NINE FLOORS LOWER down the building, Leon Anawak had just noticed a good-looking man with greying hair and a beard. He was walking over the forecourt in the direction of the Chateau. At his side was a woman, small, broad-shouldered and tanned, in jeans and a leather jacket. Anawak guessed that she was in her late twenties. Chestnut ringlets tumbled down her back. Both new arrivals had been carrying cases, which the hotel porters had swiftly removed. The woman made some comment to the man and glanced around. Her eyes rested briefly on Anawak, then she pushed her hair back from her forehead and disappeared inside.

Lost in thought, Anawak stared at the spot where the woman had been standing. Then he craned his neck, shielded his eyes against the slanting sunshine, and scanned the Chateau's neo-classical facade.

The luxury hotel was situated in a real-life version of the dream that people nurtured of Canada. From Horseshoe Bay, Highway 99 led away from Vancouver straight into the mountains, where the majestic Chateau was nestled among wooded slopes, against a backdrop of imposing peaks whose summits glistened white throughout the summer. Whistler-Blackcomb was commonly thought to be one of the most picturesque ski areas in the world. By May, though, the hotel's guests were usually there to play golf or to go hiking among the forests and secluded lakes. Visitors could explore the area on mountain bike or take a helicopter to the year-round snow. The Chateau itself had a first-class restaurant and offered every comfort.

The remote spot in the mountains was equipped with everything under the sun. But the dozen or so military choppers came as a surprise.

Anawak had arrived there two days earlier. He'd been helping with the preparations for Li's presentation, as had John Ford, who'd been flying between Vancouver Aquarium, Nanaimo and the Chateau, sifting through data, analysing statistics and collating the results. Anawak's knee was still painful, but the limp had gone. The fresh mountain air had cleared his head as well as his lungs, and the despondency that had weighed on him since the plane crash evaporated, leaving him full of nervous energy.

So much had happened lately that his capture by the military patrol seemed almost ancient history, although it was less than two weeks ago that he'd first met Li – in embarrassing circumstances, as he was forced to admit. She'd been amused by the amateurism of his evening escapade. They'd spotted him immediately, before he'd even left the car. Allowing him to park inside the docks, they'd watched for a while to see what he was up to, and then they'd intervened. Anawak had felt like the man who disappeared.

He needn't have worried. Now, instead of feeding his findings to the big black hole of the committee, he was working at its centre, along with Ford and Sue Oliviera, another new arrival. At last he'd been permitted to get in touch with Clive Roberts, the Inglewood MD, who'd begun by apologising profusely for the severing of communications, which had been ordered from on high. On strict instructions from Li, he'd been compelled to make himself unavailable, which meant standing within earshot of his secretary while she fielded his calls and sent Anawak packing.

With the presentation ready, there was nothing for him to do but wait, so while the world descended into chaos and Europe was flooded, Anawak had gone to play tennis. He was keen to test his knee. His partner was a small Frenchman with bushy eyebrows and a very large nose. His name was Bernard Roche, a bacteriologist, who'd flown in the night before from Lyons. While North America was struggling to defend itself against the largest creatures on the planet, Roche was fighting a losing battle against the smallest.

Anawak looked at the time. They were due to meet in half an hour. The hotel had been closed to tourists ever since the government had started running the show, but the bustle of people made it seem like high season. A good few hundred delegates must have arrived by now. Over half had some kind of connection with the United States intelligence community. Most worked for the CIA, which had lost no time in turning the Chateau into its command centre. The NSA, America's biggest intelligence agency, responsible for signals intelligence, data protection and cryptology, had sent over an entire department of staff and now occupied the fourth floor. The fifth had been requisitioned by employees of the Pentagon and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service. The floor above that was reserved for MIS and the British Secret Intelligence Service, plus delegations from the German Military Security Service and their Federal Intelligence Service. 'The French had sent representatives from the Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, and the Swedish intelligence agency was present, as well as Finland's Paaeis-kunnan Tiedusteluosasto. It was a historic meeting of intelligence units, a unique muddle of people and data gathered in the attempt to regain some understanding of the world.

Anawak massaged his knee. A stabbing pain shot through it. He'd been too hasty with the tennis. A shadow fell across him, as another military chopper dipped its nose on its way in to land. Anawak watched the powerful machine descend, then straightened and went inside.

People were milling around everywhere. The activity unfolded at marching pace, briskly but unhurriedly, beneath the vaulted ceiling of the lobby. At least half of those present were talking on mobiles. The others had taken up residence in the luxurious armchairs clustered around the stone columns that separated the nave of the lobby from the side aisles, and were typing on laptops or staring at their screens. Anawak made his way to the adjoining bar, where Ford and Oliviera were waiting. A third person was with them, a tall, glum-looking man with a moustache.

'Leon Anawak, Gerhard Bohrmann.' Ford took care of the introductions. 'Go easy on Gerhard's hand when you shake it. It might fall off.'

'Too much tennis?' asked Anawak.

'Writing, actually.' Bohrmann smiled bitterly. 'I spent a whole hour scribbling furiously when two weeks ago a simple mouse click would have solved it. It's like living in the Dark Ages.'

'What about the satellites?'

'They can't cope with all the traffic,' Ford explained.

'My colleagues in Kiel aren't properly equipped to deal with it,' Bohrmann said gloomily.

'No one's equipped for this.' Anawak ordered a glass of water. 'How long have you been here?'

'Two days. I've been working on the presentation.'

'Me too. Funny we haven't met before.'

Bohrmann shook his head. 'It's like a rabbit warren here. What's your area?'

'Cetaceans. Animal intelligence.'

'Leon's had a few unpleasant encounters with humpbacks lately,' Oliviera chimed in. 'Seems they don't appreciate him trying to look inside their minds… What's he doing here?'

They all turned. There was a clear view from the bar to the lobby, where a man was heading for the elevators. Anawak recognised him. It was the same guy who'd arrived a few minutes earlier with the curly-haired woman.

'Who is it?' asked Ford, with a frown.

'Don't you ever go to the movies?' Oliviera tutted. 'It's that European actor. What's his name? Maximilian Schell! He looks amazing, don't you think? Even better in real life than he does on the screen.'

'Restrain yourself, woman,' said Ford. 'Why the hell would an actor be here?'

'Sue could be right, you know,' said Anawak. 'If I remember rightly, he was in some disaster movie – Deep Impact, I think. A comet's on course to hit the earth and-'

'We're all in a disaster movie,' Ford interrupted him. 'Don't say you hadn't noticed.'

'So is Bruce Willis going to put in an appearance next?'

Oliviera rolled her eyes. 'Well, is it him or isn't it?'