‘Last time?’

‘Nine/eleven.’

‘That’s great,’ said Pete as the big flat Sony filled with images of burning cars and shops. ‘But we need to move our arses before someone else tries to grab this boat out from under them.’

Fifi, now fully recovered from her earlier fright, shrugged and hefted her sawn-off shotty. ‘Let ‘em try.’

‘Someone with more guns,’ he added.

Mr Lee looked over the main controls in the bridge one last time, shaking his head. ‘Yes, we can do this,’ he said, somewhat paradoxically. ‘But not for long. We will need engineering johnnies, for begin.’

Pete nodded. They’d just come from inspecting the lower decks, specifically the engine room, which – save for three more puddles of dark green sludge on the floor and their accompanying uniforms – had gleamed whiter and cleaner than any human space he’d ever seen before. It was like the photos you sometimes saw of microchip plants in Taiwan. Not a speck of dust or grease anywhere. The boat was running perfectly for the moment, following a computer-controlled track to the south, but it was such a huge, complicated piece of machinery that there was no guarantee they’d be able to cope if anything went wrong.

He allowed himself a little Captain Kirk moment, swivelling in the main command chair as Fifi and Jules reclined on a padded bench at the rear of the cabin. Late afternoon light flooded in through the huge windows, bathing them all in a deepening golden glow. All in all, it felt more like they were kicking back at the Bellagio in Vegas than scoping out a hijack at sea.

‘We could get crew,’ suggested Pete. ‘I know some guys in Acapulco, and down Panama way. German Willy still runs out of the Canal zone. And there’s Stan Lusevic, and Shoeless Dan.’

‘Jesus Christ, Pete!’ protested Jules. ‘Are we putting together a crew or a sheltered workshop for retired drunks and dick pullers?’

‘Yes,’ Lee agreed. ‘German Willy, too much drinking, too much willy. Other two – morons. Without shoes. No good, Mr Pete. No good.’

‘Okay,’ he conceded. ‘I take your point. But, Mr Lee, you’re also right about us needing crew if we’re going to be doing anything other than selling this boat off at the first safe port we can find.’

Jules smiled wryly at him from deep inside the luxurious royal-blue padding of the bench, which occupied the entire rear bulkhead. ‘Pete, I thought we were just minding this old tub for the Shark.’

The Aussie gave a sad smile in return and shook his head. ‘The Shark’s gone, baby.’ He spared a glance at the viscous stains on the non-slip floor where Mr Lee had cleaned up another two pools of human ooze; true to form, it hadn’t seemed to bother his first mate. ‘Almost everyone north of here is gone for good,’ Pete continued. ‘You’ve seen the news. If we’re lucky, this’ll be some kind of space-monkey invasion, because at least then we’ll have someone to maintain order.’

‘Like in Planet of the Apes,’ said Fifi, in all seriousness.

‘Sure, sweetheart, if you like. But me, I reckon the universe, or merciful Allah or the Great Pumpkin or whatever, sneezed and blew the good ol’ US of A right out of its arse – which, as we’ve seen, a lot of people think of as A Good Deal. But me, I reckon it means we’re about three days away from a Hobbesian fucking meltdown.’

Fifi’s blank look spoke volumes for a formal education that had ended when she was only thirteen years old.

‘Thomas Hobbes, darling,’ explained Jules. ‘A Brit. He invented the idea of the violent clusterfuck, with everyone fighting each other. Like a Jackie Chan movie. Or a cage-wrestling free-for-all on the telly. You know, Smackdown or Spankdown, or whatever it’s called.’

‘Right,’ Pete agreed, before waving his hand in the general direction of the energy wave. ‘That thing out there, most people won’t realise it yet, but that thing has thrown us into a state of fucking nature, a war of all against all. And I’ve been wondering whether the safest option might be to ride it out in the south Pacific for a couple of years. Island-hop, trade a bit. Stay one step ahead of the chaos – because it’s coming, believe me.’

‘Already here,’ said Lee.

‘What’s that?’ asked Pete, spinning in his captain’s chair.

Mr Lee was standing a few feet away, splitting his attention between a radar screen and an enormous pair of Zeiss binoculars, mounted on a pivot stand, through which he’d been watching the southern horizon. He’d peer through the glasses, check the screen, and peer through the glasses again, finally grunting once, emphatically.

‘Twelve miles sou’-sou’-east, Mr Peter. Three go-fast boats I see. They making over sixty knots.’

‘Heading?’ quizzed Jules before Pete could open his mouth.

‘Straight for us, I’ll bet,’ said Pete in a flat, fatalistic voice.

Mr Lee nodded. ‘Straight for us.’

‘They packin’?’ asked Fifi, suddenly on her feet, shotgun in hand. ‘You think I should go get the worm?’

‘Too far away, cannot see.’

‘They’re packin’,’ sighed Pete. ‘Come on,’ he said, pushing himself up out of the chair, ‘it’s started. And yeah, Fifi – go break out the worm. And get your cannon too.’

‘Awesome.’

10

PITIЙ-SALPКTRIИRE HOSPITAL, PARIS

‘Non!’

The French girl’s shriek was a raw, animal sound. Within it roiled pain, violation, horror and outrage. Her face, a mask of dark, primal emotions, raged at Caitlin over the unwavering muzzle of the Glock 23. The assassin had long ago stopped counting the number of men and women whose last seconds she’d seen through crosshairs or iron gun sights, and she knew from that face that Monique’s cry was not a plea for life. It was a scream of protest at what had already been taken from her. Trust and intimacy and a whole world in which Caitlin (or Cathy, as Monique knew her) was a friend, not a liar and a murderer.

A hot flush washed over the Echelon agent, dizzying, unexpected. She let her gun hand fall to her side, tired of it all. And she might still use Monique to get to al Banna. If that still mattered.

‘If you stay here you will die,’ she said. ‘Come with me right now, and you might live.’

The emergency room remained a still life by Goya. The first cries of staff and patients had been silenced by the shots she’d fired into the heads of her would-be killers – or captors. As Caitlin turned for the exit, a spasm of movement passed through the onlookers, as each flinched away from the line of her gaze. One man in a white coat, a doctor most likely, took a few hesitant steps in her direction, but a shake of her head and a casual wave of the pistol in his direction arrested any further advance. Caitlin did not check to see whether Monique was following her as she exited the ER. She knew the girl would.