What could he do? He looked at Turner, hoping the older man would produce something, some rabbit out of the hat. Didn’t the CIA have gadgets? Where was the inflatable speedboat or the concealed aqualung? But Turner was helpless. He’d even managed to lose the gun.

Mayfair Lady completed her turn.

Turner swore.

The boat drew closer, slicing through the water.

And then it exploded. This time the explosions were huge, final. There were three of them, simultaneous, in the bow, the middle and the stern. Mayfair Lady was blown into three quite separate pieces, the funnel and main saloon heaving themselves out of the ocean as if trying to escape from the rest of the boat. Alex felt the Shockwave travel through the water. The blast was deafening. A fist of water smashed into him, almost knocking him out. Pieces of wood, some of them on fire, rained down all around. He knew at once that nobody could have survived. And with that knowledge came a terrible thought.

Was it his fault? Had he killed them all?

Turner must have been thinking the same thing. He said nothing. The two of them watched as the three sections of what had once been a classic motor yacht sank and disappeared.

There was the sound of an outboard motor. Alex twisted round. A speedboat was racing towards them. He saw Belinda Troy at the wheel. She must have somehow commandeered it and come after them. She was on her own.

She helped Turner out of the water first, then Alex. For the first time, Alex realized that he couldn’t see land. He felt that it had all happened so quickly. And yet Mayfair Lady had managed to put several kilometres between itself and the coast before it was destroyed.

“What happened?” Troy asked. The wind had caught her long hair and spread it all around her. She looked as if she was having hysterics. “I saw the boat blow. I thought you were-” She stopped and caught her breath. “What happened?” she repeated.

“It was the kid.” Turner’s voice was neutral. He was still trying to catch up with the events of the last few minutes. “He cut me free…”

“You were tied up?”

“Yes. The Salesman knew I was with the agency. He was going to kill me. Alex knocked him out. He had some sort of cell phone…” He was stating the facts, but there was no gratitude. The boat rocked gently. Nobody moved. “He blew up the boat. He killed them all.”

“No.” Alex shook his head. “The fire was out. You saw. They’d got the boat under control. They were turning round, about to come back-”

“For God’s sake!” The CIA man was almost too tired to argue. “What do you think happened? You think one of the lights fused and Mayfair Lady just happened to blow up? You did it, Alex. You set the gas alight and that’s what happened.”

Gas. The American for petrol. It was one of the words they had tested him on at the Snackyard that morning. A century ago.

“I saved your life,” Alex said.

“Yeah. Thanks, Alex.” But Turner’s voice was bleak.

Troy climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. The speedboat turned and they headed back towards the shore.

PASSPORT CONTROL

Alex had a window seat near the front of the plane. Troy was next to him with Turner on her other side, next to the aisle. A family on holiday (on vacation, he reminded himself). Troy was reading a magazine. Turner had a film script. He was meant to be a producer and had spent the journey making notes in the margin, just in case anyone happened to be looking. Alex was playing with a Game Boy Advance. He wondered about that. Turner had given it to him just before they’d left Miami. It had been very casual, standing in the departure lounge.

“Here, Alex. Something to keep you busy on the plane.”

Alex was suspicious. He remembered that the last time he’d held a Game Boy, it had been filled with gadgets invented by Smithers at MI6. But as far as he could tell, this one was completely ordinary. At least, he’d got to level five of Rayman and so far it hadn’t exploded in his hands.

He looked out the window. They had been in the air for about an hour. This had been their second flight of the day. They had gone from Miami to Kingston, Jamaica, and had caught the second plane there. They had been given the sort of snack that people expect, but never enjoy, on a plane. A sandwich, a small square of cake and a plastic tub of water. Now the stewardesses returned, hastily collecting the trays.

“This is your captain speaking. Please fasten your seat-belts and return your seats to the upright position. We will shortly be coming in to land.”

Alex looked out of the window again. The sea was an extraordinary shade of turquoise. It didn’t look like water at all. Then the plane dipped and suddenly he saw the island. Both islands. Cuba itself was to the north. Cayo Esqueleto was below it. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky and for a moment the land mass was perfectly clear, laid out as if on the surface of the world, two patches of emerald green with a coastline that seemed to shimmer an electric blue. The plane tilted.

The islands disappeared and the next time Alex saw them the plane was coming in low, rushing towards a runway that seemed almost unreachable, hemmed in by offices and hotels and roads and palm trees. There was a control tower, ugly and misshapen. A low-rise terminal, prefabricated concrete and glass. Two more planes, already on the ground, surrounded by service trucks. There was a jolt as the back wheels came into contact with the tarmac. They were down.

Alex unclipped his seat-belt.

“Wait a minute, Alex,” Troy said. “The seat-belt light is still on.”

She was behaving like a mother. But the sort of mother she had chosen to be was bossy and demanding. Alex had to admit that it suited her. Anybody watching them might believe they were a family, but would have to add that they were an unhappy one. Since the events in Miami, the two agents had practically ignored him. Alex found it hard to work them out. Turner would be dead if it hadn’t been for him, but neither of them would admit it-as if, in some way, he had dented their professional pride. And they still insisted that he had blown up Mayfair Lady, killing everyone onboard. Even Alex was finding it hard to avoid a sense of responsibility. It was true that he had set fire to the petrol. What other reason could there have been for the explosion that had followed?

He tried to put it out of his mind. The plane had come to a halt and everyone had stood up, fighting for the overhead lockers in the cramped compartment. As Alex reached up to take his own bag, the Game Boy almost fell out of his grip. Turner’s head snapped round. Alex saw a flash of alarm in his eyes. “Be careful with that!” he said.

So he was right. There was something hidden inside the Game Boy. It was typical of the CIA agents to keep him in the dark. But that hadn’t stopped them asking him to carry it in.

It was midday, the worst time to arrive. As they came out of the plane, Alex felt the heat reflecting off the tarmac. It was hard to breathe. The air was heavy and smelled of diesel. He was sweating before he had even reached the bottom of the steps and the arrivals lounge offered no relief. The air-conditioning had broken down and Alex soon found himself trapped in a confined space with two or three hundred people and no windows. The terminal was more like a large shed than a modern airport building. The walls were a drab olive green, decorated by posters of the island that looked twenty years out of date.

The passengers from Alex’s flight caught up with passengers still being processed from the flight before and the result was a large, shapeless crowd of people and hand luggage, shuffling slowly forward towards three uniformed immigration officials in glass cabins. There were no queues. As each passport was stamped and one more person was allowed in, the crowd simply pressed forward, oozing through the security controls.