'I get the picture – but you're talking about larvae.'

'Millions of larvae.'

'There could be billions of them, all over Osaka harbour and across the ocean seabed, but you can't seriously be suggesting that in just a few days they all turned into adult mussels, complete with shells? Can you even be sure that they're zebra mussels?'

Anawak glanced back at the truck. The divers were packing their equipment. The containers, sealed as well as he could manage it, were on the ground in front of them in a plastic crate.

'We're looking at an equation with several unknowns,' he said. 'Suppose the whales were trying to ward off the tugboats. Why? Because something was happening to the freighter and they didn't want it interrupted? Because it was supposed to sink once the mussels had immobilised it? Then there's the matter of the mysterious thing that took flight when I intruded on its den. How does that sound?'

'Like the sequel to Independence Day but without the aliens. Do you seriously think-'

'Hang on. Let's look at it again. A herd of jumpy grey whales or humpbacks feels threatened by the Barrier Queen. To make matters worse, two tugs turn up and ram them by accident. They retaliate. Coincidentally, the freighter is simultaneously afflicted by a biological plague it picked up abroad. Then, while it was at sea, a squid strayed into the mussels.'

Roberts stared at him.

'I don't believe in science fiction,' Anawak continued. 'It's all a question of interpretation. Send a few of your people down there. Have them scrape off the mussels and keep an eye open for other surprise guests. If they see any, they should catch them.'

'How soon will we hear from the lab in Nanaimo?'

'Within a few days, I guess. It would help if I could have a copy of Inglewood's report.'

'A confidential copy,' Roberts reminded him.

'Naturally. And I'd like to have a word with the crew -confidentially, of course.'

Roberts nodded. 'It's not up to me, but I'll see what I can do.'

They walked over to the truck and Anawak pulled on his jacket. 'Do you normally call in scientists in cases like this?' he asked.

'There's nothing normal about this business,' Roberts said. 'It was my idea. I'd read your book and I knew you were based on the island. The board of inquiry wasn't too happy about it, but I think it was the right thing to do. Whales aren't our strong point.'

'Well, I'll do my best. Let's get the samples into the helicopter. The sooner we get to Nanaimo the better. I'll hand them straight to Sue Oliviera. She's head of the lab, a molecular biologist.'

Anawak's mobile rang. It was Stringer. 'We need you back here,' she said.

'What's wrong?'

'The Blue Shark radioed to say there's trouble.' Anawak had a sense of foreboding. 'With the whales?'

'Of course not!' Why would whales cause trouble? No, it's that asshole Jack Greywolf again. He's such a jerk.'

6 April

Kiel, Germany

Two weeks after he'd given Tina Lund the final reports on the worms, Sigur Johanson was sitting in a taxi on his way to the Geomar Centre, Europe's leading research centre for marine geosciences. For anyone interested in the structure, development or history of the seabed, it was the first port of call. James Cameron, no less, had made regular trips there to get its seal of approval for films like Titanic and The Abyss. But trying to convince the public of the value of its research was more difficult. On the face of it, poking about in sediment or measuring seawater salinity was unlikely to solve the world's problems. Besides, few had any understanding of what the seabed was like. After all, it had taken scientists until the early 1990s to discover the truth. Although it was cut off from the warmth and light of the sun, the bottom of the ocean was not a barren wasteland. Rather, it teemed with life.

It was no secret that deep-sea hydrothermal vents were occupied by numerous exotic species, but when geochemist Erwin Suess arrived at the Geomar Centre from Oregon State University in 1989, he told of stranger things – cold seeps surrounded by oases of life, mysterious sources of chemical energy rising from inside the Earth, and vast deposits of a substance that until then had been dismissed as an intriguing but insignificant by-product of natural processes: methane hydrate.

It was time for the geosciences to break out of the seclusion in which they, like most other scientific disciplines, had worked. Now they tried to make themselves heard. They hoped to develop methods for predicting and averting natural disasters and long-term changes to the environment and climate. Methane seemed the answer to the energy problem of the future. The media sensed a story, and the geoscientists learned gradually how to make use of the new-found interest in their work.

None of this seemed to have come to the attention of the man steering Johanson's taxi towards the Firth of Kiel. For the past twenty minutes he had been venting his frustration at the idea of a research centre that had cost millions of euros being entrusted to a team of scientists who took off on cruises round the world while he could barely make ends meet. Johanson spoke excellent German, but felt no desire to set the record straight. Besides, he couldn't get a word in edgeways – the driver was talking and gesticulating wildly as the taxi veered from side to side. 'God knows what they get up to in there,' he grumbled 'Are you a reporter?' he asked, when Johanson failed to respond.

'A biologist.'

The driver took that as a signal to launch into a tirade about food-safety scandals, for which he seemed to hold Johanson personally responsible.

'A biologist? So what, in your expert opinion, is safe for us to eat? Because I'm damned if I know! We must be mad to eat the stuff they sell us.'

'You'd starve if you didn't,' said Johanson.

'If I don't eat, I'll starve, and if I do, the food'll finish me off.'

'If you don't mind me saying so, I'd rather die from a toxic steak than be crashed to death on the bonnet of that tanker.'

Without a flicker of concern the driver spun the wheel and crossed three lanes to take the next exit. The tanker thundered past. Now they were speeding along the eastern shore of the firth. On the opposite bank, giant cranes reached into the sky.

The driver had evidently taken offence at Johanson's last comment: he didn't say another word. They drove in silence along suburban streets past tall, gabled houses until a long row of linked buildings appeared ahead. The complex of steel, brick and glass looked out of place in its domestic surroundings. The driver took a sharp right and screeched to a halt in front of the Geomar Centre. The engine juddered and stopped. Johanson took a deep breath, paid, and got out. The ride in the Statoil helicopter had been a breeze compared to the last fifteen minutes.

'God knows what they're doing in there,' said the driver, apparently to his steering-wheel.

Johanson bent down to the open passenger door. 'Do you really want to know?'

'Sure.'

'They're trying to save the taxi-driving industry.'

The driver gazed at him blankly. 'It's not as though we get many fares out here,' he said doubtfully.

'No, but when you do, you need your vehicle. Which means that when the world runs out of petrol, you'll either have to scrap it – or use another fuel. And that fuel, methane, is at the bottom of the ocean. They're looking for a way to convert it.'

The driver frowned. Then he said, 'You know what the problem is? They never bother to tell you.'

'It's all over the papers.'

'Not the ones I read, mate.'

Johanson nodded and closed the door.

^'Dr Johanson.' A tanned young man had emerged from a round glass building and was heading towards him.