Bodil’s fingers worked at the keyboard. Two of the screens on the console, previously blank, suddenly filled with colour. Against a deep blue backdrop, a swirling circle of reds, greens and yellows traced its way around the monitors. To Jake, it was indecipherable, but the woman appeared satisfied.

“See this blob of colour here?” A slender and unsteady finger pointed to an area on the screen nearest to Jake. “That’s the Spirit of Arcadia.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Bodil. I don’t think any of us would recognise a submarine on that thing if it started blinking at us.”

“It’s not that difficult. Just a question of experience is all.”

“So? Any sign?”

“Nothing so far. I hope you are a patient man, Captain Noah. We have a vast area to cover. Those submarines could have travelled many kilometres. My sonar is capable, but they are more capable. Searching this ocean is like…it’s like searching the floor of this room for a dropped earring whilst looking down a straw. We could get lucky, or we could pass right over, if it’s buried in the pile. Either way, it will take time.”

“That’s just it. We don’t have much time.” He checked his watch again. “Thirty-eight minutes left. We have to find the Ambush in less than thirty eight minutes.”

• • •

Max strolled up to the door of cabin 1124, his head buried in a glossy magazine, his face hidden from the spy hole he knew they would be watching from.

It hadn’t occurred to him to find anyone to come as backup. He was used to working alone. He’d done it all on this ship: busted drug dealers, broken up drunken brawls, fought off jealous husbands laying into their cheating wives’ lovers, fought off angry wives laying into cheating husbands’ lovers, and on one occasion had even fought off a pirate attack, for which he had been awarded an insultingly small bonus. Not that the money mattered to Max.

He reached around and felt the gun tucked into the back of his trousers. The security chief was more of a hands-on operator, but the weapon gave him added confidence.

He squared up to the door, standing close, too close for his face to be clearly visible. With a beefy, hairy hand, he tapped lightly.

“Who is it?” The voice was just the other side, close by.

“Customer. Fags.” He waved the magazine airily, as if chatting to an old friend in the street.

There was the unmistakable sound of a chain being undone, then the door handle twisted downwards.

Max’s timing was perfect. As the door opened the tiniest amount, he threw all of his considerable weight against it. Whoever was on the other side must have been at least as big as he was, but they were caught off guard and off balance. Their own weight sent them tumbling to the floor with a loud thump. Max pushed the door hard, sweeping aside the bulky body behind it, and marched inside. The gun remained in his trousers, his hands by his sides.

In front of him were two white armchairs, but the rest of the furniture had been stacked at the side of the room. To his left, the door to the bedroom clicked shut and he heard a key turn in the lock. He moved towards it, fully intending to break it down, when a voice to his right stopped him.

“Mister security man? Put your hands on your head.”

Max did as he was told, and swivelled slowly on the spot. He hadn’t noticed the badly dressed youth in the corner of the room, so skinny was he: a stubbly-faced man clad in a heavy-metal t-shirt that looked quite ridiculous on his bony frame. His face was strangely out of proportion, his eyes and nose too big to go with his other features. Max had to fight the urge to laugh, such was the oddity before him, but he did have one threatening feature, one attribute that made him dangerous. Max knew it was never a good idea to laugh at dangerous men. Instead, he fixed his eyes on the gun in the skinny man’s hands.

“Come on, son. Don’t do anything daft. Shoot me and you’re as good as dead. There’s nowhere to run.”

“I don’t want to shoot you, old man. It would make a terrible mess on the carpet, and that wouldn’t be good for business. I am going to have to dispose of you though.”

“Like you disposed of Grace?” Max took a step forwards.

“Hmm. Sorry about that. I hope you didn’t need her?”

“Honestly? You did me a favour. Couldn’t stand the woman. All ‘detective this’ and ‘detective that’, you know?” Another half step towards the skinny man.

“Well, she was American. I don’t like Americans.”

“I’ve nothing against them, just that one. I’m replacing her with a guy from Grimsby.” Half a step.

“That’s enough.” The skinny man waggled the weapon. “No closer, Granddad.”

Max studied the firearm. “Grace’s position was easy enough to fill, but I’m going to need her weapon back.”

A laugh, a tiny turn of the head. “Sorry…what? You think I’m going to hand over the gun and let you walk out of here?”

“I think nothing of the sort,” Max said. At the same instant he spoke, he moved, like lighting. He may have had thirty years on the scrawny young man, but Max was in good shape. His bulk made him look lumbering and slow. It was easy to underestimate him, as many had found to their cost. He pulled his hands from his head and darted forwards, ducking at the same time. His open left hand came up, palm connecting with the hands that clasped the pistol, forcing them upwards. His right hand, balled into a fist, powered into the skinny man’s belly. The black t-shirt, and the body inside it, folded in two. The gun fired, ripping a tiny hole in the ceiling. As the youth doubled up, Max pulled the firearm free. The boy was down but not out. He staggered backwards, winded, then — to Max’s amazement — came at him again. Max had plenty of time to prepare his defence. A well-aimed kick to the knee snapped the black-marketeer’s leg. He fell to the floor, howling in pain.

“Thanks for the gun,” Max said. He put on the safety catch, and shoved it into his empty back pocket. “Now to sort out your heavy mate.”

He turned back towards the door, but where he had expected to see the muscle of the operation on the floor, he saw only empty space. It wasn’t empty for long. Two feet stepped into view. He looked up to see who they belonged to just in time to see a golf club swinging at his head.

“Zhang!”

The club met its target, and everything went black.

• • •

There was light ahead. Narrow slits of light that bent around the curved sides of the pipe.

The classroom.

Lucya was almost there. Adrenaline flowed, giving her the energy to move faster than ever, but now was not the time for speed. Now was the time for grace, dexterity, and above all, silence.

She needed to get back onto her front before getting any closer. With her arms pushed back up over her head, she rolled over. In the almost total darkness it was easy to become disoriented, and for a few brief seconds she wasn’t sure which way was up. Then common sense kicked in, and she evaluated the effects of gravity on her body, and got herself turned round properly.

The ventilation pipe narrowed as it approached its destination, but Lucya was determined. She had one shot, and having come this far, she didn’t want to take any chances. The cold air blast, although very much evident, had lost its edge so far along. It was imperative that the virus escape through the correct grille, into the occupied room, and not get blown to the end of the pipe which was — she hoped — by now blocked off. And so, pushing herself with her toes, she advanced so far forwards that her hands were able to reach out and touch the grille.

The voices of the Koreans drifted into the tube. They were difficult to hear against the ever-present sound of the cold air. Not that it mattered; she didn’t speak a word of Korean.

She did speak English though, and understood perfectly when one of the children, voice quivering, asked to be allowed to go to the toilet. His request was met with a torrent of what sounded like verbal abuse. When it ended, she could make out the sound of the lad sniffling, and then the voice she most wanted to hear in the world: Erica’s.