought it best to have a manual backup for everything in case the computers crashed, although that defeated the goal of economizing on space – and returned to his desk to begin work on his next assignment. Another audit. At the moment most of the work he was doing was of this kind; not, he thought, what he’d slogged his guts out trying to get this job for.

He wondered how the families felt at being told the Bureau was suspending the investigation. To them it could only mean its profile was being diminished, that it wasn’t such a priority anymore. And that could only be bad news. They were bound to make a fuss. Perhaps he ought to just wait and see what happened. Meantime, there were one or two phone calls it wouldn’t do any harm to make.

That evening, he waited until everyone else had left the office, bound for home and the canteen, and then rang Constantinos at Police Department HQ. “Lou, it’s Moses here. I gather you know we’ve been taken off the case.”
Jameson was puzzled by the silence which followed.

“No, I didn’t know,” Constantinos replied. “Was someone from your setup meant to have told us about it?”

“You mean no-one did?” He felt himself grow cold. “I saw AD Calvert yesterday and he sort of gave me the impression he’d seen your boss to ask if you could help, and been told you couldn’t spare the time or the people to do the job yourself.”
But evidently Calvert hadn’t spoken to the Commissioner. Why would he lie?

“I’d have known about it if he had,” Lou answered. “What the hell’s going on?”
“I don’t know. I just don’t understand it. But Calvert didn’t ask you if you could take over the investigation because he didn’t want you to. I think there’s some kind of cover-up going on.”

“Shit,” said Constantinos. “We gotta go carefully. I could speak to the Commish and let him know he’s been sort of misrepresented. That won’t go down well with him. Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Not yet. We need to think hard about how we’re going to do it. I’ve a feeling we could be in big trouble if we put a foot wrong. I mean, you hear stories.”
“A government conspiracy? Is that what you think it is? Jeez…..”

“Looks that way. So….can you take it on the case, d’you reckon? I guess I felt better hearing it from your own mouths. I thought it might be an idea if you could set up a regular patrol of the beaches.” He explained why. “No, I ain’t gone mad. Please Lou, just don’t argue. Can you do it or can’t you?”

“Well, I dunno. It ain’t my decision. I could always put it to the Chief. But you ain’t thinking straight, buddy. If we do, it’ll mean someone put in a good word where they weren’t supposed to. You could be in the shit and so would I, for talking to you.”

Jameson realised he was right. “OK, Lou. Don’t do anything about it right now. I’ll be in touch sometime. ‘Bye now.”

Calvert hadn’t said that he’d actually spoken to the Coastguard people, so Moses could see nothing wrong with calling them himself. In the event, not entirely going along with his theory about the abductions, they were reluctant to step up their regular patrols, which would entail significant administrative and logistical readjustments, without specific endorsement of Jameson’s approach by Calvert. That put the kybosh on it.

Better to wait and see whether the families could do anything before he put himself in danger. But if those doing the covering-up knew what they were about, most likely the families wouldn’t get anywhere at all.
And then what the hell was he going to do?


FIFTEEN
Virtually all the Bahamas were surrounded by coral reefs or sandbanks. Caroline had been thinking that she ought to keep her snorkeling hand in, and decided to check out the barrier reef around the northern shore of Grand Bahama in her hired gear. Yes, she could snorkel, and in fact had a qualification in it which she kept proudly displayed on her wall back home along with all her other achievements. She had earned it through a course of instruction, which lasted a mere three hours, and when on her holidays took every opportunity which came along to teach herself. She had built up her endurance in a swimming pool before attempting longer dives in open water. The ability to dive deeper and stay down longer had come gradually with practice. She could now make simple breath-holding dives down to a depth of 2 or 3 metres.

Before choosing the right place for the session she had checked with the local diving association that the weather, wind direction and strength were right, so that the sea was fairly calm with no waves to throw her against the rocks with the risk of serious injury. There were no dangerous undertows and currents, and as for dangerous animals she didn't reckon there'd be any this far in to the shore.

The spot was a sheltered lagoon with rocky cliffs or headlands running out from a gently sloping beach. The turquoise shallows and the blue water beyond looked clear and inviting. Scanning the horizon with keen eyes, shielding them from the sun with her hand, she saw no fishing or other vessels nearby. Literally, the coast was clear.

Stepping down from the car, she chose the best spot from which to enter and leave the water, and stripped down to her bathing costume. Strictly speaking, she should be wearing a wetsuit. But she enjoyed the sensuous feel of the warm water on her bare flesh. It was a delicious, slightly wicked sensation. She also found wetsuits restricting and uncomfortable in hot weather. She told herself she'd be OK as long as she didn't go too close to the reef - the sharp coral could cause unpleasant cuts - or stay for too long in the water. Even at a temperature of 80 degrees Fahrenheit it could chill you dangerously, leading to hypothermia, within an hour or so and the more she exercised the more she would increase the rate of heat loss. And time could pass very quickly in warm water with so much to see; you could chill much faster than you realised. All in all, she would have to be careful.

Sunburn was another hazard, and she daubed herself thoroughly all over with waterproof suncream. The water itself would act as a sunscreen to some extent.

Taking her gear from her bag, she spat on the inside of the lens of her mask and wiped it with her finger so it wouldn't mist up with her breath or perspiration, then rinsed it in the sea. She also wet her fins before putting them on, slipping her feet into the shoe part and fastening them in place with the strap. The blade of the fin was made of plastic, which was lighter than rubber so that less effort was required to move her legs, with no loss of performance.

Pushing her hair off her forehead she donned the mask with its snorkel tube, causing the hair to bunch up. Now there was a watertight compartment around her eyes and nose so she would be able to see clearly underwater. She passed the strap around her head, binding her hair in place, and adjusted it with both hands. Then she inserted the rubber mouthpiece, gripping its two lugs between her teeth with the flange under the lips and on top of the teeth and gums. The mouthpiece was fitted with simple one-way valves which assisted in eliminating water from the snorkel. The latter had an exhaust valve which allowed the water to drain out from its lower end or be blown out by your exhaled air.

On one wrist she wore a digital waterproof watch and a magnetic compass in a waterproof case. In the pouch attached to the belt around her waist was a diving knife in a sheath, for use in freeing herself should she become tangled up in rope, discarded fishing line or nets. It was made from stainless steel with a handle of rubber and plastic.

Briefly she squatted down in the water, glancing around for any sign of submerged rocks. She shuffled slowly forwards into the sea, feeling for obstacles with her feet, and when it was up to her waist dived forward.

Arms held straight by her sides she cut through the water fairly fast, her fins giving her the ability to move about, both on the surface and under the water, far more smoothly and with less effort than in normal swimming. They added to the power available from the leg muscles, so that there was no need to use her hands. This had the effect of streamlining the body and reducing drag.

Breathing into her mouth through a snorkel, holding her breath and then exhaling so she cleared the water from it, had required a conscious modification to her normal breathing pattern, which meant practice. She had had to stand in chest-deep water and bend forward to submerge her face until the ears were just beneath the surface, concentrating on inhaling and exhaling through the mouth only. The snorkel made surface swimming much easier since she had no need to keep twisting her head out of the water in order to take a breath.

Some water entered the tube and she blew it out with a short explosive exhalation. Her next intake of breath was cautious in order to avoid inhaling any residual water remaining in the tube. A second blow cleared it completely. Tube-clearing was one of the first skills she had learned, again practising in chest-deep water so she could stand up and recover her breathing if necessary. It had to be done every time you went under, because the tube flooded as soon as your head was submerged.

She stayed at the surface for a while, swimming now on her back and now on her side, and turning whenever she wished to by bending her body so that it acted like a rudder. Then she decided it was time for a look down below.

Lying face-down, her arms stretched out in front of her, she took a deep breath and held it. Bending her body at the waist with the arms pointing downwards, lifting her legs clear of the water so that they were in a straight line with the arms, their weight pushing her under, and at the same time pulling herself down with a breaststroke motion of her arms, she slid beneath the surface in a single graceful movement, down to around ten feet. The momentum of her dive carried her a little further. She swung her legs in a wide arc, propelling herself forward fifteen metres in as many seconds.

When first learning snorkelling, her initial aim had been to feel comfortable for thirty seconds before ascending. This was then gradually extended to one minute; more than that was not recommended. The longer you could hold your breath, the deeper you were tempted to dive and that wasn't a good idea. Coming up was always a lot harder than going down, especially when you were getting short of air. Even when not wearing protective clothing you would suffer from loss of buoyancy due to the effects of pressure on the lungs, and there was also the ever-present danger of chilling.

Your initial target was a depth of seven metres. Where the water was clear and warm, like this, fifteen or even twenty might be possible. So that was as far down as she ever went. There were some people who could go further, to as deep as 160 metres – but they were a very exceptional breed, and were taking enormous and to Caroline quite horrendous risks by what they were doing. One had died. They had to gulp so much air into their lungs before descending that they risked passing out - oxygen became increasingly toxic with depth. The very thought of it made her shudder.

It was a pity she couldn't go down any further. Because you could only stay below for very short periods, you were prevented from seeing that much of the marine life. Still, the water was warm and soothing. And she was able to catch glimpses of brilliantly coloured fish darting to and fro among the coral and rock formations, looking like sheets of stained glass reflecting all the colours of the rainbow as the rays of sunlight caught them. Occasionally she might see an eel, a turtle, or some small and harmless variety of shark; she ignored them and they ignored her.

Then there were the wrecks of ships that had sunk or been stranded on the reef. They were fascinating places to explore, from both a historical and a zoological point of view. Fish of all kinds flitted in and out of them. Often, no longer entirely recognisable because of the growth of coral and barnacles, they were easily mistaken for some huge, weird, grotesque rock formation or marine life form.

There loomed up before her the ghostly outline of an Elizabethan galleon, its shape barely discernible, most of its spars and timberwork rotted away. The sea was shallow at this point and in the sand on the bottom she found a gold doubloon the treasure hunters had somehow missed, slipping it into her belt pouch. A little further away she came upon the rusting hulk of a German U-boat, perhaps the one which had allegedly come to pick up the Duke of Windsor and take him to join his friend Adolf in Berlin only something or other had gone disastrously wrong. She and Ivarson had investigated this one the other day. With the fish they’d swum in and out of its abandoned, empty rooms, taking great care to avoid sharp protruding metal surfaces. Without a wetsuit it would be a lot less safe to explore.

Between each dive she lay on the surface and finned to keep herself afloat, all the time looking around to make sure there were no boats nearby.

Once more, she thought. She took another deep breath and went down in a barrel roll, a graceful, twisting dive that carried her halfway to the bottom.

She became aware of a shape in the water beside her; a dolphin. It seemed to be interested in her. She knew that several individual dolphins, such as "JoJo" in the Turks and Caicos, had taken a fancy to divers in the wild. The animal circled her warily, and as before she smiled as she seemed to feel the sound waves caress her skin, causing the water around her to ripple and tickle the flesh deliciously.

She was just trying to decide whether she should risk attempting to pat it on the head when suddenly the dolphin spun round and shot away, with such haste that she felt the water displacement buffet her. She gazed after it with a rather sour look. I'm not that bad, surely.

Then she realised with a cold thrill of fear that the dolphin had been afraid of something.

Instinctively, she turned to see what it was. And got one of the biggest shocks of her entire life.

The sight almost caused her to gasp in horror, but some instinct kicked in just in time and she caught her breath before the precious air could be expelled. Travelling straight towards her with frightening speed was a huge mass of writhing tentacles, curling and twisting like a nest of serpents in a manner whose apparent purposefulness sickened her.

And at its centre a cruelly sharp, parrot-like beak was opening and closing rapidly while something inside it, barely seen, darted hungrily backwards and forwards.

Two of the tentacles were longer than the others and ended in club-like appendages whose surface was covered in thousands of tiny hooks. At the angle the thing was travelling towards her she could just make out, party hidden by the tentacles, the cylindrical head and body with its two stabilising flukes at the far end. She was looking at something she had heard about but never seen in the flesh, dead or alive, a creature that still seemed partly mythological and not entirely real; the giant squid, Architeuthis Dux. And this one was not only very much alive but intended she was sure to do her harm.

The tentacles alone must be at least thirty feet long. No, more like forty. She caught a brief glimpse of an eye bigger than a dinner plate and disturbingly, if superficially, like the human in appearance.

As she watched, paralysed by awe and terror, it changed direction slightly, putting itself on a line with her. She was later to realise that it couldn't have outswum the dolphins, which were by now too far away. It was wondering if she might be a better proposition. Unfortunately for her, she couldn't move quite so fast.

Stay calm, Caroline thought. If she panicked she would use up the air stored in her lungs. Stay calm and think.

She should surface immediately, but supposing the thing grabbed her with one of its tentacles before she could reach the top, or while she was swimming for the shore, and pulled her down. Did they do that?

The thought was terrifying. And in case her fears were justified, it seemed more sensible to make for the nearest place down here where she could hide. The U-boat.

But her air; she had none except what she had gulped in before going down and that was running out steadily. If she made the wrong decision it could well prove fatal.

She who hesitates is lunch. Caroline turned and swam for the hulk of the U-boat as fast as she could, her legs kicking out behind her and churning the water into a froth of bubbles.

The hull of the sunken submarine loomed closer and closer. Nearly there.

Then she felt something cold and slimy start to curl around her body, and again had to suppress the urge to panic. The underside of each tentacle was covered with enormous suckers, at least as big as dinner plates, and their edges looked razor-sharp. She had no idea whether they could puncture a wetsuit, but the effect on exposed flesh didn't bear thinking about. She twisted round, keeping her body straight to avoid coming into contact with the suckers and in the same instant reaching for the pouch at her waist, unzipping it.

She yanked out the knife and slashed savagely at the tentacle. Briefly she felt resistance, then the flesh yielded and a cloud of bluish fluid billowed from it. She saw the tentacle withdraw sharply, corkscrewed back onto her front and kicked off towards the U-boat again.

This time she made it. The hatch in the U-boat's side hung open and she swum through, darting off to the left down the corridor beyond. She had chosen that direction at random and only hoped it was the right choice. By now her lungs were starting to hurt.

The corridor came to an abrupt end in a solid bulkhead, but a door in the side was open and she swam through it, entering a largeish compartment which was bare except for some piping running along the wall just under the ceiling.

She seemed suddenly to become very aware of her own weight, and felt herself dropping towards the floor. Her heart leaped - that could only mean she was entering an air pocket. Her only hope had been to find one inside the submarine, and now it seemed she was in luck. Thankyou God.

The air was pretty foul, but breathable. Just. She sat down against one wall, hugging her knees to her chest, and waited,
trying not to retch at the stench of diesel oil. With any luck she had given the squid a bit of a shock. It would remember the pain, as all living things did, and leave her alone. And she'd literally won herself some breathing space. The air in here was enough to enable her to reach the surface. And presumably the squid would now give up and go in search of other prey. Happening to glance down, she noticed a slight cut on her upper right arm. The flesh inside it was red and raw. Shit, she breathed. One of those suckers must have nicked her. If there were sharks about.....
How long did the smell of blood last in water?

She thought she heard a sound, a kind of slithering and scratching, and jumped up in alarm.

Slowly, very slowly, the tip of something soft and red and glistening inched into view. One of the squid's tentacles.

It knew she was in here. It hadn't given up. With a sudden chill, she thought the creature was almost intelligent.

It was too big to come in after her, not the whole of its body. But that tentacle alone was enough to do the job.
It must be pretty hungry.

She backed away to the far wall, pressing herself hard against it. The tentacle continued to inch towards her, all the time twisting and coiling like a snake. Again she drew her knife and waited until it was just within reach.

She stabbed at it viciously. As before the tentacle darted back immediately, vanishing from sight. It wasn't to reappear.

Caroline sat huddled at the base of the wall, by now seriously frightened. She told herself the squid was sure to go away eventually.
All the same, the longer she stayed here the better.

After a while she felt her stomach churn with the first pangs of hunger.

A person could survive for days without food, she knew that. But not without drinking water. And although a search would no doubt be mounted for her, once people got worried, would they necessarily trace her to the U-boat in time to save her life? Another consideration was the poor quality of the air in here. She was sure it wasn't doing her any good. Too much exposure to it would sap her energy and prevent her making it to the surface. And she would probably need medical treatment soon, to be on the safe side.

All in all, the arguments against remaining here for much longer were formidable. She'd have to chance it.

She dared not look at her watch to see how long she'd been down.

Finally she tucked the knife back inside its pouch and got to her feet. She took a last long, deep breath, hoping it wouldn't be the last one she ever did, and left the chamber.

She swam out the hatch, looked around fearfully, saw no sign of the squid. It looked as if she was alright; but she was still unsettled by the thought of being grabbed by the thing on the way up. Was there any other way of reaching the surface? She glanced about for inspiration.

Then she saw it, or thought she did. Was there an opening in the rock wall, the base of the cliff that rose from the sea, a roughly circular hole about ten feet across?

She remembered what Ivarson had said about blue holes. But could she possibly reach the surface in time? And the dangers involved. It was bad enough for a diver, but a snorkeller....

She swam over to take a closer look. Yes, there definitely seemed to be a hole there. But how far in did it go? She swam inside and found herself in what seemed to be a tunnel, but everything was dark and it was quite impossible to see how far along it went.

No, the risk was too great. And she was losing valuable time and air. Mentally she said a prayer and swung her body round, kicking herself back towards the mouth of the tunnel.

Then a vast, dark shape seemed to descend over the opening before her, and she knew what it was.

The squid had waited for her to emerge from her hiding place inside the U-boat, or been engaged on other business when it noticed she'd reappeared. It was academic. What mattered was that she was now trapped inside the tunnel. She had no choice but to go on. Turning round again, she swam off in the opposite direction.

She felt her stomach turn over. She could not think about how long she had to go before she reached the surface. She only knew she had to keep on swimming and not stop until she did. There was no more air except what she had taken into her lungs on the U-boat, not until she reached the top. With a sickening certainty she realised the next few minutes would determine whether she lived or died.

How far inside could the squid's tentacles reach? She kept going at a rapid pace, consoling herself that if the thing did catch her her end might, if sufficiently quick, be better than drowning.

She fancied she felt a tentacle brush her leg, but just kept going, suppressing the ice-cold pang of terror. Trying to be an automaton, a machine with no fears or worries, no concern except an urge for survival that was purely instinctive, not emotional.

She must be a fair way down the tunnel by now. Safe from the squid. Hopefully, anyway; and of course the squid was not her only worry. The tidal currents in these blue holes could trap her so that she was prevented from getting to the top, or suck her out to be devoured by the monstrosity lurking outside.
How long would her air last?

At every second there was the ghastly thought of finding a dead end. And the faster she swum, the more she used up oxygen. Catch-22.

Ivarson had said some of the blue holes went down six hundred feet, if you took the access shafts from land and from sea, and the subterranean caverns, all together.
Six hundred feet.
She'd never make it.

How long did that distance take to cover, in minutes? And how long could she keep the air in her lungs? She didn't know and didn't want to, because the answer might have made her give her up there and then. And when the air was gone...well, she knew from Newquay what drowning must be like.

Ahead of her the tunnel curved upwards slightly. That spurred her on, gave her additional reserves of courage.

She followed the curve, kicking upwards with her flippers and using her hands from time to time to haul herself up the now almost vertical wall of rock. Gradually she became conscious that the shaft was broadening out into a cavern.

As she emerged into the huge water-filled cave she suddenly felt a sense of disorientation, and for a brief moment nearly panicked. Where was the opening of the shaft that led to the surface? Would it be directly opposite to the one she had just left, in the roof of the cavern? Or somewhere else entirely?
She'd waste valuable time looking for it.

Glancing around, she saw the hole in the other side of the cavern, thirty or forty feet above the level of her head. Or what she thought was a hole. It was gloomy in here and there was no way of being sure. There were a few hollows and depressions which might have been the mouths of other tunnels, but no time to check each in turn.
Jesus, if she’d picked the wrong one......

She made towards the opening. She was vaguely aware of strange, ghostly shapes flitting about, weird-looking fish and other life forms, but had no time to take a closer look.

She suddenly became conscious of a shape in the water above her, something that hadn't been there before. Something big, a vast billowing sac descending towards her as if to smother her in its heaving, undulating folds. She was aware of a multitude of suckered legs and thought for a moment the squid had somehow found a way in here. But no, the shape, the whole outline looked different. Vaguely some words of Ivarson's filtered through to her conscious brain.
It wasn't a squid but an octopus. A giant octopus.

The pouch of the monster was opening to swallow her, unfolding like the bell of some huge, deadly flower. Stay calm, keep holding your breath, if she panicked she’d start gasping and lose her air...and then she would drown, she knew she would....

Without thinking, she drew out her knife and slashed with blind savagery at the probing tentacles: once, twice, several times. At once the water around her was filled with a dense swirling cloud of black ink.

She could only assume that that had done the trick and the octopus was deterred. She didn't stop to tuck it back in her belt, just let go of it and let it drop away towards the floor of the cavern. Nor did she bother about the fact that she couldn't see because of the ink. She just kept on going towards where she knew the opening to be, blindly, until she was clear of the cloud.

She remembered the sulphuric acid in the water here. Mild but quite corrosive, especially on naked flesh.

Perhaps speed was the key. If she was quick enough....but then she couldn't move any faster than she was moving right now.

She made it through the hole and along the shaft to where it
started to bend upwards. By now she was getting dangerously short of oxygen. But she couldn't be far from safety now. The thought of failing, of dying, just when she was on the very last lap angered her; it seemed like someone's nasty, sick joke though she wasn't quite sure whose. And made her all the more determined to survive.

The foul air she had breathed in on the U-boat, and now the sulphur in here, must be sapping her energy, at the same time that her exertions were using up oxygen. Perhaps it was simply adrenalin that drove her on, sheer adrenalin, or willpower.

She had to spur herself on with a savage determination to survive, move as fast as possible, yet at the same time not lose her cool and panic. It was the greatest test she had ever had to face, a trial of both mind and body. She set her mind grimly on the task and banished all other thoughts from it.

On she went, half swimming, half scrambling up the sloping wall of the shaft, levering herself up with hands and feet. Her flippers, too clumsy for the purpose, scraped against the rock wall and she kicked them off savagely, unable to stop to unfasten them.
The shaft was starting to narrow.

Her lungs bursting, her mouth tightly shut against the desire to gasp for breath, which would serve only to choke her lungs with water, she carried on up and up; her fingers clawing at the rock of the shaft wall, seeking to find the cool freshness of empty air.
The next yard...or the next?
It must be soon, surely.

The cruellest thing, the very worst thing, would be to get right to the top of the shaft with her chest on the brink of exploding and then find no opening.

The tightness in her chest was increasing, the fire in her lungs agony to endure. It would have to be in the next few seconds; maybe the next minute. Maybe.

The human body wasn't trained, wasn't designed to put up with this kind of stress.

Seconds ticked away, yards of rock flashed by, and still nothing...nothing...Please, let me make it. Don't let me die just because of a few seconds. It's not fair, not right....
Her chest felt tighter, tighter....
Still nothing.....
Another few feet....
and another...
and another...
No good. I've lost.
She dared not look up to see how much further she had to go. Finding it was too far was quite simply unthinkable.

In a few moments she'd fall back and sink, thrashing about helplessly and from instinct only, knowing she was powerless to save herself from an agonising death.
How many moments was a few?
One?

This pain is so cruel, so unkind. Nothing like this should be permitted to happen, ever.
Two?

I've come this far. You can't let me die now, you can't you can't you can't you can't you...
Three?

In another second - just one second - she was sure she would....

And then her head burst through into open air and blazing sunshine and sprang back, her mouth open in a gasping, shuddering cry of triumphant relief, working instinctively as it sucked in the precious life-giving oxygen. Flailing about wildly, her arms encountered something solidish and she grabbed hold of it tight, pushing herself further up into the daylight. She clambered shakily upright and staggered blindly forward, feet squishing in what felt like wet vegetation.

Realising she was on firm ground, more or less, Caroline paused and stood with her body bent forward and her hands on her knees, breathing in in great sobbing gasps, almost crying with joy at the knowledge she was going to live. As her lungs finally ceased their convulsive heaving she straightened up and looked around, to find herself standing on a patch of marshy, waterlogged ground among tall reeds and thick clumps of grass. To her right was the sheet of water which hid the entrance to the blue hole; she took one look at it and turned away with a shiver.

Not far away the undergrowth thinned out to terminate at the side of the road. She had no idea where the road led to, having completely lost her bearings. Making a quick scan of her surroundings, she realised she was some way from the beach where she had left her clothes. With a groan, she set off in what she thought was the right direction.

A family of tourists were sitting on the grass verge where they had parked their car, or lounging against the vehicle, smoking and chatting. "It would have to happen to me!" she shouted at them, angry and upset by her ordeal. The tourists, all of them German, stared at her in blank incomprehension.

A little later she heard a vehicle draw up beside her with a screech, amid a chorus of whoops and yells from the people in it, all young men. The man in the driver's seat leaned through the window and called out to her in an American accent.
"Hey, fancy a ride honey?"
"Hoo, boy! Check her out!"
"Oh, yeah!!!! Whooooo!!!"
"Bikini heaven!"
"Titty city!"

Ignoring their offer Caroline trudged on her way, water still pooling around her feet. She was tired and hungry and in no mood to put up with that sort of thing just now, thankyou very much. The American trod on his brakes and sped away, his friends all the time wolf-whistling and shouting out lewd propositions.

A mile or so on she heard something pull in to the side a few yards behind her. She gave it no heed. Then a door was opened and shut, and a thickly accented voice called out, "Excuse me?"
She turned to see one of the Germans, a young man with a blond beard and glasses who looked like a student, coming towards her. His manner was concerned. "Perhaps you are in some trouble, yes? May we help?"

Caroline thought for a moment. She still had a while to go before she reached her destination and to be honest had a nasty suspicion she was going entirely the way. "Well," she began, "since you're asking I wouldn't mind a - "

She broke off, staring dumbly at him, swayed and with a thud collapsed right at his feet, very unconscious.

*

Caroline came round in the Germans' car to find herself on the way to the hospital at Freeport, wrapped tightly in a blanket and supported between a motherly, sturdily built Frau and her enormous bodybuilder of a son. They dropped her off at the hospital, saying she could keep the blanket. Thanking them for their kindness and politely refusing their offer of further assistance, she bade them goodbye and made her way over to Reception, still clutching the blanket around her semi-naked body. When she told the girl at the help desk what had happened horrified staff converged on her immediately and rushed her off to an intensive care ward.

They had pumped the worst of the stuff out of her, carried out various tests, rubbed all sorts of ointments into her skin. The doctor who saw her decided they'd better keep her in for several days, until certain there was no lasting damage. But from then on she made a fairly rapid recovery, despite being sick once or twice.

Ivarson came to see her the following morning. "That's incredible," he remarked, once he'd heard the story of her desperate race against time up the blue hole. "And you're not even a trained athlete."

"Perhaps it was just willpower," she suggested with a shrug. "I wanted to live. And...well, I did."

"All the same, you're a very lucky young lady," he told her. "Lucky the tide was out, for a start. Then there's the phosphorus in those tunnels. When I heard, that was what I was most worried about, especially as you weren't wearing a wetsuit. But it doesn't seem to have done you much harm. Could be you weren't down far enough.

"If you were a cat, you'd have lost a life. More than one, I'd say." He frowned. "I really can't figure out how you made it."

"Well, personally I'm glad I did," she replied acidly. And added that it wasn't without cost or she wouldn't be lying here in a hospital bed.

"Could have been a lot worse. Fortunately your body's young, you're strong and fit and your immune system's pretty efficient. That must have helped some."

His tone hardened just a little. "If you don't mind me asking, what the hell were you doing in there in the first place? I told you all about those blue holes, how dangerous they were. You mean to say you thought you'd - "

She interrupted him curtly. "If you think I was doing it just for fun you're mistaken. I...." She realised the news might cause panic if it spread too far and too fast. "Could we talk about it in private?"

Ivarson indicated to the nurse he wanted the screens pulled around the bed. Once they were isolated, she told him about the squid. And the octopus. He listened with growing horror, tinged with awe, and when she had finished her story sat back in deep thought, absorbing its implications.

"A squid," he murmured, and nodded slowly. "I thought it might be, actually."
"Might be what?"
"Might be what's eating the fish," he said grimly.
"You didn't say so."

"Guess I was hedging my bets. With the giant squid there's a lot you can't be sure about."
"But now we know," she muttered.

"Yep. Now we know." He looked directly at her. "I think you've had a very lucky escape."
She shuddered again at the memory.

"I know I keep saying it, but I still don't understand how you...."
"Because I wanted to," she said simply. "I've told you that already."
"'Course," he smiled. "I'm glad you did." He closed the subject, tone and manner changing. "So how big was this thing, roughly?"
"I honestly couldn't say. Just....huge."
"And the octopus? How big was that?

"Again, I don't remember." A distinct touch of sarcasm crept into her voice. "I was actually trying to get away from it, funnily enough."
Ivarson grinned at her annoyance. "But it was pretty big?"
"You could say that."

He tried to prompt her. "The largest octopus has arms no longer than twelve inches and rarely longer than thirty-nine. But some with a body length of eighteen feet and an arm span of thirty have been recorded. From time to time the remains of something which might be an even bigger one get washed up, but it always turns out to be some other kind of animal. There was a case recently.”

Caroline frowned. "Thirty feet sounds about right to me. It was probably more, though."

"Overall, it sounds like a Pacific giant octopus," he said. "A particularly big one. But there's no reason why you shouldn't get outsize specimens from time to time."
"I didn't think they normally attacked people."
"It may just have thought you were invading its territory. I doubt if it was trying to eat you."
"That's some consolation, I guess," she remarked drily.

Ivarson leaned back and stretched. "Well, well, so there is some truth in the old legend."
"There usually is in legends. That's how they start."
"Anycase," he said, "I'm more worried about the squid."
"What do we know about them?" she asked.

"Not as much as we'd like to. Until relatively recently the giant squid was thought to be mythical. The first proof it existed was in 1861 when the crew of a French warship hauled in part of one. Since then, over time, there've been sightings and strandings in all sorts of places - East and West coasts of America, British Isles, Scandinavia, Japan, Australia and New Zealand, southern tip of Africa, the Azores and Canary Islands region, the central Pacific. Of course sea animals can stray from their usual territory because they're ill or the currents have carried them there. But on the whole there's nothing unusual about finding one here. We think there are about five different species in the North Atlantic."
“But it's still pretty elusive?"

"Like the blue whale. Of course the whale's rare because it's hunted, but big fierce animals generally aren't common. Too many of them and they'll eat so many of the smaller ones that it upsets the ecological balance. No giant squid's ever been caught and put in an aquarium, or studied closely in the wild. And not many have ever seen a live specimen in its native habitat – in so far as we know what its native habitat is – or at all."

"Perhaps they just keep away from people," said Caroline. "If I were a squid that's what I do."

Ivarson nodded. "They've got sense. Yeah, the giant squid's still a bit of an unknown quantity, relatively speaking. We don't know much about their lifespan, for example, although we think they take about four to five years to reach their full size.

"They probably live on or near the bottom, at a depth of at least a thousand metres; otherwise I guess they'd be seen more. The evidence comes from squid tissue found in the stomach of a deep-sea shark, but it isn't conclusive because some bottom-living sharks often come off it to feed. Squid are quite happy in fairly shallow waters, like here, less than a hundred metres deep.
"But it doesn't usually come in so close to the shore?"

"No, which is worrying. That could mean it's hungry. Eaten up too many of the fish, I expect.”
"Did you ever think it might attack a human?"

"This is the first time one's done so before, that we know of. We could never rule out the possibility. But the squid would never normally meet a person, and I figure if it was getting enough of its food from fish and that sort of thing it wouldn't bother to come looking for us."

He dropped unconsciously into a lecturer's tone. "We don't know what it eats; when something’s found in a squid's stomach, the chances of identifying it are slim because the beak and the radula - that's the tongue - reduce the prey to small pieces and the digestive enzymes work pretty fast. But on the basis of what we have found, probably fish and smaller squids."
"And how big are they - normally?"

"They're the largest living invertebrates, but no-one's quite sure how big they get exactly. The largest found until now was over sixty feet. Much of that length was those two extended tentacles, which in dead specimens - the only ones we've been able to examine - tend to stretch easily."

"But it is the squid that's been hogging all the fish. Agreed?"
"It's the only explanation I can find at the moment."
"Why hasn't this been a problem before, though?"

He was looking reflective. "I told you no-one knew for sure what the squids' natural habitat was. It may be they live in the deep canyons on the edges of the continental slopes, which are too far down for nets, and that's why fishermen don't often bring one up. Or it could be they're just rare. But there's a theory the squid are coming to the surface more, or into shallower waters than they usually frequent, looking for new prey. That's why the number of sightings has increased in recent years. World fish stocks are dwindling; mainly because of overfishing, which is a particular problem in the North Atlantic, perhaps also because of pollution and, here, the squid’s own depredations. And the crittur's gotta eat. So it starts going higher, and when it does it's gonna meet other potential sources of food, ones it never knew about before.”

Caroline thought she knew what he was getting at. A cold chill started to creep up her spine. "You mean....people?"

"Yes," said Ivarson, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "People."
In her mind Caroline saw the photo of Kate and Ryan.


A retired couple from Santa Barbara, California, were fishing from their yacht at rest off Cross Cays when without warning the monster struck. The woman had gone inside to make some coffee for them both. From the deck she heard her husband cry out in alarm, the sound of something being knocked over; then he was shouting frantically for help. As she rushed out to see what was the matter his screaming abruptly cut off.

She found the deckchair on which he had been sitting lying on its side, and no sign of him anywhere. With a sob of horror she ran to the guard rail and looked over it. All she could see was his floppy-brimmed sunhat floating on the surface, the water around it turning rapidly blood-red. The sea was rising and falling, gradually settling, as if something big had come up out of it and then submerged.

Off the coast of Abacos a cruise ship was passing a fishing boat when the smaller vessel seemed to rock violently, causing the two men on board to lose their balance and fall to the deck. Several of the passengers on the cruise ship then saw a thing like a huge snake, or maybe an enormous tentacle, thrust up from the water and coil around one of the fishermen as he struggled to rise. It plucked him screaming from the boat and in less than an instant had dragged him down to the depths from which it had come.

At the refugee camp in Kashmir delivery was taken of another batch of supplies for the thousands displaced by the earthquake. Only one of the crates contained not food but bags of fertilizer, nitrate-based, such as were often used by terrorists in manufacturing bombs. The name on this particular bomb was Pervez Musharraf.

A man made a call from a phone booth in a street in a leafy suburb of South London. "Hello, is that Suzy?"
"Yes, that's me."
"I wondered if I could pop in and see you tonight sometime. About eight?"
"Eight...yes, OK, I seem to be free then."
"Where is it, can you tell me?"

"Come to the corner of Allerton Road and I'll meet you there. What do you look like?"
The man gave a brief description of himself.

Two hours later he stationed himself on the corner as agreed and waited, several times glancing nervously at his watch or along the road to see if she was coming.

Some minutes elapsed. It seemed something or other had detained her. Maybe he should......

He was about to leave when he decided to take one last look up the road, and saw a girl coming towards him on the other side. She stopped and gave him a cheery wave, her smile flashing in the darkness. He hurried across to meet her, totally unaware of the black-clad man concealed invisibly in the shrubbery at the edge of the playing fields a hundred yards away, filming the encounter through an infra-red telephoto lens.


SIXTEEN
“We're going to tell the authorities here about this, of course," Caroline said.
"Of course," Ivarson agreed. "Though at the moment I'm not sure what they could do about it. I don't know how you hunt a giant squid, no-one's ever done it before. But I expect there's a way."
"You don't mind killing it?"
“It's not good for the ecology, eliminating too many fish from the food chain. Not too good for humans either, on top of the decrease there's already been.”

He paused. “Matter of fact, the deficit can be made up to some extent with farmed salmon, but I doubt if that’d be enough to meet the demand on its own. No, it’s not good.”
"I'm sure. But what concerns me most of all is whether a squid could plant a bomb on an oil tanker."
She wasn't being entirely serious, but to her surprise he took her at her word. "For my money I'd say it'd be quite possible to train one."

He explained that the complex nervous system and brain of the cephalopods, the family to which squid and octopi belonged, gave them an intelligence unique among invertebrates. There were reports of octopi placing stones between the valves of clams to prevent their closing, so the octopus could get at the soft flesh of the creature within. They displayed considerable cunning in hunting for prey. In laboratory tests they had displayed remarkable learning abilities, responding well to aversion and reward-and-punishment therapy, and distinguishing and remembering a variety of different shapes.

"Maybe they'll rule the world after we've gone," Caroline said.
"So octopuses, then - "
"Octopi."
"Abducted, kidnapped. Octopi, then, are pretty smart. But squids..."

"I wouldn't rule it out. No-one knows how clever they are because no-one's had the opportunity to do any tests."
"How could you capture a giant one, anyway? It'd be a bit of handful."
"You could do it when it was young. But you'd have to know where to find one. I'm not sure it would be worth the bother when there are smaller species of squid that would be easier to get hold of.

"Well, we're going to have to sort this thing out somehow. And were are not going to do it," he said, looking straight at Caroline, "in a bikini." She glared at him.

"Yes, alright. Marcotech must have something to do with it, though. I mean if the squid is the cause of all the vanishing fish, and they started to disappear just after the company set up its base here...."
"Well, we'll see. Maybe now the government can be persuaded to get off their asses and do something."
"We'd better try and keep my name out of this. If I attracted too much attention to myself, someone might probe and maybe find out what I'm really doing here. And I guess I'd feel safer if they didn't."

"Marcotech know already," he pointed out. "And that means you could be in danger."
"Oh yes, I'm really scared," she replied bolshily. Ivarson looked long and hard at her, concerned.
Her expression changed. "I'm thinking. Do you reckon there are more than one of these things around the place?"
"Well it depend