The Swarm

From the annual reports of international environmental organizations

In spite of the 1994 ban, the dumping of radioactive waste in the world's oceans is ongoing. Greenpeace divers examining the seabed at the mouth of the discharge pipe of the French reprocessing plant in La Hague found levels of radioactivity seventeen million times higher than those in uncontaminated waters. Crabs and kelp off the Norwegian coast have been found to be contaminated with the radioactive isotope tech-netium-99. Radiation protection experts in Norway identified the source of the pollution as the ageing reactors of the British nuclear reprocessing factory in Sellafield. However, American geologists stick by their proposals for highly radioactive waste to be buried under the ocean. The scheme involves dropping nuclear containers kilometres into the seabed through pipes, then covering them with sediment.

From 1959 onwards, the former Soviet Union dumped large quantities of radioactive waste, including disused nuclear reactors, in the Arctic Ocean. Now over a million tonnes of chemical weapons are rusting away on the ocean seabed at depths of between 500 and 4500 metres. Particular concern has been raised over metal containers of Russian nerve gas that were sunk in 1947 and have been corroding ever since. 100,000 barrels of radioactive waste of medical, technological or industrial origin are known to be lying on the seabed off the coast of Spain. Plutonium from nuclear testing in the South Seas has been detected in the mid-Atlantic at depths of over 4000 metres. The UK Hydrographic Office lists 57,435 wrecks on the ocean bed, including the remains of numerous American and Russian nuclear subs.

The environmental toxin DDT poses a particular danger to marine organisms. The pollutant is carried by currents and spread across the globe, where it accumulates in the ocean food chain. PBDE, a chemical used as a flame retardant in televisions and computers, has been found in the blubber of sperm whales. Ninety per cent of swordfish are contaminated with unsafe levels of mercury, while twenty-five per cent are also polluted with PCBs. Female dog whelks in the North Sea are developing male genitalia. The culprit is thought to be tribu-tyltin, a chemical contained in anti-fouling paint.

Oil wells have been shown to contaminate a surrounding area of over twenty square metres, of which one third is entirely barren of life.

Magnetic fields produced by deep sea cables interfere with the homing instincts of salmon and eels. The electromagnetic smog is also harmful to larvae.

Fish stocks are in decline, while algal blooms flourish. Meanwhile, Israel has persisted in its refusal to ratify the convention banning the disposal of industrial waste in maritime waters. Haifa Chemicals dumped 60,000 tonnes of toxic sludge in 1999 alone. The pollutants, including lead, mercury, cadmium, arsenic and chlorine, are swept away by the current, contaminating the coasts of Lebanon and Syria. At the same time, the fertiliser industry in the Gulf of Gabes continues to pump 12,800 tonnes of phosphogypsum into the sea every day.

Seventy of the world's two hundred most commonly exploited fish species are endangered, according to the Food and Agriculture Organisation, the FAO, and yet the fishing industry continues to expand. In 1970, thirteen million people earned their livelihood from fishing. By 1997 the number had reached thirty million. Bottom-trawl nets, commonly used to catch cod, sand eels and Alaskan salmon, have a devastating impact on marine life, quite literally sweeping away ecosystems. Mammals, seabirds and other marine predators are robbed of their prey.

Bunker C, the most commonly used ship fuel, contains ash, heavy metals and sediment that are separated off before use. The by-product is a thick sludge that many skippers prefer to dump illicitly rather than dispose of responsibly.

The effects of the planned commercial extraction of manganese nodules were simulated by German scientists 4000 metres below sea level off the coast of Peru. The research vessel dragged a harrow over the seabed, ploughing an area of eleven square kilometres. Numerous organisms died as a result. Years after the study, the region has failed to recover.

Florida Keys: in the course of a construction project, soil was flushed into the sea and settled on the reef, stifling a high percentage of the coral.

According to oceanographers, rising levels of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere caused by the burning of fossil fuels are adversely affecting the growth of coral reefs. When C0₂ dissolves, it lowers the pH of the water. Nonetheless, leading energy corporations intend to go ahead with their plans to pump large quantities of C0₂ into the ocean in an effort to prevent the gas entering the atmosphere.

10 May

Chateau Whistler, Canada

The message left Kiel at a speed of 300,000 kilometres per second.

The sequence of words keyed into Erwin Suess's laptop at the Geomar Centre entered the net in digital form. Converted by laser diodes into optical pulses, the information raced along with a wavelength of 1.5 thousandths of a millimetre, shooting down a transparent fibreoptic cable with millions of phone conversations and packets of data. The fibres bundled the stream of light until it was no thicker than two hairs, while total internal reflection stopped it escaping. Whizzing towards the coast, the waves surged along the overland cable, speeding through amplifiers every fifty kilometres until the fibres vanished into the sea, protected by copper casing and thick rubber tubing, and strengthened by powerful wires.

The underwater cable was as thick as a muscular forearm. It stretched out across the shelf, buried in the seabed to protect it from anchors and fishing-boats. TAT 14, as it was officially known, was a transatlantic cable linking Europe to the States. Its capacity was higher than that of almost any other cable in the world. There were dozens of such cables in the North Atlantic alone. Hundreds of thousands of kilometres of optical fibre extended across the planet, making up the backbone of the information age. Three-quarters of their capacity was devoted to the World Wide Web. Project Oxygen linked 175 countries in a kind of global super Internet. Another system bundled eight optical fibres to give a transmission capacity of 3.2 terabits per second, the equivalent of 48 million simultaneous phone conversations. The delicate glass fibres on the ocean bed had long since supplanted satellite technology. The globe was wrapped in a web of light-transporting wires, through which the bits and bytes of virtual society travelled in real time – telephone calls, video images, music, emails. The global village was made of cable, not of satellites.

Erwin Suess's email left Scandinavia and sped towards Britain on its way north. As it rounded the tip of Scotland, TAT 14 curved to the left. Once it passed the Hehridean shelf, the cable snaked its w^ay over the seabed, resting on the ocean floor.

At least, it would have done, if the shelf and the seabed hadn't been destroyed.

Barely eight milliseconds after the message had left Kiel, it crossed the ocean south of the Faroes, where the cable ended abruptly in gigatonnes of mud and rock. Its durable casing with its reinforced wire and flexible plastic jacket had been severed in two, shattering the glass fibres, so the message of light waves was sent to the mud. The avalanche had hit the cable with such force that the torn ends lay hundreds of kilometres apart. TAT 14 only resumed its course in the Icelandic Basin, crossing back on to the shelf south of Newfoundland and running parallel to the coast until it reached Boston, where the useless length of high-tech cable connected to the overland line. Winding over the Rocky Mountains, the data highway travelled north past Vancouver along the west coast of Canada, where the optical cable was hooked up to a conventional copper cable in the substation of the prestigious luxury hotel, Chateau Whistler, at the foot of Blackcomb Mountain. A photodiode then reversed the original process, converting the optical pulses back into digital data.

Under normal circumstances the message from Kiel would have passed through the photodiode and appeared as an email on Gerhard Bohrmann's laptop. But the situation wasn't normal, and Bohrmann, along with millions of others, had lost his connection. One week after the disaster in northern Europe, transatlantic Internet traffic was at a standstill, and phone calls could only be made via satellite, if at all.

Bohrmann was sitting in the hotel lobby, staring at the screen. He knew Suess had been planning to email him a file. It contained growth curves for the worm colonies and estimates of what would happen in the event of similar invasions in other parts of the world. After the initial shock, the scientists in Kiel had jumped into action, and were working flat-out on the data.

He swore. The small world was large again, full of unbridgeable space. They'd been told that morning that a satellite connection for email would be up and running by the end of the day, but there was still no sign of it working. For the time being, they were tied to the severed cable. Bohrmann knew that crisis teams around the world were feverishly trying to build autonomous networks, but the Internet kept collapsing. The real problem, he suspected, wasn't one of know-how but capacity. The military satellites were working fine, but even the Americans had never considered the possibility that the transatlantic fibreoptic bridge might one day need rerouting via space.

He reached for the mobile that had been supplied to him by the emergency committee, and dialled a satellite connection through to Kiel. He waited. After a few attempts he was connected with the Geomar Centre and put through to Suess. 'No luck,' he said.

'Well, it was worth a shot.' Suess's voice was perfectly clear, but there was a lag in response time that Bohrmann found offputting. He couldn't get used to satellite calls. The signal had to travel 36,000 kilometres from the caller to the satellite, then the same distance back to the receiver. Conversations were full of pauses and overlaps. 'Nothing's working here either,' said Suess. 'In fact, it's getting worse. We can't get through to Norway, we haven't heard a peep out of Scotland, and Denmark is just a place on the map. You can forget about emergency measures – nothing's been done.'

'We're on the phone now, aren't we?' said Bohrmann.

'Only because the Americans want us to be. You're enjoying the military privileges of a superpower. It's hopeless in Europe. There isn't a single person who doesn't want to make a call. Everyone's terrified because they don't know what's happened to their family and friends. We've got a data jam. The few available networks have been snapped up by government teams and crisis squads.'

'So what do we do?' Bohrmann asked helplessly.

'No idea. Maybe the QE2's still sailing. You could always send a rider on horseback to wait for the boat. You'd have the information in – now, let me see – six weeks or so?'

Bohrmann gave a pained laugh. 'Seriously,' he said.

'In that case, we've got no choice. Get ready to write.'

'Fire away,' sighed Bohrmann.

While he noted what Suess dictated to him, a group of men in uniform crossed the lobby behind him and headed for the elevators. At their head was a tall man with Ethiopian features. According to his insignia, he was a general in the US military. He wore a name-badge – PEAK.

THE MEN FILED into an elevator. Most were travelling to the second and third floors. The others went up another level.

Major Salomon Peak continued on his own. He rode up to the ninth floor, on his way to the gold executive suites, the premier accommodation in the 550-room hotel. He was staying in a junior suite on the floor below. A no-frills single room would have suited him fine. He didn't give a hoot about luxury, but the hotel management had insisted on billeting the committee in their very best rooms. As he strode down the corridor, footsteps muffled by the carpet, he ran through the arrangements for the presentation. Men and women, some uniformed, others in civilian dress, came the other way. Doors were propped open, revealing suites that had been converted into offices. A few seconds later Peak reached a large door. Two soldiers saluted. Peak signalled for them to relax. One knocked, waited for an answer, then opened the door smartly. Peak was admitted.

'How're things?' said Judith Li.

She'd arranged for a treadmill from the health club to be installed in her suite. As far as Peak could tell, she spent more time running than sleeping. She was always on the treadmill – watching TV, dealing with her mail, dictating memos, reports and speeches through the voice recognition software on her laptop, listening to briefings on all manner of topics or using the time to think. She was on the treadmill now. A bandeau held her sleek black hair in place. She wore a lightweight track top with a zipper front and tight-fitting track pants. Her breathing was regular, despite the pace she maintained. Peak continually had to remind himself that General Commander Li was forty-eight years old. The trim woman on the treadmill could easily have been mistaken for someone ten years her junior.

'Fine,' said Peak. 'We're coping.'

He glanced around. The suite was the size of a luxury apartment and had been fitted out accordingly. Traditional Canadian furnishings – an open fireplace, lots of wood, rustic charm – combined with French elegance. A grand piano stood next to the window. Like the treadmill, it wasn't normally in the sitting room: Li had requisitioned it from the lobby downstairs. A magnificent archway led to the enormous bedroom on the left. Peak had never seen the bathroom, although he'd heard that it included a whirlpool and sauna.

To him, the treadmill was the only useful piece of furniture, a bulky black presence in the carefully designed interior. In his opinion, sophistication and army business didn't mix. Peak had come from humble beginnings. He'd joined the army not because he had an eye for nice decor but because the streets in his neighbourhood had led mostly to jail. He'd earned his college degree and his officer badge through sheer grit and hard work. His career was an inspiration to others, but it didn't change his roots. He still felt more comfortable under canvas or in a cheap motel.

'We've got the data from the NOAA satellites,' he said, staring past Li through the large panoramic window that overlooked the valley. The sun was shining on the forest of cedars and pines. There was no denying that it was pretty, but Peak wasn't bothered by the view. His mind was on the hours ahead.

'And?'

'We were right.'

'So there's a parallel?'

'Yes. Definite similarities between the noises picked up by the URA and the unidentified spectrograms from 1997.'

'Good,' said Li, apparently satisfied. 'That's good.'

'Is it? Sure, it's a lead, but there's no explanation.'

'Come off it, Sal, don't tell me you were expecting the ocean to give you an answer.' Li pressed the clear button on the treadmill and jumped off 'That's what this whole circus is in aid of, remember? To find out what's going on. Do we have a full house yet?'

'Everyone's here. The last just arrived.'

'Who?'

'The Norwegian guy who discovered the worms. A biologist. He's called, uh…'

'Sigur Johanson.' Li disappeared into the bathroom and came back with a hand-towel draped round her shoulders. 'It's time you learned their names, Sal. We've got three hundred people in this hotel, seventy-five of them scientists. Goddamn it, Sal, that's not so much to ask.'

'Are you telling me you've learned three hundred names?'

I'll learn three thousand, if I have to. You'd better start shaping up.'

'You're kidding me,' said Peak.

I'll prove it.'

'All right. Johanson's got a British journalist with him. We're hoping she can tell us what went on in the Arctic. What's her name?'

'Karen Weaver,' said Li, towelling her hair. 'Lives in London. Science journalist with an interest in oceanography. Computer buff. Was on the vessel in the Greenland Sea that later sank with all its crew.' She flashed her snow-white teeth in a grin. 'If only we had pictures of everything like we have of that boat.'

'You bet.' Peak allowed himself a smile. 'Anyone mentions those pics and Vanderbilt goes red in the face.'

'I'm not surprised. The CIA can't handle seeing stuff without knowing what it means. Has he arrived yet?'

'He's due.'

'Due?'

'He's in the helicopter.'

'Wow. The weight-bearing capacity of our aircraft never ceases to amaze me. You know, Sal, I'd be sweating if I had to fly that pig. Well, don't forget to tell me if any sensational discoveries hit Chateau Whistler before it's time to dazzle our guests.'

Peak hesitated. 'How do we know they won't tell?'

'We've been through this a million times.'

'Sure – and that's still a million too few. These guys don't understand a thing about confidentiality. They've all got family and friends. Before we know it, journalists'll show up and start asking questions.'

'Not our problem.'

'Well, it might be.'

'So recruit them into the army.' Li gestured dismissively. 'Put them under martial law. Shoot them if they talk.'

Peak froze.

'I'm joking, Sal.' Li waved at him. 'Hello! I said it was a joke.'

I'm not in the mood for jokes,' Peak said. 'Vanderbilt's dying to put the whole darned lot of them under martial law, but it's just not realistic. Over half of them are foreigners, Europeans mainly. We can't do anything if they decide to break their word.'

'Then we'll make out that we can.'

'You're going to coerce them? It won't work. No one co-operates under coercion.'

'Who mentioned coercion? For heaven's sake, Sal, I wish you'd stop inventing problems out of nowhere. They want to help us. And they will keep quiet. And if they somehow get the impression that they might end up in jail if they don't keep shtoom, well, so much the better. The power of suggestion can go a long way.'

Peak looked at her skeptically. 'Anything else?'

'No, I think we're all set.'

'Fine. See you later, then.' Peak took his leave.

LI WATCHED HIM go and smiled. How little he knew about people. He was an excellent soldier and a brilliant strategist, but he had difficulty in distinguishing humans from machines. Peak seemed to think that there was a hidden button on the human body that guaranteed all orders would be correctly carried out. It was a common misconception among graduates from West Point. America's elite military academy was known for its merciless regime, which was geared towards unconditional, blind obedience. Peak wasn't entirely wrong to be anxious, but his understanding of group psychology was way off the mark.

Li's thoughts turned to Jack Vanderbilt. He was in charge of the CIA's efforts. Li didn't like him. He stank, sweated and had bad breath, but he certainly knew his job. Over the past few weeks, his department had excelled itself, especially after the tsunami had devastated northern Europe. He and his team had pieced together an astonishingly clear overview of the chaos of events. In real terms that didn't mean they had answers, but no one could want for a better catalogue of questions.

Li wondered whether she should give the White House a call. Not that there was anything to report, but the President liked talking to her – he admired her intellect. That was the way things stood between them, and Li knew it, but she kept it to herself It was better that way. She was one of only a handful of female American generals, and she was well below the average age for military high command. That was enough to arouse the suspicions of senior military and political figures. Her friendly rapport with the most powerful man in the world did nothing to improve the situation, so Li pursued her goals with utmost caution. She avoided the limelight, and never let slip in public just how much the President depended on her: that he didn't like scenarios being described as complicated because complexity had no place in his thinking, that it often fell to her to help him see the complex world in simple terms, that he asked her for guidance whenever the advice of his defence secretary or national security adviser seemed unintelligible, and that she had no trouble explaining their viewpoints – and the Department of State's opinion as well.

On no account would Li have allowed herself to acknowledge that she was the source of the President's ideas. If asked, she said, 'The President is of the opinion that. . .' or 'The President's view on the matter is…' No one needed to know how she tutored the lord and master of the White House, broadening his intellectual and cultural horizons and supplying him with opinions and ideas that he could call his own.

The members of his inner circle saw through it, of course, but all that mattered to Li was being rewarded for her ability at the right time, like during the Gulf War in 1991, when General Norman Schwarzkopf had discovered in her a gifted strategist and political tactician with a razor-sharp intellect and the guts to stand up to anyone or anything. By then Li had already amassed an impressive list of achievements: the first female ever to graduate from West Point, a degree in natural sciences, officer-training with the navy, admission to the US Command and General Staff College and the National War College and, to finish, a PhD in politics and history at Duke University. Schwarzkopf had taken Li under his wing and saw to it that she was invited to seminars and conferences with all the right people. Stormin' Norman, who took no interest in politics, smoothed the way for her to enter the murky realm where political and military interests mingled and the landscape of power was continually redrawn.

The first reward for her powerful patronage was the position of deputy commander of the Allied Forces in Central Europe. Within no time Li enjoyed immense popularity in European diplomatic circles. At last she was able to reap the full benefit of her upbringing, education and natural talent. Her father came from a long line of American generals and had played a key role in the White House's National Security Council until ill-health had forced him to step down. Her Chinese mother had made her mark as a cellist with the New York Opera and as a soloist on countless records. The couple expected even more from their only daughter than they did from themselves. Judith went to ballet classes, took ice-skating lessons, and learned the piano and the cello. She accompanied her father on his trips to Europe and Asia, and gained an insight into the diversity of different cultures at an early age. She never tired of hearing about the history and traditions of different ethnic groups, and pestered the locals to tell her about themselves, chattering away, usually in their native tongue. By the age of twelve she had perfected her knowledge of Mandarin, her mother's first language; at fifteen she spoke fluent German, French, Italian and Spanish; and by the time she was eighteen she could get by in Japanese and Korean. Her parents' attitudes were unbending as far as manners, dress and etiquette were concerned, though in other respects they were peculiarly tolerant. The marriage of her father's Presbyterian principles to her mother's Buddhist inclinations was as harmonious as their own.

The real surprise was that her father had insisted on taking his wife's name, a decision that had pitched him into a long, drawn-out struggle with the authorities. Judith Li worshipped her father for making this gesture towards the woman he loved and who had left her homeland for him. He was a man of contradictions, both liberal and dyed-in-the-wool Republican in his opinions, all of which he held with equal conviction. Someone with less strength of character would probably have been crushed by the family's determination to be the best at everything, but the youngest member rose to the challenge, finishing high school two years before her peers and with perfect grades to boot. Judith Li was convinced that she could do anything she turned her mind to. Even the Presidency wasn't beyond her reach.

In the mid-nineties she'd been appointed deputy chief of staff for Operations in the US Department of the Army and offered a lectureship in history at the West Point academy. Great things were being said about her in the Department of Defense. At the same time, her affinity for politics didn't go unnoticed. All she needed now was a significant military victory. The Pentagon insisted on active service before it opened the way to higher pastures, and Li hankered for a first-rate international crisis. She didn't have long to wait. In 1999 she was made US Deputy Commander in Kosovo, and her name was inscribed on the roll of honour.

This time her homecoming was marked by her appointment as commanding general at Fort Lewis and by the summons to join the National Security Council at the White House. A memo she'd written on national security had already been making weaves. She had taken a hard line on the topic. In many respects she w^as even less compromising than the Republican administration, but above all she was patriotic. For all her cosmopolitanism she sincerely believed that there w^as nowhere as just and as free as the United States of America, and in her memo she'd dealt with some of the country's most pressing security problems in that light.

Suddenly she found herself in the corridors of power.

But General Li was all too aware of the beast that lurked inside her: fiery, untamable emotion. It could be as useful as it was dangerous, depending on what she did next. No one could be allowed to think that she was vain or that she flaunted her abilities. She shone enough already. Every now and then she would swap her uniform for a strapless gown, playing Chopin, Schubert or Brahms to the delight of her listeners at the White House. In the ballroom she made the President feel like Fred Astaire, whisking him off his feet until he felt like he was floating. Or she serenaded him and his family and their grand old Republican friends with songs from the days of the founding fathers. This part of her image was all her own. She was adept at making close personal ties, sharing the defense secretary's passion for baseball and the secretary of state's enthusiasm for European history, securing invitations to dinner at the White House and spending entire weekends at the presidential ranch.

On the outside she seemed unassuming. She kept her personal opinions on political matters to herself. She mediated between the military and the politicians, appearing cultivated, charming, self-assured and always well-dressed, without seeming stiff or self-important. She was said to have had affairs with several influential men, although none of it was true. Li ignored it blithely. No question was awkward enough to ruffle her. With a talent for feeding journalists and politicians with easily digestible soundbites, she was always well organised, and had vast amounts of information at her fingertips, which she could call up like a zip file, the details compressed into manageable chunks.

Of course, she had no idea what was happening in the ocean, but she'd succeeded in putting the President in the picture. She'd broken the bulky CIA dossier into a few key points. As a result, she'd been sent to Chateau Whistler, and Li knew exactly what that meant.

It was the last big step she had to take.

Maybe she should call the President. A quick chat. He always appreciated that. She could tell him that all the delegates had arrived, or – as she would put it – that they'd followed the USA's informal summons, despite their crises at home. Or maybe she should tell him that NOAA had found similarities in the unidentified noises. He liked that kind of thing. It had the ring of 'Sir, we've made some progress'. Of course, she couldn't expect him to know about Bloop and Upsweep, or why the NOAA scientists thought they'd tracked down the origins of Slowdown. That was all too detailed and, besides, it wouldn't be necessary. Just a few reassuring words over the secure satellite connection and the President would be happy; and a happy President was a useful President. She'd call him.

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?'

'I wouldn't bother asking for an autograph.' Bohrmann smiled. 'It's not Maximilian Schell;

'Really?' Oliviera seemed disappointed.

'No. His name's Sigur Johanson and he's Norwegian. He could tell you a thing or two about what happened in Europe. He and I, and some people from Statoil…' Bohrmann gazed after him and his expression darkened. 'Actually, you should probably wait for him to tell you himself He comes from Trondheim, and there isn't much of it left. He lost his home.'

There it was again, the reality of the horror, proof that the TV pictures were real. Anawak drank his water in silence.

'OK.' Ford glanced at his watch. 'Enough of the chat. Time to head over and hear what they've got to say.'

THE CHATEAU HAD several conference rooms. Li had chosen a medium-sized one, which was barely large enough for the group of intelligence operatives, government representatives and scientists who were due to attend the presentation. She knew from experience that when people were crammed in together they either got on each other's nerves or developed a sense of community. Either way, they lacked the opportunity to distance themselves from one another or from the business at hand.

The seating plan had been drawn up accordingly. The delegates were thrown together in a mix of nationalities and fields of expertise. Each chair came with its own small table, including a jotter and a laptop. The visual section of the presentation would take place on a three-metre by five-metre screen with loudspeakers for the sound and a remote-control for the PowerPoint display. Amid the plush, conservative furniture, the mass of high technology was sobering.

Peak turned up and took his place on one of the seats reserved for the speakers. He was followed by a man in a crumpled suit with an enormous girth. There were dark patches under the arms of his jacket. Strands of thinning white-blond hair had been scraped across his broad head. He wheezed audibly as he held out his hand to Li. Five swollen fingers stuck out like baby balloons. 'Hi, Suzie Wong,' he said.

Li extended her hand and resisted the urge to wipe it on her trousers afterwards. 'Jack. Good to see you.'

'Of course it is, baby.' Vanderbilt grinned. 'Go on, girl, knock 'em dead. And if they don't start clapping, strip. You'll get my applause.'

He wiped the perspiration off his forehead, gave the thumbs-up and winked, then plumped down next to Peak. Li watched him with a frosty smile. Vanderbilt was deputy director of the CIA. He was a valuable operative and the CIA would miss him. She decided to destroy him slowly when the moment came. There was still a long road ahead, but she'd soon have the fat pig squealing in the dirt. Too bad for the stellar Jack Vanderbilt.

The room was filling.

Most of the delegates didn't know each other, so they took their seats in silence. Li waited patiently until the scraping of chairs and rustling of papers had subsided. She could feel their tension. With one look at each face, she could divine the mood of every individual. Li had taught herself to read people's souls.

She walked up to the lectern and smiled. 'Please make yourselves comfortable.'

A low murmur swept through the room. A few leaned back stiffly and crossed their legs. Only the good-looking Norwegian biologist with the scarf draped carelessly round his shoulders was reclining in his chair with a nonchalance that verged on boredom. His dark eyes fixed on Li. She tried sizing him up, but Johanson's expression gave nothing away. She wondered why. He'd lost his home, so the disaster had affected him more directly than most. He should have looked depressed, but he evidently wasn't. Li could think of only one explanation. He wasn't expecting to hear anything new. He had a theory more pressing than sorrow or despair. Either he knew more than all of the rest, or he thought he did.

She'd keep tabs on him.

'I know that you're all under tremendous pressure,' she continued, 'so I'd like to offer our heartfelt thanks for making this meeting possible. Above all, I'd like to thank the scientists who've joined us today. With your help I sincerely believe that we can start to consider the events of the recent past with optimism. You give us cause for hope.'

Li spoke in a calm, friendly tone. She had their undivided attention, but Vanderbilt's mouth was open and he was picking his teeth.

'I guess many of you will be asking yourselves why we didn't decide to hold this meeting at the Pentagon, the White House or the Canadian parliament. On the one hand, we wanted to offer you a working environment that was as comfortable as possible. The delights of Chateau Whistler are legendary. But the key point in its favour is the location. The mountains are safe; the coastline isn't. There's not a single city on the coastline of America or Canada that would be safe for us.'

She let her eyes roam over the upturned faces.

'That's the first reason. Another is the relative proximity to the British Columbian coast. All the phenomena that we've been witnessing – anomalous behaviour among animals, mutations, changes to hydrate deposits on continental slopes – can be found right here. From Chateau Whistler you can take the helicopter to the coast in no time. We're also within easy reach of a number of leading research centres, most notably the lab in Nanaimo. We set up a base here a few weeks ago to observe the behaviour of the whales. In the light of developments in Europe, we've decided to expand it into an international crisis centre with the best crisis-management team in the world. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is you.'

She paused for her words to take effect. She wanted her listeners to be aware of their importance. It was expedient to encourage their sense of pride, of being part of the elite, despite the tragic circumstances. It sounded absurd, but it would discourage them from blabbing to outsiders.

'The third reason for being here is that we won't be disturbed. Chateau Whistler is cut off from the media. Needless to say, it doesn't go unnoticed when a hotel in a sought-after location suddenly closes its door and military helicopters are circling overhead. But we've never given an official statement as to what we're doing here. Whenever anyone asks us, we say we're on an exercise. Now, there's plenty they could write about that, but nothing concrete, so mostly they don't bother.' Li paused. 'It's not possible, and it's certainly not advisable, to tell the public everything. Mass panic would be the beginning of the end. Keeping everyone calm permits us to go about our work. I'm going to be frank with you here: the first casualty of war is always the truth. And don't be mistaken, this is war – a war that we need to understand before we can win it. We have an obligation to ourselves and to the rest of humanity. From now on, you may not speak to anyone, not even your closest friends and family, about the work you do for this committee. At the end of this meeting each of you will have to sign a declaration of silence, which will be taken extremely seriously. If any of you has any reservations, I would appreciate it if you could voice them now, before the presentation. As I'm sure you realise, you're entitled not to sign. No one will suffer any inconvenience for declining to comply. But anyone intending to do so should leave the room now and will be flown home at once.'

She made a bet with herself No one would go, but someone would ask a question.

She waited.

A hand was raised.

It was Mick Rubin. He came from Manchester, England, and was a biologist, an expert on molluscs.

'Does that mean we won't be able to leave the Chateau?'

'You can leave whenever you want. But you can't talk about your work,' Li told him.

'And what if. . .' Rubin wasn't sure how to finish.

'If you talk?' Li's face assumed a look of consternation. "That's a perfectly valid question, of course. Well, we'd have to deny everything, and make quite sure you didn't break your word again.'

'So you're … I mean, er… You're able to do that? I mean, you have that, er…'

'Authority? The majority of you will be aware that three days ago Germany called for a joint European Union commission to deal with the current situation. The German minister of the interior now chairs that initiative. As a precaution, Article V of the NATO treaty has also been invoked. Norway, the UK, Belgium, the Netherlands, Denmark and the Faroes have all declared a state of emergency, in some cases regionally, in others on a national scale. Canada and the USA have already combined forces under US leadership. Depending on how the international situation develops, there's every chance that the United Nations will take some kind of overall control. Throughout the world the existing order is crumbling and new jurisdictions are emerging. In view of the exceptional circumstances, yes, we do have that authority.'

There were no further questions.

'Good,' said Li. 'Then let's get going. Major Peak, I'll hand over to you…'

PEAK WALKED TO the front. The overhead lighting shimmered on his ebony skin. He pressed the button on the remote control and a satellite image appeared on the screen. A picture of a coastline dotted with towns, taken from considerable height.

'Maybe it started somewhere else,' he said, 'maybe this wasn't the beginning, but for today's purposes, this whole business kicked off in Peru. The slightly larger town in the middle here is Huanchaco.' He shone the laser pointer at different sites in the sea. 'Huanchaco lost twenty-two fishermen in a few days, despite the glorious weather. Some of their boats were found later, drifting out to sea. Soon afterwards sports boats, motor yachts and small sailing-boats went missing too. In some cases a few scraps of debris were recovered, but more often than not, nothing.'

He called up another image.

'The seas are under continual surveillance,' he continued. 'They're full of profilers and robotic floats transmitting a constant stream of data on salinity, temperature, carbon-dioxide flux, current velocity and all kinds of other phenomena. Marine instruments monitor the exchange of substances between the water and the seabed. There's a flotilla of research vessels cruising the oceans out there, and the skies are full of military and Earth-observation satellites. You'd think it wouldn't be a problem to trace a missing boat, but things aren't that simple. You see, our spies in the sky suffer the same problem as anything else that has eyes – the notorious blind spot.'

A diagram showed a section of the Earth's surface. A collection of satellites of varying sizes hovered above it, like oversized flies.

'I recommend you don't even try to get to grips with all the artificial stars up there,' said Peak. 'There are three and a half thousand, not counting space probes like Magellan or Hubble. Most of the stuff up there is junk. Only about six hundred satellites are fully functional, and you'll have access to several of them. Military satellites included.'

Peak uttered that last sentence with regret. He shifted the laser pointer to a barrel-shaped object with solar sails. 'An American KH-12 keyhole satellite, an optical satellite. In daylight the resolution is as good as five centimetres. That's almost enough to identify individual faces. It also uses infrared and multispectral imaging to generate nighttime data. Unfortunately it's useless in cloud.'

He pointed to another satellite. 'That's why lots of recon satellites use radar instead – microwave radiation, to be precise. Clouds don't get in the way of radar. These satellites don't take pictures, they map the world by scanning the surface of the planet centimetre by centimetre and creating a 3-D model. But there's an Achilles' heel here too. Radar images need to be interpreted. Radar can't see colour or look through glass. The world of radar consists solely of shapes.'

'Can't you combine the two technologies?' asked Bohrmann.

'You can, but it's expensive, and no one bothers. And that ties right in with the central problem of satellite surveillance. To survey an entire country or a stretch of water, you need a number of systems working together, each capable of scanning a very large area. Anyone interested in obtaining detailed images of a defined area has to put up with snapshots in time. Satellites are in orbit, and in most cases it takes them ninety minutes to return to their original location.'

'What about satellites that maintain their position in relation to the Earth?' a Finnish diplomat demanded. 'Can't we post a few of those above the regions in question?'

'They're too high up. Geostationary satellites are only stable at an altitude of exactly 35,888 kilometres. The smallest recognisable detail from that height is eight kilometres long. That means Heligoland could sink without you realising.' Peak paused, then continued: 'But once it dawned on us what we were looking for, we changed our systems accordingly.'

Next up was a picture of the water's surface, taken from a moderate height. Rays of sunshine slanted across it, giving the sea the appearance of fluted glass. Dotted over it were small boats and tiny oblong shapes, which on closer inspection turned out to be reed craft, each with a single figure crouching on top.

'A close-up from KH-12,' said Peak. "The shelf region near Huan-chaco. A bunch of fishermen disappeared from there that day. The footage was taken early in the morning so the glare isn't too bad, which is fortunate, since it allows us to see this.'

The next picture showed a silvery patch spread over a considerable area. Two forlorn little reed boats sailed over it.

'Fish. An enormous shoal. They're swarming about three metres below the surface, which is why we can see them. The problem with the ocean is that it's a very poor conductor of electromagnetic waves. Fortunately our optical systems can see a little way under, if the water's sufficiently clear. Of course, using thermal imaging we can detect a whale at a depth of thirty metres. That's why the military's so fond of infrared, because it shows up the subs.'

'What kind of fish are they?' The question came from a dark-haired young woman. According to her name badge, she was an ecology expert from the Ministry for the Environment in Reykjavik. 'Dorado?'

'Maybe. Or they could be South American sardines.'

'There must be millions. Incredible. I was under the impression that the South American waters had been seriously overfished.'

'And so they have,' said Peak, 'which got us thinking. That, and the fact that the fish turn up wherever swimmers, divers and small boats have been reported missing. There've been a string of shoaling anomalies. Approximately three months ago a shoal of herring sank a nineteen-metre trawler off the coast of Norway.'

'I heard about that,' said the ecologist. 'The Steinholm, right?'

Peak nodded. 'The fish were caught in the net, but just as the crew were about to haul them on board, they turned and swam to the bottom. The boat capsized. The crew tried to cut the net loose, but it was too late. They had to abandon ship. It sank in ten minutes fiat.'

'Not long afterwards we had a similar incident off the coast of Iceland,' the ecologist said thoughtfully. 'Two sailors drowned.'

'I know. Bizarre, and yet a freak occurrence – or so you might think. But if you add up all the freak occurrences on a global scale, it's clear that shoals of fish have sunk more boats in the past few months than ever before. Some say it's coincidence, that the fish were swimming for their lives. Others look at the same pattern of events and start to see a strategy. We can't exclude the possibility that the fish are allowing themselves to be caught in order to capsize the vessels.'

'That's nonsense!' The Russian diplomat was incredulous. 'Since when have fish been able to plan?'

'Since they started sinking boats,' Peak said curtly. 'They're doing it in the Atlantic right now. In the Pacific, though, they seem to have learned how to dodge nets. We don't have the slightest idea how, but we can only assume that they have made a cognitive leap and suddenly know about drag and seine nets, that they've figured out what nets do. But even supposing something has prompted their mental capacity to develop so quickly, their ability to gauge distance must have improved dramatically too.'

'A net like that measures a hundred and ten by a hundred and forty metres at its mouth. There's no way that a fish, or even a shoal, could detect it.'

'Yet that's precisely what seems to be happening. The fishing flotillas are complaining of drastically reduced catches. The whole food industry is suffering.' Peak cleared his throat. 'I'm sure you've all heard about the second factor in the disappearance of boats and people. It took a while, though, for KH-12 to document an incident.'

ANAWAK STARED at the screen. He knew what was coming. He'd seen the images before – he'd even helped with the data – but his throat constricted every time.

He thought of Susan Stringer.

The pictures had been taken in such quick succession that the sequence unfolded like a film. A sailing yacht of about twelve metres in length was floating on the open water. The wind had dropped, the sea was perfectly smooth, and the sails had been lowered. Two men were sitting aft, while the women lay sunning themselves on the foredeck.

An enormous dark shape passed close to the boat, every detail on the colossal body clearly identifiable. It was an adult humpback. Two more whales followed. Their backs broke the surface of the water, and a man stood up and pointed. The women raised their heads.

'Now,' said Peak.

The whales made another pass, then something appeared in the deep blue water on the portside, rising swiftly to the surface. Another whale. It broke water vertically, shooting upwards, flippers splayed. The people on board turned their heads, transfixed.

The body tilted, then smashed diagonally on to the boat, splitting it in two. Debris whirled through the air and the people shot up like dolls. Anawak saw the mast break. A second whale hurled itself on to the wreck, and pieces of hull floated forlornly in an expanding ring of foaming wash. There was no sign of the people.

'Only a handful of you will have witnessed an attack like this at first hand,' said Peak, 'which is why it was important for the rest to see it now. The danger zone is no longer confined to the American and Canadian coastlines. All but the largest ships have been banished from the waters worldwide.'

Anawak closed his eyes. How would it have looked from space when the DHC-2 collided with the whale? Was there a record of that too? He hadn't dared ask. The idea of a glass eye watching the scene impassively was too awful.

As though he'd heard his thoughts, Peak said, 'This type of documentation may strike you as heartless, ladies and gentleman, but we're not voyeurs. Whenever possible, we tried to help.' He looked up from the screen of his laptop, his eyes expressionless. 'Unfortunately, in cases like these, it's always too late.'

PEAK WAS AWARE that he was skating on thin ice. He'd hinted that they were on the lookout for accidents, which invited the question as to why they hadn't done more to prevent them.

'Suppose we think of the spread of the attacks as a kind of epidemic,' he said, 'then the epidemic must have started in the waters off Vancouver Island. The first reported incidents took place near Tofino. It sounds incredible, I know, but in many cases, strategic alliances were obviously at work. Grey whales, humpbacks and, in some instances, fin, sperm and other large whales attacked the boats, then smaller, faster whales – orcas – took care of the survivors.'

The Norwegian biologist raised his hand. 'What reason do you have to assume that it's an epidemic?'

I'm not saying it is an epidemic, Dr Johanson,' said Peak. I'm saying that it seemed to spread like one. First Tofino, then a few hours later the Baja California, then Alaska in the north.'

I'm not so sure it spread at all.'

'Well, evidently, yes.'

Johanson shook his head. 'Evidently. What I'm getting at is that appearances might lead us to draw the wrong conclusions.'

'Dr Johanson,' Peak said patiently, 'if you could just give me a little more time to-'

'Isn't it conceivable,' Johanson continued, undeterred, 'that we're dealing with a simultaneous outbreak that was imperfectly co-coordinated?'

Peak looked at him. 'Yes,' he said reluctantly.

SHE KNEW IT. Johanson was advancing a theory of his own – much to the chagrin of Peak, who didn't approve of civilians interrupting an officer in uniform.

She watched with amusement.

Crossing her legs, she settled back in her chair and noticed Vanderbilt looking at her questioningly. He obviously assumed that she'd spoken to Johanson in advance. She returned the glance and shook her head, then turned back to Peak.

'We've already established,' Peak was saying, 'that the aggressors are all nonresidents. Resident whales are basically part of the scenery. Transients, on the other hand, either embark on extensive migrations – like the transient humpbacks or greys – or cruise around in the open water, like offshore orcas, for instance. On the basis of all this, we're assuming – tentatively, of course – that the cause for the change in behaviour must lie further away, that is, far out to sea.'

A map of the world appeared, showing places where attacks had been reported. The red shading stretched from Alaska down to Cape Horn, the east and west coasts of Africa and the coastline of Australia. The screen cleared and a new map appeared. Once again, there was coloured hatching around the coastlines.

'The number of sea-dwelling species actively attacking humans has risen across the board. Shark attacks have soared in Australia and South Africa. No one goes swimming or fishing any more. Shark nets usually suffice to keep the creatures out, but now they're in tatters, and there's no dependable evidence as to who or what's to blame. Our electro-optical surveillance systems haven't succeeded in solving the mystery, and we don't have sufficient numbers of dive robots in the third world to be of much use.'

'So you don't think it's just a cluster of coincidences?' asked a German diplomat.

Peak shook his head. 'One of the first things you learn in the navy, sir, is how to assess the danger posed by sharks. They're dangerous, you see, but not always aggressive. And they don't like our flavour. In most cases they'll spit out an arm or a leg.'

'That's all right, then,' muttered Johanson.

'But various shark species have developed a sudden craving for human flesh. In the space of a few weeks, there's been a tenfold rise in attacks. Thousands of blue sharks – an open-water species – have migrated to the shelf. Packs of mako sharks, great whites and hammerheads are hunting together like wolves, descending on coastal areas and inflicting serious damage.'

'Damage?' asked a diplomat, in a thick French accent. I'm not sure I follow. Were people killed?'

Of course they were darned well killed, Peak seemed to be thinking.

'Yes, people are being killed,' he said. 'The sharks are also attacking boats.'

'Mon Dieu! What can a shark do to a boat?'

'Don't let them fool you.' Peak gave a thin smile. 'A fully grown great white is easily capable of sinking a boat by ramming it or tearing chunks out of it. Sharks are known to have attacked rafts carrying castaways. If several attack at once, there's little chance of pulling through.'

He called up a picture of an octopus, whose skin was covered with iridescent blue rings.

'Next up, Hapalochlaena maculosa, the blue-ringed octopus. Twenty centimetres in length, found in Australia, New Guinea and the Solomon Islands. One of the most poisonous animals in the world. Injects toxic enzymes with its bite. Its victims barely feel a thing, but in less than two hours they're stone dead.' Some of the organisms in the pictures were bizarre. 'Stone fish, weever fish, scorpion fish, bearded fireworms, cone snails – the seas are full of poisonous creatures like these. Usually the toxins are used for defence, but the number of incidents involving poisoning has increased significantly. In the case of some animals the statistics have shot through the roof, and there's a simple explanation: species that normally camouflage themselves and hide from humans have started to attack.'

Roche leaned towards Johanson. 'The question is, could something that triggers a change in a shark trigger a change in a crustacean?' Li heard him whisper. Is that possible?'

'I'd say it's deadly certain,' Johanson replied.

PEAK HAD MOVED on to the jellyfish invasion of coastal areas, which was reaching crisis proportions in South America, Australia and Indonesia. Johanson listened, with half-closed eyes. Portuguese men-of-war had started to release a toxin that could kill within seconds.

'For the sake of clarity we've split the phenomena into three different categories,' Peak said. 'Behavioural changes, mutations and environmental disasters. They're all interlinked, of course. So far we've looked at abnormal behaviour, but in the case of the jellies, we're dealing mainly with mutations. Box jellyfish have always been capable of navigation, but now they're real experts. You get the sense that they're patrolling. It's as though they're trying to clear the area of any human presence, even though we could never really harm them. The diving industry is on its last legs, but the fishermen are the real victims.'

The screen filled with a picture of factory trawler, a colossal vessel with an on-board facility that processed the catch.

'This is the Anthanea. A fortnight ago its crew caught a load of Chironex fleckeri. Box jellies, in other words. Or at least we think they're Chironex or something very similar. In any case, the fishermen made the mistake of not throwing them straight back into the water. Instead they opened the nets, and several tonnes of poison landed on the deck. Some fishermen were killed outright, others died later when the metre-long, practically invisible tentacles were scattered around the ship. It rained that day. The whole boat was awash with jellyfish remnants. No one knows how the toxin entered the drinking water, but the Anthanea became a ghost ship. Now people are warier, and the trawlers carry protective clothing, but the essential problem remains. Throughout much of the world, the fishing flotillas are catching poison, not fish.'

They're not catching fish because there aren't any left, thought Johanson. Come on, Peak, a detail like that deserves to he mentioned, even if it's not the real cause.

Or was it?

Of course it was. It was one of countless causes.

His mind switched to the worms.

All those mutant organisms that suddenly seemed to know what they were doing. Didn't anyone see what was happening? They were experiencing the symptoms of a disease whose pathogens were everywhere, but always in hiding. It was an amazing piece of camouflage. Man had emptied the seas of fish, and now the few remaining shoals had learned to avoid the death traps, while armies of poison-toting soldiers took their place in the nets, holding the ailing fishing industry in a toxic embrace.

The sea was killing mankind.

And you killed Tina Lund, Johanson thought somberly. You encouraged her not to give up on Kare Sverdrup. She listened to you, or she would never have driven to Sveggesundet.

Was it his fault?

How could he have known what would happen? Lund would probably have died in Stavanger too. What if he had told her to take the next plane to Hawaii or Florence? Would he be congratulating himself on having saved her?

They all had their personal demons to fight. Bohrmann was tormented by the notion that he should have warned the world earlier. Well, of course he should. But what would he have said? That he thought a catastrophe might happen? That one day, some time, disaster might strike? They'd pulled out all the stops to find a definitive answer. In the end they hadn't been fast enough, but at least they'd tried. Was Bohrmann at fault?

And what about Statoil? Finn Skaugen was dead. He'd been called to Stavanger docks just before the wave rolled in. Johanson was starting to see the oil boss in a different light. Skaugen had been a manipulator. All that guff about being the good conscience of an evil industry, but what had he done? Clifford Stone had also died in the catastrophe. Maybe he hadn't been the calculating monster that Skaugen had made him out to be.

Worms, jellies, whales, sharks.

Fish that could plan. Alliances. Strategies.

Johanson thought of his flattened house in Trondheim. It was odd, but he didn't feel too saddened by its loss. His real home was elsewhere, on the edge of a watery mirror that on clear nights contained the universe. He had caught sight of himself there, and created a haven for everything that was beautiful and true. The house was his creation, an embodiment of himself It was a refuge, in the way that a rented town-house could never be a home.

He hadn't been there since the weekend with Tina.

Would it have changed too?

The water in the lake was safe, but the thought of it made him uneasy. At the first opportunity he'd drive there and check up on it, no matter how much work the future held in store.

PEAK CALLED UP another image. The remains of a lobster.

'Hollywood would call it a messenger of doom or something,' said Peak, with a wry grin. 'And, in this case, the hype would be justified. Central Europe has been seized by an epidemic whose pathogens are hidden in creatures like these. Thanks to Dr Roche, we've now got the lowdown on the microscopic stowaways. The nearest taxonomical match is Pfiesteria piscicida, a single-cell alga. It's one of around sixty species of dinoflagellate that are known to be toxic. Of all the killer algae, Pfiesteria is the worst. Some years ago we had a nasty brush with it along the east coast of America, mainly in North Carolina. Pfiesteria was responsible for killing billions of fish. For the local fishermen it was an economic disaster, but it also affected their health. Many developed lesions on their arms and legs, suffered memory loss and eventually had to give up their jobs. Scientists researching Pfiesteria also experienced long-term health problems.' He paused. 'In 1990 one of the scientists investigating the algae, Howard Glasgow, was cleaning a glass tank in a specially designed lab at the University of North Carolina, when he noticed something was wrong. His mind was whirring, but his body seemed to move in slow motion. His limbs refused to keep up. Glasgow's illness was the first sign that the Pfiesteria toxins could get into the air, so the organisms were moved to a more secure facility. Unfortunately the building contractor had messed up, and the air vent pumped the toxins directly into Glasgow's office. No one noticed the mistake, so for the next six months he breathed toxic air. His headaches got so bad that he could barely work. He lost his balance. His liver and kidneys were poisoned. He'd speak on the phone and five minutes later all memory of the conversation would he gone. He wandered around town and lost his way home. He forgot his phone number and even his name. Most people were convinced that he had a brain tumour or was suffering from Alzheimer's, but Glasgow wouldn't listen. In the end he agreed to undergo a series of tests at Duke University, which showed that the problem was of a different nature. Other researchers who had come into contact with Pfiesteria later succumbed to lung infections and chronic bronchitis. And, slowly but surely, they lost their memory to an organism that defies our understanding.'

Peak displayed a series of slides from an electron microscope. They showed different types of microbe. Some looked like star-shaped amoebas, others resembled scaly or bristly spheres, while the rest were hamburger-shaped, with twisted tentacles extending from between the two halves of the bun.

'These are all pictures of Pfiesteria,' said Peak. 'It can change its appearance within minutes, growing to ten times its former size, encasing itself in a cyst or mutating from a harmless single-cell organism to a highly toxic zoospore. There are twenty-four different shapes that Pfiesteria can assume, and with each different shape comes different characteristics. We've now succeeded in isolating the toxin it produces, and Dr Roche and his team have been working flat out to pinpoint its chemical structure, but they face even greater difficulties than the scientists in the States. The organism contaminating Central Europe's water supply isn't Pfiesteria piscicida, but another, far more toxic strain. Pfiesteria piscicida means "fish-eating Pfiesteria?" Dr Roche has christened the new species Pfiesteria homicida. "Man-eating Pfiesteria"?

Peak summarised the factors that made tackling the algae so difficult. The new organism seemed programmed to reproduce in cycles of explosive growth. Once it had entered the water supply, it was impossible to get rid of. It seeped into the soil and deposited its toxins, which resisted all efforts to filter them out. And that was the problem. It was bad enough that many of the algae's victims were literally covered with Pfiesteria cells, which were eating them alive. Angry sores opened on their bodies, becoming infected, gangrenous and refusing to heal. But the poison given off by the algae was even more of a threat. No matter how determinedly the authorities tried to clean water-pipes and tanks, the organisms turned up elsewhere and spread their toxin. They had tried fighting them with heat and acid, clubbing them to death with chemical cudgels, but they had to be careful not to substitute one evil for another.

Pfiesteria homicida seemed unconcerned. Pfiesteria piscicida affected the nervous system, but the new strain attacked it with such aggression that it was paralysed within hours. The victims fell into a coma, then died. Only a few people seemed immune to it. Since Roche had been unable to unravel the structure of the toxin, he was hoping to decode the genetic basis for immunity, but time was running out. The epidemic had spread so fast it seemed impossible to stem.

'The algae arrived in a Trojan horse,' said Peak, 'tucked away in crustaceans. Trojan lobsters, if you like – or, at least, they looked like lobsters. The creatures were clearly alive when they were caught, but their flesh had been replaced with a jelly-like substance, inside which the colonies of Pfiesteria were hiding. The European Union has now outlawed the catching and exporting of lobsters. At present, only France, Spain, Belgium, Holland and Germany have reported instances of sickness and death. The latest available figures listed fourteen thousand fatalities. American lobsters still seem to be the real McCoy, but the authorities are contemplating a ban on the sale of crustaceans.'

'Dreadful,' whispered Rubin. 'Where did the algae come from?'

Roche turned round. 'We created them,' he said. 'Liquefied pig faeces are flushed into the sea by the east coast hog farm industry. Pfiesteria flourishes in fertile waters. The cells feed on phosphates and nitrates from the animal dung that washes off fields and into the rivers. They like industrial outlets too. It's obvious that they'll feel perfectly happy in city sewers where there's plenty of organic matter to go round. We're responsible for creating the Pfiesteria of this world. We don't invent them, but we allow them to turn into monsters.' Roche paused and turned to Peak. 'Take the Baltic, for example. If things get much worse, the fish will be wiped out, and it's obvious who's to blame – the Danish pig-rearing industry. Liquid manure prompts algae to bloom exponentially. The oxygen level of the water is depleted, and fish start to die. But these toxic algae are going to do a damn sight more than kill fish, and nowhere seems safe from them. We've got the deadliest strain of all in our midst.'

'But why didn't anyone do anything about it before?' asked Rubin.

'Before?' Roche laughed. 'Oh, they tried, my friend. They tried.

Where have you been all this time? No, instead of being encouraged to continue their research, the scientists were laughed at. Their lives were threatened. There was a scandal a few years back when it turned out that the environmental authorities in North Carolina hushed up the cases of Pfiesteriato appease various influential politicians who also happened to be pig farmers. Of course, there's always the question as to which lunatic is sending us Pfiesteria-contaminated lobsters in the first place, but the fact remains that we helped give birth to this catastrophe. Somewhere along the line, we're always to blame.'

'THESE MUSSELS HAVE all the characteristics of a zebra mussel, but they can do something that ordinary zebra mussels can't. 'They navigate.'

Peak had progressed to shipping accidents. 'The delegates had only just ploughed their way through Pfiesteria growth curves, and now they were being presented with another set of devastating statistics. Coloured lines criss-crossed the world.

'Shipping routes for merchant vessels,' Peak explained. "The key to the whole thing is the redistribution of transportable goods. As a rule, raw materials are shipped in a northerly direction. Bauxite is exported from Australia, oil from Kuwait, and iron ore from South America, travelling distances of up to eleven thousand nautical miles to either Europe, North America or Japan, where the raw material is taken inland to cities like Stuttgart, Detroit, Paris and Tokyo, and turned into cars, electrical equipment and machines. 'The commodities are then loaded into containers and shipped back to Australia, Kuwait and South America. Nearly a quarter of world trade passes through the Asian Pacific. 'That's a total value of five hundred billion US dollars. A similar amount is shipped through the Atlantic. 'The busiest routes are marked here in bold: the east coast of America, including, most importantly, New York, then northern Europe – the English Channel, the North Sea, the Baltic Sea and the Baltic states – and finally the Mediterranean, in particular the Riviera. European waters play a pivotal role in world trade. Besides, the Med provides the passage from the east coast of North America through the Suez Canal to South Asia. 'Then there's Japan and the Persian Gulf, not to mention the China Seas, which rank just behind the North Sea as the busiest waters in the world. To get to grips with international seaborne trade, you have to understand the networks. You have to know what it'll mean for one side of the world if a container ship sinks on the other – which production chains will be disrupted, whose jobs are at risk, whose livelihood, or maybe life, is endangered, and who, if anyone, might profit from the mess. Air travel brought an end to the age of passenger shipping, but world trade still relies on the seas. Our maritime routes are essential.'

Peak paused.

'A few figures for you. Every day two thousand vessels pass through the Strait of Malacca and other nearby waters. Nearly twenty thousand ships of all shapes and sizes cross the Suez Canal every year. Each of those regions carries fifteen per cent of world trade. Three hundred ships a day make their way along the English Channel en route to the North Sea, the most congested sea in the world. Roughly forty-four thousand ships every year connect Hong Kong to the rest of the planet. Countless freighters, tankers and ferries circumnavigate the globe, to say nothing of the fishing flotillas, cutters, sailing-boats and sports boats. Millions of journeys are made through the oceans, marginal seas, channels and straits. Given all that, it probably seems unreasonable to suggest that an occasional supertanker accident could seriously threaten world trade. Surely a little thing like that wouldn't stop anyone filling their ramshackle tankers with oil? You see, most of the seven thousand oil tankers in the world are in a god-awful state. More than half have been in service for over twenty years, and most aren't worth the metal they're made of People in this business aren't afraid to take risks. There's always a chance that disaster could strike, but they're used to that. So they do their sums and ask themselves, What if it all goes right? They calculate the odds, and the rest is a gamble. If a three-hundred-metre-long tanker sinks into the trough of a wave, its hull can be warped by up to a metre. That's an enormous strain for any structure. But the tanker sets sail because, according to their calculations, things will be OK.' Peak gave a thin smile. 'But those calculations mean nothing when accidents start happening that can't be explained. They can't assess the risk. A different kind of mindset comes to the fore. We call it the shark-attack syndrome. No one knows where the predator's lurking or who it might eat next, so a single shark is enough to stop thousands of tourists swimming in the sea. Theoretically, it's impossible for one man-eating shark to have any real impact on tourism, but in practice the effect can be ruinous. So, imagine a shipping lane that's seen four times as many accidents in the space of a few weeks than ever before, and with no discernible cause. Ships are being sunk by alarming phenomena for which there's no explanation, and even those in tip-top condition aren't safe. No one knows which might be next and what measures they could take to safeguard it. There's no more talk of corrosion, storm damage or navigational errors. The word on the street is: don't set sail.'

Now Peak showed them the mussels. He pointed to the tufts poking out from between the striped shells.

'This is the byssus, a kind of foot. Zebra mussels use it to latch on to surfaces while they're drifting on the current. Technically, it consists of adhesive proteinaceous threads. On this latest breed of mussel, the byssus has been aimed into a propeller. It's a swimming technique that's not so very different from the forward propulsion of Pfiesteria piscicida. Of course, adaptations are known to occur through convergent evolution, but that takes thousands and millions of years. So either the new mussels have kept themselves well hidden; or they've acquired some startling-new abilities overnight. If that's the case, we're dealing with a speedy mutation, since in many ways they're still zebra mussels, only now they seem to know exactly where they're going. For example, the sea-chests of the Barrier Queen were clear of mussels, but the rudder was covered with them.'

Peak described the circumstances of the accident and the attack of the whales on the tug. Although the Barrier Queen eventually pulled through, the strategy of co-operation between mussels and whales had proved as effective as the alliance between humpbacks and orcas.

'That's insane,' said a German colonel.

'Oh, no, it isn't.' Anawak turned to him. 'There's method behind it.'

'What rubbish. Don't tell me that whales made a pact with some molluscs!'

'No, but they definitely joined forces. You'd be in no doubt about it if you saw it for yourself In our opinion, the attack on the Barrier Queen was probably just a test.'

Peak activated the remote, and the screen showed a picture of an enormous vessel lying on her side. High seas pushed waves the size of houses over the hull. Driving rain made it hard to see the detail.

'The Sansuo, one of Japan's biggest car freighters,' Peak explained. 'On its final voyage it was carrying a consignment of trucks. The vessel hit a swarm of mussels off the coast of LA. In a replay of the Barrier Queen incident, the mussels clogged the rudder, only this time conditions were rough. An enormous wave hit the vessel portside, filling it with water. We can only guess what happened next. The force of the breaker must have shunted some of the trucks, which crashed through the ballast tanks and ruptured the side. This picture was taken less than fifteen minutes after the rudder had jammed. After another fifteen minutes, the Sansuo split open and sank.' He paused. 'Since then the list of similar incidents has been growing by the day. Tugs sent to help the vessels are coming under attack, and most rescue missions have to be aborted. The amount of damage caused in each incident is rising all the time. Dr Anawak's right in saying that there's method to this madness. And, recently, we've discovered that it comes in different forms.'

Peak showed a satellite image of a kilometre-long dark black cloud. It was drifting towards the shore from a point some distance out to sea, where it thickened in a grubby red plume. It looked as though a volcano had just erupted in the water.

'Beneath that cloud are the remains of the Phoebos Apolhn, a tanker carrying liquefied natural gas. She's a Post-Panamax vessel – the biggest of her kind. But on the eleventh of April, fifty nautical miles off the coast of Tokyo, a fire broke out in her engine rooms, causing a series of explosions to rip through her four tanks. The Phoebos Apotton was a top-notch vessel, in perfect condition, and regularly serviced. The shipping-line in Greece was determined to investigate, so a robot was sent down to check.'

Flashes of light flickered over the screen. Digits started ticking over, then a snowstorm filled the murky picture.

'An exploding gas tanker isn't likely to leave much intact The Phoebos Apotton was torn into four separate pieces. The seabed near Honshu drops off to a depth of nine thousand metres, and the debris lay scattered over several square kilometres. But in the end the robot found the aft-end of the boat.'

Through the snowstorm they could see some faint outlines – a rudder plate, then the twisted remains of the stern and sections of the superstructure. The robot swung past and dived down, following the line of the hull. A lonely fish appeared on the screen.

'The bottom current carries all kinds of organic material – plankton, detritus, you name it, it's there. It's not easy to manoeuvre at that depth. I won't make you watch the whole film, but this next bit's intriguing.'

The camera was much closer to the hull now. A layer of something coated the metal, stacked in thick clumps. It shimmered in the beam of the floodlights, glowing like molten wax.

Rubin leaned forward in agitation. 'What the hell are they doing there?' he said.

'What would you say they are?' asked Peak.

Jellyfish.' Rubin squinted at the screen. 'Tiny jellyfish. There must be tonnes of them. But why are they sticking to the hull?'

'When did zebra mussels learn to steer? Anyway,' Peak continued, 'somewhere beneath all that slime are the sea-chests. No prizes for guessing that they're clogged.'

One of the diplomats raised a hand hesitantly. 'Er. . . What exactly are the, er…'

'Sea-chests?' He had to explain every darned thing. 'Rectangular recesses that draw in the water for the intake system. They're protected by metal grating to keep out flora and ice. Inside the ship, the pipes branch off and take the seawater to where it's needed – to be distilled, for use in case of fire or, most importantly, for cooling the engines. It's hard to say when the jellyfish settled on the hull. Maybe not until the boat had sunk. On the other hand… Well, imagine the following scenario. The shoal of jellies drifts towards the tanker. They hit the hull in a mass of bodies and, within seconds, the sea-chests are blocked. Water can't get in. More and more jellies pile on top of each other, causing organic mush to squeeze through the grating. Meanwhile, the engine drains the last drops of water, and the pipes run dry. The next thing you know, the cooling system's broken. The engine overheats, lube oil bubbles over, the cylinder heads glow red, and one of the valves bursts open. Red-hot fuel shoots out and triggers a chain reaction – and there's no way of extinguishing it because the system can't draw water.'

'An ultramodern tanker explodes because of jellyfish in her sea-chests?' asked Roche.

It was funny, really, thought Peak. All these high-powered scientists sitting there like disappointed children because the high-tech world had let them down.

'Tankers and freighters are made up of one part technology, the other ancient history. Diesel and rudder engines might be sophisticated machines, but in general they're only used to turn a propeller or move a blade of steel. The navigation system has GPS, but the cooling system relics on a hole in the hull. And why not? The ships float, don't they? It's as simple as that. Now and then a sea-chest gets blocked by a bit of seaweed, but it soon gets cleaned out. If one hole's clogged, there's always another. Nature's never launched an attack on sea-chests before, so why change their design?' He allowed a pregnant pause. 'You see, Dr Roche, if tiny insects launched a concerted attack on your nostrils, your finely tuned, highly complex body would be in danger of collapse. Have you ever stopped to think about that? And that's exactly the problem with all these attacks. No one imagined that such things could happen.'

JOHANSON HAD STOPPED paying attention. He knew the next chapter inside-out. He and Bohrmann had structured the material in preparation for the meeting. It focused on worms and methane hydrates. As Peak carried on talking, Johanson transferred some ideas to his laptop.

Changes in the neural system caused by…

By what exactly?

He had to think of a name for it. It was annoying to keep describing it in full. He stared at the screen in concentration. Did the committee have access to his laptop? Suddenly he suspected that Li and her gang were spying on his thoughts, and he resented the idea. It was his theory and he'd confront the committee with it when he deemed it time.

It was pure coincidence that his left hand brushed the keyboard and his middle and ring fingers formed a word. Although it wasn't really enough to be a word. Three letters appeared on the screen: Dr Johanson was about to delete them, but stopped himself Why not leave them? Any word would do. And this word would be better than a real word because no one could decipher it. Besides, he wasn't even sure what it described. There wasn't a term for it, so an abstract word would do fine.

Yrr.

He'd stick with yrr for the moment.

THAT WAS THE third pencil Weaver had chewed since the presentation had begun.

'Maybe that's the kind of havoc that the Great Flood wreaked as well.' Peak was just coming to the end of a lengthy digression. 'Descriptions of floods occur in many religious stories and myths. The earliest verifiable description of a tsunami tells of a natural disaster that hit the Aegean in 479 bc. More recently, in 1755, sixty thousand people died in Lisbon when Portugal was pounded by ten-metre waves. Reliable evidence also exists for the damage caused by the Krakatoa eruption in 1883. The summit of the volcano was blown off, prompting the underwater caldera to collapse in the magma. Two hours later, waves reaching heights of forty metres swept into the coasts of Sumatra and Java, laying waste to three hundred villages and killing nearly thirty-six thousand people. In 1933 a much smaller tsunami hit the Japanese town of Sanriku, flattening the north-east of Honshu. The outcome? Three thousand people dead, nine thousand buildings destroyed and eight thousand boats lost at sea. But none of those incidents was anything like as devastating as the recent tsunami in northern Europe. The North Sea states are all highly developed industrial nations. Two hundred and forty million people live there, the majority near the coast.'

There was a deathly hush.

'Geologically, the whole area was transformed in a flash. It's too soon to predict the consequences for humanity, but economically the effects have been calamitous. Some of the most pivotal international ports suffered serious damage or were destroyed. Less than a fortnight ago Rotterdam was still the biggest maritime trading centre in history, while the North Sea was a major repository of the world's fossil fuels. Approximately four hundred and fifty thousand barrels of oil were being extracted from the North Sea every day. Half of Europe's oil reserves were located off the coast of Norway, a significant proportion off the coast of Britain, not to mention the region's share of the world's natural gas. And yet the entire industry was destroyed within hours. Initial estimates place the death toll at two or three million, but there are at least as many again who are injured or homeless.'

Peak recited the figures as though he were reading the weather forecast.

'The question is, what caused the slide? The polychaetes are undoubtedly the most striking example of mutation that we're up against. Nothing even begins to explain how billions of worms teamed up with bacteria and swarmed over the slope. Besides, Dr Johanson and our friends at the Geomar Centre in Kiel believe that we still don't have the full story. There's no doubt that the invasion of worms destabilised the hydrates, but a catastrophe of that magnitude just doesn't make sense. There must be another factor. The wave was only the most visible part of the problem.'

Weaver stiffened. The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. A long-distance satellite image was taking shape on the screen. The contrast had been altered and the contours were hazy, but she recognised the vessel straight away.

'You'll see what I mean from these pictures. The boat had been placed under satellite surveillance…'

What – Weaver couldn't believe what she was hearing. Bauer, under surveillance?

'It was a research vessel, the Juno said Peak. 'The images were taken at night by a military recon satellite, EORSAT. Luckily the visibility was good and the sea was calm, which isn't often the case in these waters. The Juno was off the coast of Spitsbergen at the time.'

The washed-out glow of the vessel's lights stood out against the darkness of the sea. Then light dots appeared in the water, multiplying rapidly until the sea seethed.

The Juno tipped from right to left, heeling…

Then she sank like a stone.

Weaver froze. No one had prepared her for that. Now at last she knew where Bauer had got to. The Juno was lying at the bottom of the Greenland Sea. She thought of the worrying indications of his research, his fears and concerns, and it dawned on her that she was the only person left who knew the details of his work. Bauer had left her his scientific legacy.

'It was the first time,' Peak was saying, 'that we'd actually witnessed the phenomenon. Of course, we'd known for some time that methane blowouts were occurring in the area, and yet-'

Weaver raised her hand. 'Did you anticipate this would happen?'

Peak fixed her with his eyes. His face was so still that it looked almost carved. 'No.'

'What did you do when you saw the Juno sinking?'

'Nothing.'

'You mean the region and the boat were under satellite surveillance, and you couldn't do a thing?'

'We were gathering data by tracking different boats. It's impossible to be everywhere at once. There's no way we could have guessed that precisely this vessel-'

'Correct me if I'm wrong,' Weaver interrupted forcefully, 'but surely you were aware of what happens in a blowout? The Bermuda Triangle's right on your doorstep.'

'Ms Weaver, we-'

'Let me put it another way. You knew blowouts were causing boats to disappear. And you knew that methane was being released into the Arctic. Didn't you have an inkling of what was going to happen to the shelf?' Peak stared at her. 'What are you trying to suggest?'

'I want you to tell me if there's anything you could have done.' Peak's expression didn't alter. His eyes were still fixed on Weaver. It was uncomfortably silent. 'We misjudged the situation,' he said eventually.

LI WAS ALL too familiar with this kind of scenario. Peak would be forced into admitting that their aerial recon hadn't delivered. There was no denying that they'd noticed a rise in the number of blowouts occurring near Norway, but they'd been registering all kinds of other phenomena too. The worms had come as a surprise.

She stood up. It was time to lend a hand. 'We couldn't have done a thing,' she said calmly. 'Besides, Ms Weaver, I would be grateful if you could listen to what the major has to say, instead of jumping to conclusions. Bear in mind that the scientists in this room were selected for two reasons: their expertise, and their familiarity with what's going on. Some of our delegates were directly involved in the events you refer to. What could Dr Bohrmann have done to prevent the disaster? What could Dr Johanson or Statoil have done? What could you have done, Ms Weaver? Having cameras in the sky doesn't mean that we have some omnipresent taskforce to rescue people anytime, anyplace, no matter what the danger. Would you prefer us to close our eyes instead?'

The journalist frowned.

'We didn't come here today to start apportioning blame,' Li said, before Weaver had a chance to reply. 'Let he who is without sin cast the first stone – that's what I was taught, and that's what it says in the Bible. And the Bible often gets it right. We're here to avert any future disasters. Perhaps we can move on…'

'Hallelujah,' Weaver murmured.

Li allowed the room to fall silent.

Then she smiled. Time for a sweetener. 'We're all on edge,' she said. 'I understand how you must be feeling, Ms Weaver. Major Peak, if you could continue…'

For a moment Peak had felt flustered. Soldiers never expressed criticism or doubt in that tone. He didn't have anything against criticism or doubt per se, but right now, when he couldn't reassert his authority with an order, he resented being challenged. He felt a wave of dull hatred towards the journalist. How the hell was he going to keep a check on all those damn scientists?

'What we just witnessed,' he said, 'was the release of large quantities of methane from the seabed. Now, much as I regret the death of those on board the boat, the escape of the gas poses much wider problems. In the course of the underwater slide, the amount of gas released into the atmosphere was a million times greater than it was during the sinking of the Juno. We've seen case scenarios for what would happen if the remainder of the world's underwater methane reserves were to escape in a similar way. It amounts to a death sentence. The equilibrium of the atmosphere would be fatally unbalanced.'

He paused. Peak was a tough character, but even he was scared as hell by what came next. 'I have to tell you,' he said slowly, 'that worms have been found in the Atlantic and Pacific. To be more specific, they're present on the continental slopes off the coasts of North and South America, western Canada and Japan.'

No one breathed.

'That was the bad news.'

A cough shook the room like a minor explosion.

'The good news is that the infestations haven't reached anything like the levels that were recorded near Norway. The organisms are clustered in isolated patches. For the time being there's no risk of serious damage occurring. However, we have to assume that somehow, at some point, the assault will intensify. Our sources indicate that smaller groups of worms were found last year near Norway, on a site earmarked by Statoil for the construction of a processor.'

'My government has been unable to verify that claim,' a Norwegian politician called from the back.

'Sure,' Peak sneered. 'Conveniently enough, almost everyone involved in the project is dead. We've had to rely entirely on Dr Johanson and the scientists in Kiel for information. But this time we've got a head start. And it's our responsibility to use it. We've got to fight those goddamn worms.'

He stopped short. Goddamn worms. That didn't sound good. Too emotional. He'd tripped at the final hurdle, so to speak.

'God help us but you're right,' a voice thundered.

A man of startling appearance had risen to his feet. He towered up like a rock, tall and solid. He was clad in orange overalls, and wiry black hair spiralled out from his baseball cap. A pair of oversized shades balanced precariously on his small nose, which curled up sharply in an attempt to avoid his wide frog-like mouth. As his broad mouth opened and his colossal chin sank down, it was impossible not to be reminded of The Muppet Show.

Dr Stanley Frost, said the giant's name badge. Volcanologist.

'I read through the documents beforehand,' he boomed, as though he was preaching, 'and I don't like what I see. You're interested in continental slopes near highly populated areas.'

'Sure, it replicates the Norwegian pattern. In the beginning a few worms, then hordes.'

'It's a mistake to focus on those regions.'

'Do you want another Europe?'

'Oh, please, Major Peak! Did I say you should stop monitoring those areas? Lord, no. All I'm saying is that focusing on those areas would be an almighty mistake. It's too obvious. The devil's ways are more sinister.'

Peak scratched his head. 'Could you be a little more precise, Dr Frost?'

The volcanologist took a deep breath. His chest expanded. 'No.'

'Have I understood you correctly?'

'I sincerely hope so. I need to look into it some more. I don't suppose you'd want me to cause unnecessary alarm…Just remember what I said.'

His chin jutted out purposefully at his audience. Then he plumped down again.

Perfect, thought Peak. One darned idiot after another.

VANDERBILT WOBBLED OVER to the lectern. Li watched him through narrowed eyes. The deputy director of the CIA placed a ridiculously small pair of glasses on his nose, filling her with amusement and disgust. 'Goddamn worms is just how I'd describe them, Sal,' Vanderbilt said cheerily. He beamed at his audience as though he were the bearer of glad tidings. 'But, believe you me, we're going to fry those shits until their sorry ass starts smoking. OK, then, what have we got? Very little, so far. Our precious oil – all kaput. Not great news for junkies like us. In economic terms, it means that world production's going to dive. Not that the OPEC camel will mind, of course. As for international shipping, well, you know all the details from Peak – nature's dirty tricks campaign has been taking its toll. And you know what? The reign of terror's working! Between you and me – aggressive whales and sharks, that kind of shit's just for kids. A glorified prank, if you like. OK, so it's a darned shame when decent American families can't go fishing off the coast, but humanity in general won't be losing any sleep. And, sure, it's regrettable if some poor fisherman in a third-world country, who feeds his seventeen kids and six wives on a single sardine, has to sit on the beach because he's scared of getting eaten. That sucks. But all the pity in the world won't help them. Humanity's got other problems. Rich countries have been hit. The badass fish don't want to get caught, so they're filling the nets with poison and trying to sink trawlers. Call them isolated cases, if you like, but there's a whole darned lot of them. And that's bad news for developing countries because there won't be any handouts.'

Vanderbilt looked at them craftily over the rim of his glasses.

You know, folks, if you wanted to annihilate the world, you could kill off two-thirds of it just by giving the biggest, richest states a good run for their money – and by that I mean pressurising them so badly that they run out of time to deal with their problems. The third world only survives because the rich states prop it up. It depends on the wrath of America – you know, all those handy little regime changes that get negotiated with the drugs tsars, and that come with economic aid. Well, those days are over. You and I might snigger at the thought of whales attacking ships – after all, the state of our economy doesn't depend on bark canoes or little reed boats – but when you're chomping your way through the buffet tonight, just remember: the Western standard of living is far from representative. Anomalies spell the end for the third world. El Niño spells the end. La Niña spells the end. And compared to the delights that Nature's been throwing at us lately, one of those old-fashioned disasters would suit us just fine. Hey, maybe El Niño could stop by for a beer. No frigging chance. We've got other guests to entertain. Parts of Europe are under martial law. Do you know what that means? It's not to stop folks wandering out at night and getting their feet wet, oh, no. Martial law means Europe can't handle the humanitarian crisis. It means that all those aid agencies – the Red Cross, the disaster relief organisations, UNES(X) – can't keep up with the need for tents and food. It means people in civilised Europe are going to starve to death or die of infection.

Plagues are raging through Europe. Europe! As if Pfiesteria cells and bacterial consortia weren't already wreaking havoc. But, oh, no, Norway's ravaged by cholera. Martial law means the injured won't be treated, and honest Europeans – people who spend their Saturday nights watching quiz shows on TV – will be covered with maggot-infested sores, while flies spread disease. Feeling queasy already? That's nothing. Things can't get much wetter than a tsunami, I know, but what happens when it's over? Stuff starts exploding. The fire service can't keep up. First the coastline gets drenched, and then it bursts into flames. Oh, yeah, and another thing – the retreating tsunami messed up the cooling systems in a couple of power stations, nuclear installations that some jerk had built by the sea. So now we've got a nuclear disaster in Norway, and another in England. Is that enough, or is there anything else I can get you? Did I mention that the electricity was down? I'm sorry, ladies and gentlemen, but for the moment you'll have to do without Europe. And the third world too. Europe's screwed.'

VANDERBILT PULLED OUT A white handkerchief and started dabbing his forehead. Peak felt like throwing up. He hated that man. He hated the fact that no one liked him; that he probably didn't even like himself He was a defeatist, a cynic, a mud-slinger. And, more than anything, Peak hated him for almost always being right. His hatred of Vanderbilt was one of the few things he shared with Li.

Aside from that, he hated Li too.

Sometimes he caught himself imagining how he'd rip the clothes from her body and shove her down on that goddamn treadmill. That would wipe the smirk off her face. Arrogant bitch, with her wealthy parents, her foreign languages and her private education. At times like that the Jonathan Peak in him took over, the one who might have been a gang-leader, a thief, a rapist and a murderer.

He was afraid of that other Peak. The other Peak didn't believe in the ideals of West Point, in honour, glory and country: he was like Vanderbilt, dragging everything into the mud, and showing that mud was the reality. The other Peak had grown up in the mud. A black man, born in the dirt of the Bronx.

'OK, then,' Vanderbilt said cheerily. 'So Europe's drinking water is full of pretty little algae. What are we going to do about it? Drown them in chemicals? We could always boil the water or pump it full of poison, that might kill the little assholes, but it would take us down as well. The water's running out. People never used to think twice about serenading themselves for hours on end in the shower, but not any more. Who knows when the first lobsters are going to explode in the States? God's favourite country had better watch out. The Lord's lost his patience with us.' Vanderbilt snickered. 'Sorry, I should have said Allah. The shape of things to come, my friends. Prepare yourselves for some sensational news. Right after the break.'

What the hell's he talking about? thought Peak. Had Vanderbilt gone crazy? It was the only explanation. You'd have to be crazy to start talking like that.

A world map appeared on the screen. The countries and continents were linked by coloured lines. A thick bundle stretched from the UK and France right across the Atlantic towards Boston, Long Island, New York, Manasquan and Tuckerton. Another parcel of lines, a little more spread out, crossed the Pacific and connected the west coast of America to Asia. Thick strands extended past the Caribbean islands and Colombia, through the Mediterranean and the Suez Canal, past the east Asian coast up to Tokyo.

'Deep-sea cables,' explained Vanderbilt. 'Data highways. They carry our phone calls and let us chat online. Glass fibres are integral to the Internet. Some of the fibreoptic connections between Europe and America were destroyed in the underwater slide, including five of the biggest transatlantic cables. Two days ago another transatlantic cable by the name of FLAG Atlantic-1 also went dead. The cable runs from New York to St Brieuc in Brittany and manages a respectable 1.28 terabits per second. Sorry. Managed. It looks like FLAG Atlantic-1 has just handed in its notice, and this time the landslide's definitely not to blame. Ditto for the loss of TPC-5 that runs between San Luis Obispo and Hawaii. Does anyone see a pattern? Something's chewing through our cables. Our bridges are collapsing. So you think electricity comes from the socket? Not any more it doesn't. You say the world's getting smaller. Ait contraire. You want to call Auntie Polly in Calcutta and wish her happy birthday – forget it! International communication is breaking down, and we don't know why. But one thing's certain.' Vanderbilt flashed his teeth and leaned over the lectern as far as his podgy body would allow. 'This isn't coincidence. No, folks, there's someone behind all this, and they're slowly disconnecting us from the drip of civilisation. But that's enough talk of the things we've lost and the things we may be losing.'

He nodded jovially at the delegates. Creases of skin wobbled round his chin.

'Let's talk about what we've got.'

ANAWAK FOUND SOME comfort in Vanderbilt's words. For a while he'd lost faith in the world, but now it seemed to be marching in front of him with a sign in big, bold letters proclaiming: LEON, WE BELIEVE YOU.

'Dr Anawak saw a bioluminescent organism,' Vanderhilt was saying. 'Flat and shapeless. We didn't find any creature of that description when we searched the Barrier Queen, but thankfully our hero didn't leave the vessel empty-handed. The scrap of tissue he took with him has been tested. It's identical to the amorphous jelly that Drs Fenwick and Oliviera found in the brains of those bullyboy whales. Now, remember how the algae hitched a lift in the gunk inside those lobsters? Well, their friendly driver wasn't Mr. Lobster. Some other dude was at the wheel. Those shells were chock full of a slime that kept dissolving as soon as it hit the air. Still, Dr Roche analysed a trace of it, and guess what? It's our old buddy, the jelly.'

Ford and Oliviera exchanged hurried whispers, then Oliviera said, in her husky voice, 'The substance on the boat and the substance in the brains is identical, that's correct. But the stuff in the lobsters isn't as dense. The cells aren't quite so close together.'

I'm aware that there's a difference of opinion on the subject of the jelly,' said Vanderhilt, 'but that's for you guys to sort out. I'll stick to what I know. We isolated that boat to stop any uninvited guests slipping away, and since then the dock has been glimmering blue. The light doesn't last long, but Dr Anawak saw it when he broke into our exclusion zone for a spot of unauthorised diving. Water samples show the usual soup of micro-organisms found in every single drop of the ocean. So where's the glow coming from? For want of a more scientifically accurate term, we're calling it the blue cloud, thanks to Dr John Ford, who witnessed its effects in some footage recorded by a URA dive robot.'

Vanderhilt played the footage of Lucy and her pod.

'The flashes of light don't seem to frighten the whales or do them any harm, but that cloud is definitely influencing their behaviour. Maybe there's something in it that stimulates the substance in their brains. Or maybe it even injects them with gunk. I mean, what are those flashing, whip-like tentacles actually for? OK, let's go one step further. Maybe the tentacles aren't just injecting the jelly: maybe they are the jelly. If that's the case, then what we're seeing with the whales is a giant version of what Dr Anawak interrupted on the Barrier Queen. It means the same unknown organism is driving whales crazy, helping mussels sink ships and hijacking lobsters. So you see, folks, we're making headway! Now all we need to know is, what is this stuff, why is it there, what's going on between the jelly and the cloud – oh, and which son-of-a-bitch cooked the whole thing up in his lab? Maybe this will give you some clues.'

Vanderbilt showed the film again. This time a spectrogram appeared towards the bottom edge of the frame. They saw a series of powerful oscillations.

'The URA is a smart little dude. Seconds before the cloud took shape, the robot picked up a noise on its hydrophones. We can't hear it with our pathetic bunged-up human ears, but there are ways of making ultrasound and infrasound audible, if you know the right tricks – which for professional eavesdroppers like the guys running SOSUS is a cinch.'

Anawak sat up. SOSUS. He'd used the network before. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration, or NOAA, ran a number of facilities aimed at detecting and analysing underwater sound as part of its Acoustic Monitoring Project. The sensors used for its marine bugging operation were relicts of the Cold War. SOSUS stood for SOund SUrveillance System, a worldwide network of highly sensitive hydrophones, first installed by the US Navy in the sixties to keep tabs on Russian subs. Following the collapse of the Soviet Union, the system was declassified in 1991, and scientists from NOAA were given access to its data.

It was thanks to SOSUS that scientists had discovered it was anything but quiet in the ocean depths. In particular, the frequency range below sixteen hertz was deafeningly loud. To make the noise audible to humans, they had to play it at sixteen times its actual speed. Suddenly an underwater quake sounded like thunder, and humpbacks sang like twittering birds, while blue whales could be heard booming staccato messages to one another over hundreds of kilometres. Almost seventy-five per cent of the annual data recordings were dominated by a loud, rhythmic rumbling – the sound of airguns used by oil companies to explore the geological structure of the ocean floor.

Since then NOAA had added to SOSUS by developing its own systems. Every year the network of hydrophones probed further into the ocean. And every year the scientists heard a little more.

'We can ID an object just from its noise,' said Vanderbilt. 'That way we can find out how big a vessel is, how fast it's moving, what kind of power it uses, which direction it's coming from and how far away it is… Hydrophones tell us everything. It's a well-known fact that water conducts sound with great efficiency. Sound waves travel incredibly quickly under water – at speeds of up to five and a half thousand kilometres per hour. Which means that if a blue whale breaks wind off the coast of Hawaii, some guy in California will hear it in his headphones barely sixty minutes later. SOSUS doesn't merely detect sound; it identifies its source. NOAA's sound archive contains all the noises you could wish for: clicks, grumblings, whooshings, bubblings, squeaks, murmurs, bioacoustic and seismic data, and environmental noise. We can categorise pretty much everything – although there are a number of exceptions. And what do you know? Who have we got with us but NOAA's Dr Murray Shankar! He'll have the pleasure of telling you the rest.'

A thickset, timid man with Indian features and gold-framed glasses got up from the front row. Vanderbilt called up another spectrogram and played the artificially processed sound. The room was filled with a muffled drone, structured by gradual rises in pitch.

Shankar cleared his throat. 'We call this noise Upsweep,' he said, in a soft voice. 'It was first recorded in 1991, and its source seems to be located somewhere around 54 degrees south, 140 degrees west. Upsweep was one of the first unidentified noises picked up by SOSUS, and it was so loud that it was detected throughout the Pacific. We still don't know what it is. According to one theory, it may have been produced by resonance occurring between seawater and molten lava in an underwater range between Chile and New Zealand. The next images, please, Jack.'

Vanderbilt presented two new spectrograms.

Julia, recorded in 1999, and Scratch, detected two years earlier by an autonomous hydrophone array in the Equatorial Pacific. The amplitude was clearly audible within a radius of five kilometres. Julia sounds rather like an animal call, wouldn't you say? The frequency of the sound alters rapidly. It's broken down into a series of discrete notes, like whalesong.

But it can't be a whale. No whale could produce a noise of that volume. Scratch, on the other hand, sounds as though a needle is being dragged at right angles to the groove of a record, only it would take a record player the size of a city to create a noise like that.'

The next noise was a drawn-out creak that fell away slowly.

'Detected in 1997,' said Shankar. 'Slowdown. We think it originated somewhere in the South Pole. We've ruled out ships and subs. The noise might be caused by an ice plate scraping over the rocks in the Antarctic. Then again, it could be something else entirely. There's always the possibility that it's bioacoustic in origin. Some people are dying to see us use these noises to prove that giant squid really exist, but as far as I'm aware, creatures of that kind are barely capable of producing noise at all. It's a false lead, in my opinion. In any case, no one knows what Slowdown is, but. . .' He smiled shyly. 'Well, at least there's one rabbit we can pull out of the hat for you today.'

Vanderbilt played the spectrogram from the URA again. This time he turned on the sound.

'Did you hear what it is? It's Scratch. And can you guess what the URA told us? The noise was coming from the cloud! Well, from that we can-'

'Thank you, Murray, that was worthy of an Oscar.' Vanderbilt coughed and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief 'Those were the facts. The rest is speculation. OK, folks, let's round things off properly by giving you something to exercise your brains.'

THE SCREEN SHOWED images that had been taken in the darkest depths. Floating particles sparkled in the floodlights. Then a flat-looking creature billowed up into the frame, and instantly retreated.

'The film was cleaned up by Marintek, before the institute had the misfortune of being washed into the sea. Now, if you watch their version, two things are clear: first, this thing is enormous; and second, it glows, or, to be more precise, it flashes, then the light goes out when it enters the frame. All we know is that it was frolicking in the water seven hundred metres below sea level on the continental slope near Norway. Take a good look at it. Is it our jellified friend? Find some answers for us. The salvation of God's number-one species is in your hands.' Vanderbilt grinned at the rows of delegates. 'I'm not going to lie to you: we're heading straight for Armageddon. That's why I'm proposing that we share the work between us. You're going to put a stop to this mutated shit – find a way of taming it, feed it something that will make it spew its guts. Whatever. Meanwhile we'll find the bastard who's been sending us this crap. Do whatever it takes, but don't go shooting your mouth off. You can kiss goodbye to the thought of making headlines. A joint US-European policy of strategic disinformation is already in place. Panic would be the icing on the turd, if you know what I'm saying. The last thing we need is any social, political, religious or other unrest. So when we let you out to play, just remember what you promised Auntie Li.'

Johanson cleared his throat. I'd like to express my thanks on behalf of everyone here for a thoroughly engaging presentation,' he said pleasantly. 'Now let me get this straight. You want us to tell you what's lurking in the water.'

That's right, Doc.'

'And what do you suspect it is?'

Vanderbilt smiled. 'Jelly. And a few blue clouds.'

'I see.' Johanson grinned back. 'So you'd like us to open the advent calendar all by ourselves… You know what, Vanderbilt? I think you've got a theory. And if you want our co-operation, maybe you should tell us what it is. That's reasonable, isn't it?'

Vanderbilt rubbed the bridge of his nose. He exchanged a look with Li. 'Well, let's see now… Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without any presents,' he drawled. 'Aw, what the heck? The question we asked ourselves was this: where are the disaster hot spots? Which areas have got off lightly? Have any regions of the world been spared? And, hey presto, the unaffected areas are the Middle East, the former Soviet Union, India, Pakistan and Thailand. Plus China and Korea. You could count the iceboxes too, I guess, but I don't see much point. Basically, the main victim is the West. Take the destruction of the Norwegian offshore industry. That alone is going to do the West some serious long-term damage and put us in a very tricky position of dependency.'

'So, if I understand you correctly,' Johanson said slowly, 'you're suggesting it's terrorism.'

'Give that man a medal! You see, mass destruction is the hallmark of two types of terrorism. The first seeks to achieve political and social revolution, no matter what the cost, even if it means killing thousands in the process. Islamic extremists, for instance, think oxygen's too good for unbelievers. Type number two is fixated with Doomsday, and spreads the word that mankind is evil – we've outstayed our welcome on God's fair planet and deserve to be destroyed. The more money and technology these people can get their hands on, the more dangerous they become. Take killer algae, for example. Someone out there must be capable of breeding that stuff. Everyone knows how to train a dog to bite. Gene technology lets us tamper with DNA, why can't we use it to modify behaviour? Think about it… So many mutations in so little time. How does that look to you? If you ask me, someone's been very busy with their test-tubes. We've got an unknown shapeless organism out there too. Why is it shapeless? Everything's got a shape! Maybe it doesn't need one for its purposes. Maybe it's a kind of protoplasm, an organic compound, a sticky mess that channels itself in tiny strands like molecular chains, setting up home in whale brains and lobster shells. You know, folks, this definitely isn't coincidence. This is design. And if you want a motive, just think what the collapse of the European oil industry will do for the Middle East.'

Johanson stared at him. 'You're crazy, Vanderbilt.'

'You think so? There haven't been any accidents or collisions in the Strait of Hormuz – or in the Suez Canal, for that matter.'

'But why the plagues and tsunamis? Why annihilate people who would otherwise pay good money for Arab oil and gas? It doesn't make sense.'

'Oh, I agree,' said Vanderbilt, 'it's crazy. I never said it made sense, only that it adds up. The Med's been spared, you know. There's a clear route all the way from the Persian Gulf right through to Gibraltar. But take a look at where the worms are – all over the oilfields belonging to South America and the West.'

'They're on the American slope off the north-east coast too, don't forget. A tsunami on the European scale would be disastrous for your oil-trading terrorists – their clientele would be washed right out of the market.'

'Dr Johanson.' Vanderbilt smiled. 'You're a scientist, and in science you're always looking for logic. The CIA gave up on that years ago. The laws of nature may make sense. People don't. We all know nuclear war could mean the end of our race, but the threat's still there, hanging over us like the Sword of Damocles. The thing is, Dr Johanson, those Bond-film baddies who hold the world to ransom really do exist. It's Bond who doesn't. When Saddam set fire to the Kuwaiti oil wells in 1991, even some of his own advisers predicted it would trigger a nuclear winter that could last for years to come. They were wrong. That's beside the point, though: their warnings didn't stop him. In any case, why don't you ask your friends in Kiel what would really happen if all the underwater methane escaped into the air? It's all speculation, you see. Sure, the sea level would rise, Europe would be finished, and Belgium, the Netherlands and northern Germany would be one helluva watersports resort, but what about the barren areas of the Middle East? Maybe the deserts would come into bloom. You'd need more than a few tsunamis to wipe out the Western world entirely. There'll still be enough people to buy the Arabs' oil. And maybe the campaign of terror isn't intended to bring about the apocalypse: maybe it's designed to weaken the West and lead to a redistribution of world power, without anyone having to fight for it. And as for the planet – I'm sure it will sort itself out in the end… The monsters might be rising from the ocean, but you can bet your bottom dollar that their master's on dry land.'

Li switched off the projector. 'I'd like to thank the diplomats and the international intelligence community for enabling us to hold this summit,' she said. 'I know some of you will have to return home later today, but the majority of you will be our guests here for the next few weeks. I'm sure I don't need to remind you that the same conditions of confidentiality apply to us all. Our work and our findings must be kept under wraps. It's in the interest of all our governments.'

She paused.

'As for the scientists, please rest assured that we'll be doing everything in our power to help you. From now on we would ask you to use only the laptops provided. There are Internet connections all over the hotel – in the bar, in your rooms, in the health club – so you'll be able to log on no matter where you are. Transatlantic communication is up and running again. The hotel roof is covered with satellite dishes and everything's back in business. Telephone calls, faxes, email and Internet et cetera will all go via the NATO III satellites. They're normally reserved for communication between the NATO governments, but now they're at your disposal too. We've built in a closed network, a secretus in secretion, which only members of the working party will be able to access. You can use it to communicate with each other and to view confidential data. To get in, you'll need a personal password, which you'll be given once you've signed your non-disclosure forms.'

She looked at them sternly. 'Please take it as read that the password should not be shared with unauthorised individuals. Once you've logged in, you'll have access to recon and Earth observation satellites, to data from NOAA and from SOS US, to archived and current telemetric material, and to the CIA and NSA's databases on international terrorism, bio-weaponry and gene technology. We've given you summaries of our current capabilities in terms of deep-sea technology, and you'll also find geological and geochemical information. There are catalogues of different organisms, deep-sea charts courtesy of the navy and, of course, all the details of today's presentation, including the stats and figures. New developments will be forwarded to you immediately and automatically. We'll keep you informed, and we expect you to do the same.'

Li smiled encouragingly at her audience. 'Good luck to you all. In two days' time we'll meet again, same time, same place. If anyone needs to compare notes before then, Major Peak and I are available for consultation at any time.'

Vanderbilt raised his eyebrows. 'I hope you'll be a good girl and tell everything to Uncle Jack,' he said softly, so that only she could hear.

'Just remember,' she said, as she packed up her things, 'I'm your superior.'

'I'm sorry, honey, you can't have heard right. We're partners now, equals.'

'Oh, I wouldn't say that. Not intellectually…'

She left the room.

JOHANSON

Most of the crowd headed for the bar, but Johanson didn't feel like joining them. Maybe it would have been a good opportunity to get to know a few people, but he had other things on his mind.

He'd barely made it inside his suite when there was a knock on the door. Weaver walked in without waiting for an answer.

'You should give an old man the chance to put on his corset before you burst in like that,' said Johanson. 'I wouldn't want to shatter your illusions.'

He picked up his laptop and wandered around the cosily furnished sitting room, looking for the modem. Weaver opened the minibar and helped herself to a Coke. 'Above the desk,' she said.

'Oh, so it is,' Johanson plugged in the laptop and booted it up.

Weaver watched over his shoulder. 'What do you think of the terrorism theory?' she asked.

'Makes no sense.'

'That's what I thought too.'

'I can't say I'm surprised by the CIA's schizophrenia.' Johanson clicked on a series of icons. 'They're trained to think like that. And Vanderbilt was right about one thing: scientists do tend to forget that people don't operate with the reliability of natural laws.'

Weaver leaned over and auburn curls cascaded over her face. She pushed them back. 'You've got to tell them, Sigur.'

'Tell them what?'

'About your theory.'

Johanson double-clicked on an icon and entered his password: Chateau Disaster 000 550899-XK/O. 'Ta-ra ta-ra,' he hummed. 'Welcome to Wonderland.'

Nice password, he thought. A castle populated by scientists, intelligence operatives and soldiers, all trying to save the world from monsters, floods and catastrophic climate change. Chateau Disaster was exactly right.

More icons appeared on the screen. Johanson studied the titles of the folders and whistled softly. 'My God, we really have got access to the satellites.'

'Seriously? Can we guide them?'

'Hardly. You can download the data, though. Look, GOES-W and GOES-E… the entire NOAA fleet's on here. And see this one? It's QpikSCAT – not bad either. And all the Lacrosse satellites too – that means they've really bitten the bullet, if they've let us have these. And over here we've got SAR-Lupe, it-'

'I get the picture. You can come back down to earth. Surely they haven't really given us unrestricted access to state information and intelligence resources?'

'Of course not. We've got access to whatever they'd like us to see.'

'Why didn't you tell Vanderbilt what you think?'

'It's too soon.'

'We don't have much time, Sigur.'

Johanson shook his head. 'People like Li and Vanderbilt need convincing. They want hard facts, not conjecture.'

'We've got hard facts!'

'The timing was all wrong. Today was their moment of glory. They'd put together all that information and turned it into an all-singing, all-dancing catastrophe fest. Vanderhilt had the chance to pull his big fat Arabian rabbit out of the hat, and did you see him? He was proud of it, for God's sake. If I'd said anything it would have sounded like a challenge. I want them to start doubting their neat little theory of their own accord and that'll happen sooner than you think.'

'OK.' Weaver nodded. 'How certain are you?'

'Of my theory?'

'I mean, you are still certain, aren't you?'

'Sure. But after today we're going to have to find a way of convincing the American intelligence service that it's wrong.' Johanson looked at his screen. 'In any case, I get the feeling Vanderbilt's not that important. Li's the one we need to work on. From what I've seen, I bet she does what she wants, regardless.'

LI

Her first priority was to get on the treadmill. She set the speed to nine kilometres per hour, and settled into a comfortable trot. It was time to call the White House. Two minutes later the voice of the President sounded in her headphones. 'Jude! Good to hear from you. How're you doing?'

'I'm running right now.'

'You're running. Good Lord, Jude, you're the best. You're an example to us all – except me, of course.' He gave a chummy guffaw. 'You're too sporty for my liking. Well, did the presentation go to plan?'

'Absolutely.'

'And did you tell them our suspicions?'

'Regrettably, sir, they're now aware of what Vanderhilt suspects.'

The President was still chuckling. 'Oh, Jude, you've got to stop this vendetta against Vanderhilt.'

'He's an asshole.'

'But he's good at his job. Besides, I'm not asking you to marry him.'

'If it made America safer,' Li said irritably, 'I'd marry him right away. But nothing could induce me to agree with him.'

'Of course not.'

'I mean, would you have picked today to start parading your suspicions? There's no evidence yet for the terrorism hypothesis, and now it's at the forefront of their minds. We wanted the scientists to come up with a theory, not go chasing after one.'

There was silence. Li could hear the President thinking it over. He didn't like people taking matters into their own hands, and Vanderhilt had done just that.

'You're right, Jude. It would have been better to keep it to ourselves.'

'I quite agree, sir.'

'Good. Have a word with him about it.'

'Oh, no, sir, you should have a word with him. He won't listen to me.'

'Fine. I'll talk to him later, then.'

Li smiled to herself. 'Listen, er, I don't want Jack getting into trouble…' she added dutifully.

'Sure. No problem. But enough about him. Tell me about your scholarly panopticon. Are the scientists up to the job? Any thoughts so far?'

'They're all highly qualified.'

'Does anyone stand out?'

'A Norwegian. Sigur Johanson. He's a molecular biologist – marine science, of course. I'm not sure what's so special about him, but he's got his own way of looking at things.'

The President called to someone in the room. Li upped the speed on the treadmill.

'I spoke to the Norwegian foreign minister earlier,' he said. 'They're at their wits' end. I mean, they're pleased about the EU initiative, but it seems to me that they'd be a good deal happier if the US came on board. The Germans think the same – they want to pool our know-how and so on. They're calling for an international commission with a proper mandate that would unite our capabilities.'

'Who do they have in mind to run it?'

'A UN-led committee, according to the German chancellor.'

'Uh-huh. I see…'

'Not a bad idea, I thought.'

'Oh, it's a good one.' Li paused. 'Only didn't you say recently that the UN had never had such an ineffectual secretary general as the present incumbent? It was at that embassy reception three weeks ago, and then we came under fire from all the usual corners. Do you remember?'

'Hell, yes. They were so darned pompous about it. Well, I can't help it if he's a pussy. It's just the truth. But what's your point, Jude?'

'I was just saying.'

'Come on, out with it! What's the alternative?'

'You mean the alternative to being led by a committee including dozens of Middle Eastern delegates?'

The President went quiet. 'I guess we could lead it,' he said in the end.

Li waited before she spoke, as though she needed time to think. 'That's an excellent idea, sir.'

'But then we get lumbered with the whole world's problems – again. Sickening, isn't it?'

'Well, we'd be stuck with them anyway. We're the only superpower, and if we want things to stay that way, we'll have to keep taking the lead. Besides, bad times are good times for the powerful.'

'You and your Chinese proverbs,' said the President. 'Well, they're not going to hand it to us on a plate. We'll have a tough time convincing them that we, of all people, should head an international commission. Imagine the reaction from the Arabs! Not to mention China and North Korea. Oh, that reminds me. I took a look at your files on the scientists. One looks Asian. I thought we said no Asians and no Arabs.'

'Asian? Which one?'

'Oh, something funny-sounding, like Wakawaka or-'

'You mean Leon Anawak. Did you read his CV?'

'No, I only flipped through.'

'He's not Asian.' Li increased the speed to twelve kilometres per hour. I'm the most Asian person in Whistler by some margin.'

The President laughed. 'Oh, Jude, you could be from Mars for all I care. I'd still back you all the wav. Darned shame that you can't come over and watch the game. We're going out to the ranch – assuming nothing comes up. Barbecued spare ribs. My wife's got them marinating already.'

'Next time, sir,' Li said heartily.

They chatted for a bit about baseball. Li didn't push the idea that the US should lead the global coalition. Within forty-eight hours, he'd believe he'd thought of it himself. It was enough to plant the suggestion.

At the end of the conversation, she carried on running for a while. Then she sat down at the grand piano, her body still dripping with sweat, and lifted her hands to the keyboard. She focused.

A few seconds later, Mozart's Piano Sonata in G Major was flowing from her fingers.

KH-12

Like perfume on the breeze, the strains of Li's piano-playing carried through the corridors on the ninth floor of Chateau Whistler and floated out of the half-open window into the outside air. At a hundred metres above ground-level, the sound waves fanned out in concentric ripples. At the highest point of the hotel, in the fairy-tale turret perched at the top, anyone with sharp ears would have heard the music, albeit faintly. Beyond the gabled roof, though, the waves began to disperse. A hundred metres higher up, they had merged with numerous other sound waves and, as the altitude increased, the noises fell silent. A kilometre above ground, a number of sounds could still be heard: car engines starting, propeller planes droning past, and the chime of bells from the Presbyterian church in Whistler village, whose otherwise bustling streets now formed part of the exclusion zone. Finally, at an altitude of two kilometres, the whirring noise of the military choppers – the Chateau's main link to the outside world – gradually started to fade.

Viewed from that height, the hotel was still clearly visible to the naked eye, nestled among acres of forest rising gently to the west. Furrowed snow glistened on the nearby mountain ridges. Ludwig II could only have dreamed of such a place.

Higher up in the atmosphere, the sounds from below petered out altogether.

Now only jet planes taking to the skies or coming into land could still be heard. Seen from an altitude often kilometres, the Chateau blurred into the landscape. Charter planes left white trails in the air, and the horizon curved. Low-lying banks of cloud stood out against the bright blue sky like snow plains and icebergs, the vapour conjuring an illusion of firm ground. Another five or ten kilometres further up, the noise of supersonic jets cut through the thinning atmosphere. The troposphere was governed by the whims of the weather, but further up, the stratosphere was home to the ozone layer, which screened out ultraviolet light. The temperature increased. At that altitude, the clouds were just ethereal wisps, shimmering like mother-of-pearl. Silvery weather balloons shone in the sunlight, sparking reports of UFO sightings below. In 1962 an American recon plane had stolen through the silent skies twenty kilometres above ground to photograph Soviet warheads in Cuba. Because of the extreme altitude, the pilot of the legendary U-2 had been forced to wear a spacesuit. It had been one of the most daring flights of all time, and had taken place in a deep-blue sky that opened into the vastness of space.

At an altitude of eighty kilometres, the interwoven streaks of individual noctilucent clouds glistened in the light. It was minus 113°C. Up here the only sign of human presence was the rare sight of a passing spaceship as it took off or landed. The deep-blue gave w^ay to blue-black. This was the realm of the heathen gods, unmasked by modern science as polar aurorae and glowing meteorites. The thermosphere had given rise to more myths and legends than any other feature of the physical environment. In reality it was an unsuitable home for divinities or for any form of life at all. Gamma and X-rays poured in from above. The thermosphere extended for hundreds of kilometres, but gas molecules were few and far between.

There were other things to see, though.

Travelling at 28,000 kilometres per hour, the nearest satellites orbited the Earth at an altitude of 150 kilometres. By their very nature they were mainly recon satellites, positioned at the minimum possible distance from the ground. Eighty kilometres above them the Shuttle Radar Topography Mission gathered land-elevation data from the Earth's surface to create a twenty-first-century planetary map. At relatively low altitudes such as these, the atmosphere was dense enough to slow the satellites, making them reliant on the occasional injection of fuel to keep them in orbit. Three hundred kilometres above the Earth there was no need for fuel. The centrifugal force and the force of gravity balanced each other out, and the satellite's orbit was stable. The skies began to fill.

The satellites circled the Earth like cars on a network of highways, passing over and under each other. The higher the altitude, the denser the traffic. At 500 kilometres, two elegant little satellites called Champ and Grace monitored the Earth's gravitational and magnetic fields. Six hundred kilometres above the polar regions, ICESat measured lightwave reflections from the Earth's surface, allowing scientists to track changes in the icecaps. Seventy kilometres above that, three state-of-the-art US Army Lacrosse satellites orbited the Earth, scanning its surface with high-resolution radar. At an altitude of 700 kilometres, NASA's Landsat satellites observed the land and coastal regions, acquiring data on advancing and retreating glaciers, mapping the growth of forests and the formation of pack ice, and providing accurate charts of the Earth's surface temperature. SeaWiFS, on the other hand, used optical scanning and infrared to keep tabs on the build-up of algae in the oceans. At 850 kilometres above ground, NOAA's satellites had made themselves at home in a sun-synchronous orbit, with numerous meterological satellites circling the planet, passing close to both poles. The bustle of satellites encroached high into the magnetosphere, where cosmic and solar particles were bundled into two radiation belts, known as the Van Allen Belt – a phenomenon that had developed a life of its own in the media. For many Americans the Van Allen Belt was proof positive that the moon landings had never happened. In fact, even respected scientists had cast doubt on whether the astronauts in the spaceship would have been sufficiently protected to pass through the band of lethal radiation and survive. In satellite terminology, though, space was simply divided into LEO, Low Earth Orbit, then Middle Earth Orbit, used by numerous satellites, including the GPS constellation at 20,000 kilometres above ground; and then finally Geostationary Orbit, where the satellites – primarily Intelsats, used for international communication – kept pace with the Earth at an altitude of 35,888 kilometres.

Mozart was nowhere to be heard.

Though the notes from the piano had been lost in the spring air, Li's conversation with the President had made the long voyage up to the satellites and back. At the peak of the phone call, the two had chatted in outer space, exchanging information that came courtesy of the skies. Without its army of satellites, America would never have been able to fight the Gulf War or the wars in Kosovo and Afghanistan. The air force's campaigns of precision bombing had relied on help from outer space, and if it hadn't been for the high-resolution images from Crystal, also known as KH-12, the US high command would have been blind to enemy movements in the mountains.

KH stood for Keyhole. America's most sensitive spy satellites were the optical counterpart to the radar system of Lacrosse. They could detect objects of just four to five centimetres across and could operate in infrared light, which allowed them to work through the night. Unlike satellites orbiting above the Earth's atmosphere, they were equipped with a rocket engine, permitting them to travel in a very low orbit. They usually circled the planet at an altitude of 340 kilometres from pole to pole, which meant they could photograph the whole Earth within twenty-four hours. When the attacks had begun off the coast of Vancouver Island, some of the Keyhole satellites had been brought down to an altitude of 200 kilometres. In response to the 9/11 terrorist attacks, America had launched twenty-four new high-resolution optical spy satellites that orbited the Earth at a very low altitude, and with Keyhole and Lacrosse, they formed a formidable recon network whose capabilities exceeded even Germany's famous SAR-Lupe system.

At eight p.m. a call came through to two men in an underground bunker in Buckley Field, not far from Denver. The intelligence base was one of several secret ground stations belonging to America's National Reconnaissance Office, the NRO, whose mission was to co-ordinate satellite espionage for the American air force. It had close ties with the NSA, an agency responsible for national security and cryptology. Its brief was to bug and intercept. The alliance of the two intelligence agencies gave the American administration an unprecedented power of surveillance. In addition to that, the entire planet was continually monitored by an almost fully automated reconnaissance network known as ECHELON, which used various technological systems to listen in to international communication, including satellite, radio and fibreoptic traffic.

The two men were sitting below ground, beneath an enormous satellite dish. Working in a room full of monitors, they spent their time receiving real-time data from Keyhole, Lacrosse and other recon systems, analysing and evaluating the information, then forwarding it to the relevant authorities. According to their job titles, they were intelligence agents, though their outward appearance gave nothing away. Dressed in jeans and sneakers, they looked more like grunge rockers.

The caller informed them that a fishing-boat had radioed for help from the north-east tip of Long Island. There seemed to have been an accident near Montauk, probably involving a sperm whale. In any case, there was no guarantee that the mayday would be genuine. Already the climate of hysteria was such that false alarms flooded in. A larger vessel was said to be on its way to help, but there was no way of knowing if that was true either. Contact with the crew had broken off only seconds into the exchange.

KH-12-1-, a Keyhole-class satellite, was approaching Long Island from the south-east. It was in a good position to begin the search. Buckley Field's instructions were to focus the telescope on the relevant section of coast.

One of the men typed in a string of commands.

A hundred and ninety-five kilometres above the Atlantic coast, KH-12-4 was racing across the sky; a cylindrical telescope, 15 metres long and 4.5 metres in diameter, with a total weight of 20 tonnes including fuel. Large solar sails extended on either side. The command from Buckley Field activated the rotating mirror, through which the satellite could scan an area of a thousand kilometres in any direction. In this instance, it required only the smallest adjustment. Evening was drawing in, so the image intensifiers came on, brightening the picture as though it were midday. Every five seconds KH-12-\ took another photo and transmitted the data to a relay satellite, which beamed the information down to Buckley Field.

The men stared at the screen.

Montauk appeared in the distance, a picturesque old town with a world-famous lighthouse. But from a height of 195 kilometres, Montauk's charms were no more evident than they would have been on a map. Thin lines representing roads wiggled through a landscape scattered with light dots, which was all that could be seen of the buildings. Even the lighthouse was just a faint white dot at the tip of the headland.

Beyond that, the Atlantic stretched towards the horizon.

The man guiding the satellite pinpointed the area where the boat had supposedly been attacked, punched in the co-ordinates and zoomed closer. The coast disappeared from view as the screen filled with water. There were no boats in sight.

The other man watched. He reached into his paper bag of fish nuggets. 'Well, get looking, then,' he said.

'Cool it, man.'

'Cool it? They said they need that data now.'

'Well, they can kiss my ass.' The operator tilted the telescope's mirror by another fraction of a degree. 'Don't you get it, Mike? It's going to take forever. This whole thing sucks. They always want everything yesterday, and this time they're going to have to wait. Thanks to that shitty little boat, we'll be searching the whole damn ocean.'

'We don't have to search the ocean: that boat can only be here. The distress call came via NOAA. It must've sunk, if we can't see it.'

'You're making my day.'

'Yep.' The guy licked his fingers. 'Poor bastards.'

'Screw them. We're the poor bastards. If that damn boat's gone down, we're going to have to look for debris.'

'You're just lazy, you know that, Cody?'

'Yeah.'

'Have some fish – Hey, what's that?' Mike jabbed a greasy finger towards the screen. There was a long dark smudge in the water.

'We'll soon find out.'

The telescope zoomed in until the silhouette of a whale emerged among the waves. Still no sign of a boat, though. More whales appeared on the screen, with faint white spots above them – vapour clouds from the blow. Then they dived.

'I guess that's that, then,' said Mike.

Cody zoomed in again. Now the image was at maximum resolution. They saw a seagull riding on the waves. Technically, it was just a collection of two dozen quadratic pixels, but it looked like a bird.

They scanned the area, but they couldn't see the boat or any wreckage.

'Maybe we're in the wrong spot,' said Cody.

'We can't be. According to the information, the boat must be here – unless they sailed on.' Mike yawned, screwed the paper bag into a ball and aimed at the wastepaper basket. He missed. 'Must be a false alarm. I'd sure like to be down there, though.'

'Down where?'

'In Montauk. It's a neat town. Took a trip there last year with the buddies, right after me and Sandy broke up. We were mostly drunk or stoned or whatever, but it was cool just lying there on the bluff, watching the sunset. The third night I made out with the waitress from the bar. Man, that was some trip.'

'Your wish is my command.'

'Meaning?'

Cody grinned at him. 'You want to visit Montauk? We're in charge of this celestial flicking army. And seeing as we're here and all…'

Mike's face lit up. 'We'll go to the lighthouse,' he said. 'I'll show you where we screwed.'

'Aye-aye, Cap'n.'

'Uh, actually… maybe we shouldn't. We could get in a lot of trouble for-'

'For what? I figure we're supposed to be here. We're looking for debris, remember?'

His fingers danced over the keyboard. The telescope zoomed out again. The headland appeared on the screen. Cody picked out the white dot and closed in on the lighthouse until it loomed up in front of them. The bluff was bathed in reddish light. The sun was going down on Montauk. A couple strolled past the lighthouse, arms round each other's waist.

'It's the best time of day,' Mike said. 'Romantic as hell.'

'Aw, you didn't screw her in front of the lighthouse, did you?'

'You've got to be kidding. No, it was further down… Look, right there! Where those two are going. That place has a reputation, I'm telling you. Every evening it's pants-down time on the beach.'

'Hey, maybe we'll get to see something.'

Cody swung the telescope round so that it raced ahead of the couple. There didn't seem to be anyone else on the black rocks. Seagulls soared overhead, swooping down to peck at scraps.

Then something else appeared on the screen. Something flat. Cody frowned. Mike leaned forward. They waited for the next image.

The picture had changed.

'What's that-'

'Don't ask me. Can you get any closer?'

'Nope.'

The next image arrived from KH-12-. The scene had changed again.

'Holy shit,' whispered Cody.

'What the hell is that?' Mike screwed his eyes up. 'It's spreading. It's crawling up the fucking cliff.'

'Shit,' said Cody again. This time he sounded scared.

MONTAUK, USA

Linda and Darryl Hooper had been married for three weeks, and were spending their honeymoon on Long Island. Ever since film stars had supplanted fishermen as the region's main residents, Long Island had been a pricey place to stay. Now hundreds of classy fish restaurants looked out on to kilometres of sandy beaches. Fashionable New Yorkers holidayed there with all their customary style. In fact, with America's seriously rich industrialists, they had colonised the exclusive neighbourhood of East Hampton, a pristine and picture-perfect town that was practically unaffordable for its working population. Southampton, further to the south-west, wasn't cheap either, but Darryl Hooper had made a name for himself as an ambitious young attorney. It was no secret that he was being groomed for partnership at his downtown Manhattan law firm. The big bucks weren't flowing yet, but Hooper was undoubtedly on the make. Besides, he'd married a cute chick. Linda had been the darling of law school, but in the end she'd chosen him, despite his thinning hair and thick-lensed glasses.

Hooper was happy with his lot, and – in the knowledge that his star was rising – had decided to treat himself and Linda to a taste of things to come. On the face of it they couldn't afford the hotel in Southampton, and eating out at fancy restaurants cost them a hundred bucks a night. But that was OK. They'd worked their butts off and they deserved a little luxury. Besides, it wouldn't be long before the Hoopers could visit the most fashionable places as often as they liked.

He drew his wife a little closer to him, and gazed out across the Atlantic. The sun was preparing to drop into the sea. The sky turned violet, wisps of cloud glowed pink on the horizon and little waves to lapped at the beach. Hooper thought about staying awhile. The highway would be busy right now, but in an hour or so they'd have a clear ride through to Southampton. It would only take twenty minutes to cover the fifty kilometres on the Harley. It seemed a shame to leave now.

Especially since after sunset Montauk Point was the perfect place for lovers, or so everyone said.

They picked their way slowly through the rocks. After a few paces they came to an area of flat ground, out of sight of the rest of the beach. Hooper was in love, and he liked the idea that no one could see them.

Never in a million years would he have guessed that two men in an underground bunker in Buckley Field were watching him from an altitude of 195 kilometres, as he kissed his wife, sliding his hands under her T-shirt and slipping it off, while she unbuckled his belt. Eventually they lay clasped together on their clothes. He covered her with kisses and Linda rolled on to her back. His lips roamed over her breasts, towards her belly, and his hands were everywhere at once.

She giggled. 'Stop that. It tickles.'

He took his right hand off the inside of her thigh and kissed her again.

'Hey, what are you doing?'

What was he doing? He was doing the things he always did – things he knew she liked. He kissed her lips but her eyes were fixed on something behind him. Hooper turned.

There was a crab on Linda's shin. With a little shriek, she shook it off. It landed on its back, then splayed its pincers and straggled to get up. 'Ugh! It scared me.'

'I guess it wanted part of the action.' Hooper grinned. 'Well, too bad, buddy, you'll have to find a lady of your own.'

Linda laughed and propped herself up on her elbows. 'Funny little thing,' she said. 'I've never seen a crab like that before.'

Hooper inspected it more closely. The crab still hadn't moved. It wasn't especially big – no more than ten centimetres long – and it was white. Its carapace glowed against the darkness of the rock. Sure, it was an unusual colour, but there was something else about it. Linda was right.

Then he realised. 'It's got no eyes,' he said.

'Oh, yeah.' She rolled over and crawled towards the creature on her hands and knees. 'Freaky. Do think something's wrong with it?^'

'I'd say it never had eyes.' Hooper ran his fingers down her spine. 'Just ignore it – it's not doing any harm.'

Linda picked up a pebble and took aim. The crab didn't flinch. She prodded its claws and pulled her hand back quickly, but nothing happened.

He let out a sigh.

'Come on, forget the stupid crab.' Hooper crouched next to her and prodded it. 'That's one laid-back crab.'

Smiling, she kissed him. Hooper felt her tongue wind round his. He closed his eyes, abandoning himself to…

Linda flinched. 'Darryl.'

The crab was on her hand. There was another behind it, and a third next to that. His eyes darted up the wall of rock that separated their hideout from the beach.

The black stone surface was covered with myriad armoured shells.

White eyeless creatures with pincers, row after row, as far as the eye could see.

There were millions of them.

'Oh, God,' Linda whispered.

The sea of bodies started to move. Hooper had watched smaller crustaceans scuttle about on the sand, but he'd always pictured crabs walking slowly and majestically. These were fast – so fast it was frightening. Like a tidal wave they swept towards them, their armoured legs clattering softly on the rock.

Stark naked, Linda leaped to her feet and backed away. Hooper tried to gather their things, but stumbled, dropping an armful of clothes. The crabs swarmed over them, and Hooper sprang back.

The creatures followed him.

'They won't hurt you,' he called out. But Linda was already scrambling over the rocks.

'Linda!'

She lost her balance, sprawling head-first on the rocks. Hooper rushed over, but the crabs were moving faster, surging past and clambering over them. Linda screamed, her voice high-pitched and panicky. With the flat of his hand he beat away the creatures as they marched over her back, scrabbling up his arms. She jumped up, panic-stricken, tugging at her hair. There were crabs on her scalp. Hooper grabbed her and pushed her forwards. He didn't mean to hurt her; he just wanted to get them out of there, away from the avalanche of creatures swarming over the rocks. But Linda tripped again, clutching at him and pulling him with her. He crashed to the ground and felt a mass of crab shell shatter beneath him. Sharp fragments dug painfully into his flesh. He lashed out. Hundreds of sharp feet scurried over his body. He saw blood on his fingers, and hauled himself up, dragging Linda with him.

Somehow they made it across the rocks and ran naked to the Harley. Hooper glanced back over his shoulder. From the raised ground around the lighthouse the entire beach was seething with crabs. They were rising out of the ocean, too numerous to count. The first wave had already reached the parking lot and was picking up speed on the even terrain. Hooper was running, tugging Linda behind him. His soles prickled with splintered shell, and slime coated his feet. He had to be careful not to slip. At last they reached the motorbike, leaped on, and Hooper pulled back the throttle.

They sped out of the parking lot and on to the open road, racing towards Southampton. The motorbike skidded dangerously on a slippery layer of mangled crab. Then they were out of the teeming mass and shooting along the tarmac. Linda clung to him. A van appeared from the opposite direction, an old man at the wheel, eyes wide in disbelief. It was like something out of a movie, thought Hooper – two people on a motorbike, without a stitch of clothing. He would have found it funny if it hadn't been so awful.

The houses on the edge of Montauk loomed into view. The eastern tip of Long Island was just a narrow strip of land, with the road running parallel to the coast. As Hooper made for the town he saw a sea of white crabs advancing from the left. They spilled over the bluff and marched towards the road.

He accelerated.

The white sea was faster.

It reached the tarmac just a few metres before the sign that welcomed visitors to Montauk. The road seethed. A track was reversing out of a driveway. Hooper felt the Harley skid. He tried to dodge the vehicle, but the motorbike was out of control.

Oh, no, he thought. Oh, please, God, no.

The truck rolled across the road, with the Harley skidding towards it. Hooper heard Linda scream, and wrenched the bike round. They slid past the front of the truck, missing the chrome-plated metal by a hair The Harley was still turning but Hooper steadied it. People were jumping out of their path. He took no notice. The road ahead was clear.

At full tilt they headed for Southampton.

BUCKLEY FIELD, USA

'What the hell's going on down there?'

Cody's fingers sped over the keyboard. He tried viewing the images with different filters, but all they could see was a light-coloured mass spilling inland from the ocean.

'It looks like a wave,' he said. 'Like a flicking big wave.'

'But there wasn't a wave,' said Mike. 'It's got to be animals.'

'What kind of flicking animals?'

'They're…' Mike stared at the monitor. He pointed. 'Look, right there! Zoom in on that. Cut it down to a square metre.'

Cody selected the area and zoomed in. The screen was filled with a mixture of light and dark pixels.

'Closer.'

The pixels expanded, some white, others in varying shades of grey.

'OK, maybe I'm going crazy,' said Mike slowly, 'but to me they look like…' How could it be possible? 'Pincers,' he said. 'Pincers and shells.'

Cody stared at him. 'Pincers?'

'Crabs.'

Cody's jaw fell open. He typed in a command for the satellite to search the coastline.

The KH-12- worked its way from Montauk to East Hampton and from there to Southampton, Mastic Beach and Patchogue.

'This can't be happening,' Mike said.

'Can't it?' Cody turned around. 'Well, it Fucking is. Something's coming out of the sea down there – along the whole damn coastline of Long Island. Do you still want to visit Montauk?'

Mike picked up the phone to call HQ.

GREATER NEW YORK, USA

Just past the exit for Montauk, Route 27 joined the Long Island Expressway 495. It led all the way to Queens. It was about 200 kilometres from Montauk to New York, and the closer you drove to the metropolis, the busier it became. Roughly half-way there, near Patchogue, there'd be a surge of extra traffic.

Bo Henson was a deliveryman in his own private courier business. He made the round trip to Long Island twice a day. He'd been to Patchogue to pick up a parcel from the airport and drop it off nearby. Now he was on his way back to the city. He'd had a long day already – but it was no use griping about the hours when you were up against the big boys, like FedEx. Soon he'd be able to relax, though. He'd finished all his deliveries and was clocking off earlier than he'd expected. He was worn out and longing for a beer.

Near Amityville, roughly forty kilometres from Queens, the car in front skidded.

Henson hit the brakes. The car ahead straightened out and slowed right down. Its hazard warning lights flashed on. Something was coating the road. The light was fading, and Henson couldn't see what it was, only that it was moving, and that it seemed to he coming from the bushes on the left. Then he saw that it was crabs. The highway was swarming with them. They were trying to cross the road and didn't stand a chance – the tracks of slime and shattered shell were evidence of the casualties so far.

The traffic crept forwards. It was like driving on soap. Henson swore. He wondered where the creatures could have come from. He'd read in the paper about land-crabs on Christmas Island migrating from the mountains to the sea to spawn. Every year 100 million of them set off en masse. But Christmas Island was in the Indian Ocean, and the crabs in the photo had been huge and bright red, not a seething mass of white.

Henson had never seen anything like it.

He cursed again, and switched on the radio. After a while he hit on a country music station and resigned himself to his fate. Dolly Parton did her best to reconcile him to the situation, but nothing could salvage his mood. Ten minutes later, the news came on, but made no mention of the crab plague. A snow plough had appeared, though, and was pushing its way between the crawling traffic, trying to sweep the milling bodies from the road. The effect was to jam things up entirely. Henson switched between all the local radio stations, but none had anything to say about it, which riled him even more: he was suffering and no one cared. Meanwhile, the air-conditioning was blowing an unwholesome stench into his van and he was forced to turn it off.

On the other side of the crossroads leading left to Hempstead and right to Long Beach, the traffic picked up speed. The creatures hadn't made it that far. Henson kept his foot on the gas and reached Queens an hour later than he'd hoped. He was in a foul temper. Just before he got to the East River he turned left and crossed Newton Creek on the way to his regular drinking-hole in Brooklyn-Greenpoint. He parked, got out and almost had a heart-attack when he saw the state of his van. A mush of crab plastered the tyres, the hubcaps and the paintwork, reaching all the way up to the windows. He had to be on the road first thing the next morning and couldn't deliver any parcels like that.

It was late, but the beer could wait until he'd taken the van to the twenty-four-hour carwash. He climbed back in, drove the three blocks, and told the guys to pay special attention to the alloys: he didn't want a speck of filth left on his van. Then he told them where they could find him, and walked back to the bar for his beer.

The carwash had a reputation for doing a thorough, conscientious job. The slimy gunk on Henson's van was hard to get off, but after prolonged exposure to the jet of hot water, it melted off- like Jell-O in the sun, thought the boy in charge of the pressure-washer. The effluent poured into the drains.

New York had a unique water-supply system. While cars and trains passed beneath the East River at a depth of thirty metres, pipes carrying drinking water and sewage extended 240 metres underground. Engineers with powerful drills were always boring new tunnels to ensure that water flowed freely into and out of the city. Alongside the existing pipes, countless old tunnels were no longer in use. Experts claimed that no one could locate all of the tunnels buried below the streets of New York. There wasn't a single map that showed the entire network. Some tunnels were known only to certain groups of drifters, who kept the secret to themselves. The sewers had inspired directors to make monster movies in which scary creatures were hatched in them. In a sense, everything that flowed into New York's sewers went astray.

In the course of that evening and over the next few days, the carwashes in Brooklyn, Queens, State Island and Manhattan were filled with vehicles that had come from Long Island. The wastewater disappeared into the bowels of the city, flowing along pipelines, mingling with other fluids and entering the recycling stations. Then it was pumped back into the system. Only a few hours after Henson's squeaky-clean van had been dropped off at the bar, the effluent had merged with New York's water.

Within six hours the first ambulances were racing through the streets.

11 May

Chateau Whistler, Canada

There was always a way of coming to terms with change. Or, at least, Johanson had always found one. Much as it had hurt him to lose his house, he knew he could live without it. Even the end of his marriage had been a new beginning. In Trondheim, his short-lived relationships had compounded his solitude – but none of it had bothered him. As far as he was concerned, anything that didn't add to his aesthetic sensibilities or his appreciation of harmony could be consigned to the dustbin. The surface was something he shared with others but the depths he kept for himself. That was his way of getting on with life.

Now, though, in the early hours of the morning, other, more dissonant memories were emerging from the past. He hadn't intended to open his left eye, but now that he had, he examined the world from a cyclopean view, thinking about those in his life who'd been destroyed by change.

His wife.

People grew up thinking that they controlled their lives. But he'd abandoned her, and she'd been forced to see that control was an illusion. She'd argued with him, pleaded with him, shouted, shown compassion, listened patiently, begged for his pity, and been left behind, disenfranchised, bundled out of their shared life. She'd stopped believing in her power to change anything. Life was a gamble, and she'd lost.

Was it his fault that he'd suddenly felt differently? Emotions were beyond innocence and guilt: they were biochemical reactions to the circumstances of life. It wasn't very romantic, he knew, but endorphins meant more than any romance. So what was he guilty of? Of making promises that couldn't be kept…

Johanson opened the other eye.

Change, for him, was the elixir of life. For her it had induced a kind of coma. Years later, when he was in Trondheim, friends had told him that she'd finally got back on her feet, taken charge of her life. After a while she'd found someone new. Johanson and she had chatted on the phone a few times, free from rancour or longing. The bitterness had destroyed itself, and he'd been released from the burden of guilt.

But now it was back.

It followed him around, with Tina Lund's pale, pretty face. By now he had been through all the different scenarios. If they'd slept together at the lake, it would have changed everything. Maybe she would have joined him in the Shetlands. Or maybe it would have ruined everything, and he would have been the last person whose advice she would have taken – like when he'd encouraged her to visit Kare. Either way, she would still be alive.

He kept telling himself it was stupid to think like that.

But the thoughts kept returning.

The first rays of sunshine streamed into the room. He had left the curtains open as he always did: a bedroom with closed curtains was no better than a crypt. He wondered about getting up for breakfast, but he had no desire to move. Lund's death filled him with sorrow. He hadn't been in love with her, but he had loved her. Her restlessness, her need for freedom had drawn them together, as surely as they had kept them apart.

I won't live forever, he thought Ever since Lund had died, he had thought about death. He wasn't used to feeling old, but now it seemed as though Fate had stamped a best-before date on him. He was fifty-six, in excellent shape, and had escaped the statistical threat of untimely death through illness or accident. He'd even survived a tsunami. But there was no doubt that time was running out. Most of his life was in the past, and he was starting to worry that it might all have been a mistake.

Two women in his life had trusted him, and he'd failed to protect them.

Karen Weaver was alive. She reminded him of Lund. She wasn't as hyperactive, as guarded or as moody, but she had Lund's strength, her toughness and impatience. After their escape from the tsunami, he had told her his theory and she'd explained her work for Lukas Bauer. After a while he had flown back to Norway and joined the ranks of the homeless. But the NTNU was still standing. The authorities had besieged him with work, and before he could drive to the lake, the summons had arrived from Canada. It had been his idea for Weaver to join them, ostensibly because she knew more than anyone else about Bauer's work and could take it further. But that wasn't the real reason. If it hadn't been for the helicopter, Weaver wouldn't have survived – so, in a sense, he had saved her. Weaver was absolution for his failure to help Lund, and he'd made up his mind to look out for her. To that end, it was better to have her close.

The memories of the past faded in the sunlight. Johanson got up, showered and arrived at the buffet at half past six to find that he wasn't the only one to have risen so early. The dining hall was filled with soldiers and intelligence agents drinking coffee, eating muesli and fruit and talking in hushed tones. Johanson piled his plate with scrambled eggs and bacon and searched for familiar faces. He would have liked to talk to Bohrmann, but he was nowhere to be seen. General Judith Li was there, though, sitting alone at a table for two. She was leafing through a file. From time to time she took a spoonful of fruit from her bowl.

Something about Li intrigued Johanson. He guessed that she looked younger than she was. He wondered what a man had to do to get her into bed, but decided it was probably unadvisable to try. Li didn't look like someone who would let others take the initiative.

She glanced from her reading and spotted him. 'Good morning, Dr Johanson,' she called. 'Did you sleep well?'

'Like a baby.' He walked over to her table. 'You're not breakfasting alone, are you? I guess it must be lonely at the top.'

'Why don't you join me? I like having people around me who are busy with their thoughts. It concentrates the mind.'

Johanson took a seat 'Who's to say I am?'

'It's obvious.' Li put down her file. 'Coffee?'

'Yes, please.'

'You revealed yourself yesterday. The other scientists here are focused on their fields. Shankar's contending with mysterious deep-sea noises, Anawak's fretting about his whales – although he's got more of an overview than the others – and Bohrmann's terrified that there's going to be a methane disaster. He's juggling variables, trying to prevent another slide.'

'Sounds like they've got their work cut out to me.'

'But they haven't come up with a theory to tie it all together.'

'I didn't think we needed one,' Johanson said evenly. 'It's an Arab conspiracy.'

'Do you believe that?'

'No.'

'What do you believe, then?'

'If you want to hear what I think, you're going to have to wait an extra day or so.'

'You haven't convinced yourself yet?'

'Almost.' Johanson sipped his coffee. 'But it's tricky. Your Mr. Vanderbilt is all fired up about terrorism. Before I even voice my suspicions, I'll need someone to cover my back.'

'And who's going to do that?'

Johanson put down his cup. 'You are, General.'

Li didn't seem surprised. 'If you're going to try to convince me of something, maybe you should tell me what it is.'

'Absolutely,' smiled Johanson. 'All in good time.'

Li pushed the file across the table. Inside the plastic wallet was a collection of faxes. 'Maybe this will speed up your decision, Dr Johanson. I received these at five o'clock this morning. No one seems able to tell us exactly what happened, and we're still awaiting a full report, but I had to make a quick decision. In a few hours' time, New York and the surrounding area will be under martial law. Peak's there already to set things in motion.'

Johanson saw the spectre of another wave. 'But why?'

'What if I told you that billions of white crabs were rising from the sea along the coast of Long Island?'

'I'd say they were on a team-building exercise.'

'Uh-huh. But for which team?'

'Tell me more about these crabs,' he said. 'What are they doing there?'

'We're not sure. But we think it's something similar to those Brittany lobsters. They're importing a plague. How does that fit with your theory?'

Johanson thought it over. 'Is there a biohazard facility where we could examine them?'

'We've set one up in Nanaimo. A consignment of crabs is being sent there.'

'Live ones?'

'They were alive when they were caught. Plenty of people are dead, though. The poison seems to work faster than the toxins in Europe.'

Johanson said nothing for a while. 'I'll fly over,' he said.

'And when do you plan to tell me what you're thinking?'

'Give me twenty-four hours.'

Li pursed her lips. 'Twenty-four hours it is,' she said. 'But not a minute longer.'

NANAIMO, Vancouver Island

Anawak was sitting with Ray Fenwick, John Ford and Sue Oliviera in the institute's capacious projection room. The projector was showing 3-D models of whale brains. Oliviera had designed them on the computer, and had marked the places where the jelly had been found. You could navigate around the insides of the brains and slice them lengthways with a virtual knife. They'd already watched three simulations, and now they were viewing the fourth, which showed how the substance wound its way through the gyri towards the centre of the brain.

'OK, here's the theory,' said Anawak. 'Imagine you're a cockroach.'

'Gee, thanks, Leon.' Oliviera raised her eyebrows, which made her horsy face seem even longer. 'You know how to flatter a lady.'

'A cockroach incapable of intelligent thought.'

'I never knew you felt that way.'

Fenwick laughed and scratched the tip of his nose.

'Everything you do is merely a reflex,' Anawak continued, unabashed, 'so if I were a neurophysiology, I could steer your behaviour with no trouble at all. I'd only have to control your reflexes and trigger them as required. You'd be like an artificial limb. I'd just have to push the right buttons.'

'Wasn't there an experiment where they beheaded a beetle and sewed on another one's head?' said Ford. 'If I remember rightly, it could walk.'

'Almost. They decapitated one cockroach, and chopped the legs off another. Then they joined the central nervous systems. The cockroach with the head took control of the legs as though they were its own. That's what I'm getting at: simple processes for simple creatures. There was another experiment where they tried something similar with mice. They took a mouse and grafted a second head on to its body. It lived a surprisingly long time – a few hours or days, I think. In any case, both heads seemed to function normally, but the mouse had trouble coordinating its movement. It was able to walk, but not always in the direction it intended, so it mostly fell over after a few steps.'

'Appalling,' muttered Oliviera.

'So, it's technically possible to gain control of any organism, but the more complex it is, the more difficult that becomes. Imagine dealing with a complex organism that's also conscious, intelligent, creative and self-aware. It's pretty darned hard to make it do your bidding, so what do you do?'

'You break its will and reduce it to the level of a cockroach. With men, you just flash your naked butt.'

'Exactly.' Anawak grinned. 'Because people and cockroaches aren't so very different.'

'Some people,' Oliviera corrected him.

'No, everyone. Free will's a wonderful thing, but it's only free until you flip a few switches. Like pain, for example.'

'So whoever made the jelly knows how a whale brain works,' said Fenwick. 'That's what you're saying, isn't it? That the substance stimulates specific neural centres.'

'Yes.'

'And to do that, you have to know which.'

'It's not too hard to find out,' said Oliviera. 'Think of John Lilly.'

'Exactly.' Anawak nodded. 'Lilly was the first to experiment with implanting electrodes in animal brains to stimulate pleasure or pain. He proved that by manipulating areas of the brain it's possible to cause an animal to feel pleasure, gratification, pain, anger or fear. That was with apes, remember, and apes are close to whales and dolphins in terms of complexity and intelligence. It worked. He could bring the animals under his control by using electrodes to trigger different sensations as punishment or reward. And that was back in the sixties.'

'Still, Fenwick's right,' said Ford. 'That's all well and good if you've got an ape on your operating-table and you can tinker around in its head. But the jelly must have entered through the ears or the jaw, and for that it would have to change shape. Even if you managed to get the stuff inside the brain, how could you be sure that it would redistribute itself correctly and then, um, press the right buttons?'

Anawak was convinced that the jelly inside the whales was doing just that, but he didn't have the faintest idea how. 'Maybe there aren't many buttons that need pressing,' he said. 'Maybe it's enough to-'

The door opened.

'Dr Oliviera?' A lab technician poked her head into the room. 'I'm sorry to disturb you but you're wanted in the containment lab. It's urgent.'

Oliviera looked at the others. 'This kind of thing never used to happen,' she said. 'Only a few weeks ago we could sit down comfortably and have a civilised conversation about all sorts of nonsense without anyone interrupting. Now I feel like I'm in a Bond film. Would Dr Oliviera please make her way immediately to the containment lab!' She got up and clapped her hands. 'OK then. Vamos, muchachos. Does anyone want to come? You won't get anywhere in this building without me anyway.'

BIOHAZARD CONTAINMENT FACILITY

Moments after the crabs had arrived, Johanson's helicopter touched down next to the institute. A lab technician accompanied him to the elevators. They descended two floors, got out and walked down a stark, neon-lit corridor. The technician opened a heavy door, and they entered a room filled with monitors. The biohazard sign above the steel door at the back was the only indication that death lurked beyond. Johanson spotted Roche, Anawak and Ford, talking quietly together. Oliviera and Fenwick were in conversation with Rubin and Vanderbilt. Rubin caught sight of Johanson and came over to shake hands. 'Never a dull moment, is there?' He gave a frenzied laugh.

'I suppose not.'

'We haven't had a chance to talk yet,' said Rubin. 'You must tell me about the worms. It's a shame we had to meet in such circumstances, but you can't say it's not thrilling… Have you heard the latest news?'

'I guess that's why I'm here.'

Rubin pointed to the steel door. 'Unbelievable, isn't it? These used to be storerooms, but the army had then turned them into a hermetically sealed laboratory. I know it sounds a bit makeshift, but there's nothing to worry about – the whole thing conforms to Biosafety Level 4. We can examine the organisms without putting anyone at risk.'

BSL-4 was the highest level of containment.

'Will you be joining us inside?' asked Johanson.

'It'll be me and Dr Oliviera.'

'I thought Roche was the expert on crustaceans.'

'Everyone's an expert on everything here.' Vanderbilt and Oliviera had joined them. The CIA agent smelt faintly of sweat. He thumped Johanson jovially on the shoulder. 'We picked our boffins very carefully – it takes a mix of flavours to make a good pizza. But Li's got a thing about you, Dr Johanson. I bet she can't stand letting you out of her sight. She'd love to know what's going on inside your head.' He guffawed. 'Unless it's something else she's after… What do you reckon?'

Johanson smiled distantly. 'Maybe you should ask her.'

'Oh, I have,' said Vanderbilt, serenely. 'I hate to disappoint you, but she's only interested in your brain. She thinks you know something.'

'Really? Like what?'

'You tell me.'

'I don't know anything.'

Vanderbilt looked at him disparagingly. 'No neat theory?'

'I thought yours was neat enough.'

'Well, so long as you haven't got any better ideas. And while you're in there, Dr Johanson, here's something for you to think about. We call it Gulf War Syndrome. Back in 1991, America kept her losses to a minimum on the ground in Kuwait, but guess what? Nearly a quarter of our veterans developed a weird bunch of symptoms. Looking back on it, their complaints were like a mild version of the damage caused by Pfiesteria - memory loss, concentration difficulties, damage to internal organs… We think they were exposed to some chemical. After all, our men were in the vicinity when the Iraqi weapons depots were blown up. At the time we suspected it was sarin, but maybe the Iraqis were developing a biological agent as well. Half the Islamic world has a stockpile of pathogens. It's not difficult to genetically modify harmless bacteria or viruses and turn them into killers.'

'And you think that's what's happened here?'

'I think you'd be well advised to open up to Auntie Li.' Vanderbilt winked. 'Between you and me, she's nuts. Capisce? And you should never get in the way of someone who's nuts.'

'She seems perfectly sane to me.'

'That's your problem. Don't say you weren't warned.'

^'My problem is that we still don't know what's going on,' said Oliviera, gesturing towards the door. 'It's time to get to work. Roche is coming too, of course.'

'What about me? Are you sure you can't use a bodyguard?' Vanderbilt grinned. I'd be happy to volunteer.'

'That's very kind of you, Jack, but we're right out of suits in your size.'

The four made their way past the steel door and into the first of three airlocks. A camera poked down from the ceiling. Four bright yellow protective suits were hanging up, with transparent hoods, gloves and black vinyl boots.

'Are you all familiar with working in containment labs?' Oliviera asked.

Roche and Rubin nodded.

'Only in theory,' Johanson admitted.

'No problem. We'd normally have to train you, but there's no time for that. In any case, the suit is one third of your protection. You can rely on it 100 per cent. It's made of impermeable PVC. The other two thirds are caution and concentration. Wait, I'll help you put it on.'

The suit was pretty bulky. Johanson pulled on a kind of waistcoat, designed to distribute the intake of air evenly round his body, then struggled into the yellow overall, keeping pace with Oliviera's explanations.

'Once you're safely in the suit, we'll hook you up to the air system and fill your overall with dehumidified, tempered air. The charcoal filter supplies it under positive pressure. That's important, since it stops air entering in the event of a leak. Any surplus air exits via the exhaust valve. You can regulate the supply yourself, but that shouldn't be necessary. OK? How do you feel?'

'Like the Michelin man.'

Oliviera laughed and they walked out of the first airlock. Johanson could hear Oliviera's muffled voice in his ears and realised they were all wired up: 'The air pressure in the laboratory is maintained at fifty pascals below atmospheric pressure. Not a single spore will ever find its way out. If we lose power to the facility, there's an emergency back-up so there's unlikely to be any problem. The floor is made of sealed concrete and the windows are bulletproof. The air inside the laboratory is decontaminated using high-tech filters. There aren't any drains because we sterilise liquid waste within the building. We can communicate with the outside world via radio, fax or computer. The freezers and the air-regulation system are fitted with alarms that will go off simultaneously in the control room, the virological lab and at Reception. Every last corner of the facility is under video surveillance.'

'Too right,' Vanderbilt boomed, through the speaker system. 'So if any one of you drops dead down there, there'll be a great home movie for the kids.'

Johanson saw Oliviera roll her eyes.

They walked through the other sealed chambers and into the lab. The room covered an area of about thirty square metres and looked rather like a restaurant kitchen, with its freezers, fridges and wall-mounted cupboards. Lined up against one of the walls large metal barrels contained viral cultures and other organisms preserved in liquid nitrogen. There was plenty of space to work on the various benches. The interior of the lab had been designed so that there were no sharp edges to damage the suits. Oliviera pointed to three big red buttons that allowed them to sound the alarm, then led them over to one of the benches. She opened a tub-shaped container. Little white crabs sat in thirty centimetres of water, showing no sign of life. Oliviera picked up a metal spatula and prodded them, but none moved. 'They're dead, I reckon.'

'Unfortunate,' said Rubin. 'Didn't they promise us live specimens?'

'According to Li, they were alive at the start of the journey,' said Johanson. He leaned forwards and studied them one by one. He patted Oliviera's arm. 'Second to the left. Its leg twitched.'

Oliviera ferried the crab to the work surface, where it sat for a few seconds, then raced at speed towards the edge of the bench. Oliviera brought it back. It allowed itself to be pushed across the table without protest, then tried once more to flee. Oliviera repeated the procedure a few times, then replaced the crab in the tub. 'Any immediate thoughts?' she asked.

'I'd have to look inside it,' said Roche.

Rubin shrugged. 'It's behaviour seems normal enough. I'm not familiar with the species, though. Can you identify it, Dr Johanson?'

'No.' Johanson thought for a moment. 'But its behaviour isn't normal. Under normal circumstances it would see the spatula as its enemy. You'd expect it to splay its claws and wave them threateningly. In my opinion, its motor activity is normal, but there's a problem with its senses. It looks to me-'

'Like a clockwork toy,' said Oliviera.

'Right. It scuttles like a crab, but it doesn't behave like a crab.'

'Do you know what species it could be?'

I'm not really a taxonomist. I can tell you what I think, but you shouldn't take my word for it.'

'Go on.'

'There are two interesting features.' Johanson picked up the spatula and touched a few motionless shells. 'First, the crabs are white. Colourless. Nature never uses colours for decoration, always for a purpose. Most colourless organisms live in places they can't be seen, which is why they don't need colour. The second feature is the lack of eyes.'

'You mean they come from caves or from the depths?' said Roche.

'Yes. Some creatures that live in darkness have traces of eyes – atrophied, of course, but you can see where they used to be – but these crabs, well, I'd say they never had eyes in the first place. If that's the case, then their habitat must be pitch-black. In fact, they must have evolved in the dark. As far as I'm aware, that applies to only one species of crab that looks anything like these.'

'Vent crabs,' nodded Rubin.

'And where do they come from?' asked Roche.

'Deep-sea hydrothermal vents,' said Rubin. 'Volcanic oases of life.'

Roche frowned. 'Then they shouldn't be able to survive on land.'

'The real question is, what has survived?' said Johanson.

Oliviera fished a dead crustacean out of the tub, turned it on its back and laid it on the bench. She gathered up a series of implements resembling crab picks, and cut into the side of the carapace with a tiny, battery-driven circular saw. A transparent substance spurted into the air. Oliviera continued unperturbed until the shell was divided in two. She picked up the underside, with the legs attached, and moved it to one side.

They stared at the dissected creature.

'That's not a crab,' said Johanson.

'No,' said Roche. He pointed to the semi-fluid, clumpy mass of jelly that filled most of the shell. 'It's the same gunk we found in the lobsters.'

Oliviera spooned the jelly into a jar. 'Look at this,' she said. 'Behind the head it still looks like a proper crab. See these fibres running down the middle? They're its nervous system. The crab's got all its senses, just nothing to help it use them.'

'Actually,' said Rubin, 'it's got the jelly.'

'It's not a crab in the normal sense.' Roche peered at the transparent gunk in the jar. 'It functions, but it's not alive.'

'Which explains why it doesn't behave like a crab – assuming we don't identify the stuff inside it as a new type of crab meat.'

'No way,' said Roche. 'It doesn't belong to the crab. It's a foreign organism.'

'In that case, the foreign organism is responsible for making these crabs come on land,' said Johanson. 'What we need to find out is whether the crabs were dead and it slipped inside to try to bring them back to life or…'

'Whether they were bred like that,' Oliviera finished for him.

There was an uncomfortable pause. Finally Roche broke the silence. 'Well, wherever this stuff is coming from, you can guarantee we'd all be dead without these suits. I'm willing to bet that these crabs are bursting with Pfiesteria or maybe something worse. The air in this laboratory is almost certainly contaminated.'

Johanson remembered what Vanderbilt had said. Biological weaponry. He was right, of course. Spot on. Just not in the way he'd assumed.

WEAVER

Weaver felt a rush of euphoria. She only had to enter her password and the laptop gave her access to more information than she'd ever imagined. Under normal circumstances it would have taken her months to gather the kind of data she had here – and even then the military satellites would always have been off-limits. But this was amazing! She could sit on the balcony of her suite, log into NASA's server and immerse herself in the American military's satellite maps.

In the 1980s the US Navy had begun to investigate a remarkable phenomenon. Geosat, a radar-imaging satellite, had been launched into a near-polar orbit. There was no provision or possibility for it to map the ocean floor – radar was incapable of penetrating water. Instead, Geosat's mission was to measure sea-surface heights to within a few centimetres. It was thought that by charting great expanses of water it would be possible to show whether the sea level – tidal fluctuations aside – was the same across the planet.

Geosat's findings exceeded all expectations.

Scientists had suspected that the oceans were never completely smooth, even in conditions of perfect calm, but Geosat's images made the planet look like an enormous, lumpy potato. The oceans were full of dents, humps, bulges and troughs. For a long time scientists had assumed that the water in them was spread evenly across the globe, but the map offered a different picture. Off the south coast of India, for example, the sea level was 170 metres lower than it was in the waters around Iceland. To the north of Australia, on the other hand, it rose up to form a peak eighty-five metres above the mean sea level. The oceans were vast mountainscapes whose topography seemed to follow the lie of the underwater landscape. Towering underwater mountain ranges and deep ocean valleys replicated themselves on the surface with only a few metres' difference in height.

It all came down to variations in gravity. An underwater mountain gave the sea floor additional mass, so its gravitational field was stronger than that of a deep-sea valley. It pulled the surrounding water towards the mountain and made it pile up in a hump. The water surface bulged above a mountain – and dipped above a trench. For a short while, a number of exceptions kept the scientists guessing – for example, when water piled up above a deep sea plain – but in the end it transpired that some of the rock on the seabed was denser and heavier than average, and with that the gravitational topography fell into place.

The slopes of the water's mounds and valleys were too gentle for any sailor to detect. In fact, if it hadn't been for satellite mapping, no one would have stumbled on the phenomenon, but now scientists could use their knowledge of the surface to deduce what was happening in the depths. It was more than just a new method of charting the topography of the seabed: it was a key to understanding ocean dynamics. Geosat had revealed that powerful currents circled in the oceans, forming eddies that measured hundreds of kilometres across. Like coffee being stirred in a mug, the rotating masses of water formed a depression at the centre, while the outer rings rose upwards. It became apparent that these eddies also caused the ocean's surface to rise and fall, independent of gravitational variations, and that they themselves were part of far larger rings of water – oceanic gyres. From the long-distance perspective of satellite mapping, it became clear that all the world's oceans were rotating. In the northern hemisphere, enormous networks of rings spun in a clockwise direction, while in the southern hemisphere the flow was anti-clockwise. The speed of rotation increased with proximity to the poles.

This allowed scientists to prove another fundamental principle of ocean dynamics: the rotation of the planet determined the speed and direction of the gyres.

Logically, therefore, the Gulf Stream wasn't a stream, but the western boundary of an enormous vortex made up of smaller eddies: a gyre rotating slowly, and pushing towards North America in a clockwise direction. Because the whirlpool wasn't in the centre of the Atlantic Ocean but to the west, the Gulf Stream was pushed against the American coast, where the water piled up in a ridge. Strong winds and the poleward flow of the water increased the speed of the swirl, while the immense lateral shear with the coastline slowed it down. As a result, the north Atlantic whirlpool was rotating in a steady circular current, in line with the principle of angular momentum, which ruled that circular movements remained stable unless disrupted by an external force.

And it was the possibility that the current was being disrupted that Bauer had feared. He'd been trying to find proof Water had stopped cascading into the Greenland Sea, which was alarming, but not decisive. Proving the existence of global changes meant obtaining data on a global scale.

In 1995, after the Cold War had ended, the American military had begun to release the Geosat maps and the system had been replaced with a string of new satellites. Karen Weaver had access to all their data, which combined to form a complete history of oceanic mapping from the mid-nineties onwards. She spent hours trying to match up the different readings. There were variations in detail – sometimes a satellite's radar altimeter would mistake a thick bank of mist for the surface and record a measurement that was disputed elsewhere, but in general the results were the same.

The closer she looked, the more her initial excitement gave way to anxiety.

In the end she was certain that Bauer had been right.

His drifting profilers had transmitted data for only a short time, without seeming to follow the path of any current. Then one after another, the floats had fallen silent. Practically no feedback was available from Bauer's expedition. She wondered whether he had sensed how right he'd been. She could feel his knowledge weighing on her shoulders. He had entrusted her with his legacy, and now she could read between the lines. She knew enough to grasp that a catastrophe was looming.

She went back through her calculations and checked for mistakes. She repeated the process again and again. It was worse than she'd feared.

ONLINE

Still in their PVC suits, Johanson, Oliviera, Rubin and Roche stood under the decontamination shower. The vapour from the solution of 1.5 per cent peracetic acid was guaranteed to obliterate every last trace of any lurking biological agent. Once the caustic fluid had been washed away with water and neutralised with sodium hydroxide, the scientists were permitted to leave the sealed chamber.

SHANKAR AND HIS TEAM were working round the clock in an attempt to make sense of the unidentified noises. They'd called in Ford to help them, and were busy playing Scratch and other spectrograms over and over again.

ANAWAK AND FENWICK had gone for a walk and were deep in conversation about possible ways of hijacking an organism's neural system.

DR STANLEY FROST had turned up in Bohrmann's suite. His baseball cap was pulled down over his glasses and his massive figure seemed to fill the room. 'Right, Doc, it's time we talked,' he boomed.

He explained his thoughts on the worms – interesting, all in all. He and Bohrmann clicked right away, drank a few beers at lightning speed and came up with a series of disturbing, yet plausible scenarios to add to the list of possible disasters. Now they were conferring via satellite with Kiel. Since the Internet connection had been restored, the Geomar scientists had been sending a steady stream of simulations. Suess had reconstructed events on the Norwegian slope as accurately as possible, leading them all to the conclusion that a catastrophe of such magnitude should never have occurred. The worms and bacteria had certainly had a dire effect on the slope, but something was missing: a tiny piece of the jigsaw, an additional catalyst.

'And if we don't find out what it is,' said Frost, 'I swear to God that we'll all he in for an almighty soaking. And it won't have anything to do with the slope collapsing near America or Japan.'

LI WAS WORKING on her laptop. Alone in her enormous suite, she was everywhere, with everyone, all at once. She'd watched the scientists work in the containment lab, listening to what they said. Every room in the Chateau was under audio and video surveillance. The same went for Nanaimo, the University of British Columbia and Vancouver Aquarium. Scientists' homes within a certain radius had also been bugged, including Ford, Oliviera and Fenwick's flats, the boat that Anawak lived on, and even his apartment in Vancouver. The committee's eyes and ears were everywhere. Information escaped them only if it was exchanged outside – in the open air or in restaurants and pubs. That irked Li, but there was nothing she could do about it, short of implanting every scientist with a chip.

The intranet surveillance was an unqualified success. Bohrmann and Frost were currently online, as was Karen Weaver, who was analysing satellite data relating to the Gulf Stream. Now, that was interesting, as were the simulations from Kiel. Setting up the network had been an inspired idea. Of course, there was no way of actually seeing or hearing what its users were thinking, but everything they did, every page they consulted, was saved and could be tracked at any time. If Vanderhilt turned out to be right in his terrorism theory, which Li doubted, it would be legitimate to interrogate them all. Ostensibly they were clean. None had links to any extremist organisations or Arab countries, but you could never be too careful. Even if the CIA's suspicions proved unfounded, it was still useful to be able to peer over the scientists' shoulders without their knowledge. It was always best to obtain the facts as they emerged.

She switched back to Nanaimo and listened to Johanson and Oliviera, as they headed towards the elevators. They were talking about the safety precautions in the biohazard lab. Oliviera said something about the chemical shower being strong enough to bleach them to the bone and Johanson made a joke. They both laughed and rode up to ground level.

Why didn't Johanson tell anyone of his theory? He'd almost mentioned it when he was in his suite with Weaver, straight after the presentation, but had lapsed into allusions.

Li made a series of phone calls, spoke to Peak in New York, then looked at her watch. It was time for Vanderbilt's report. She left her suite and went along the corridor to a secure room on the southern side of the Chateau. It was the equivalent of the War Room in the White House, and was tap-proof, like the conference room. Vanderbilt and two of his team were waiting for her. The CIA chief had only just returned from Nanaimo by helicopter, and was even more dishevelled than usual.

'Can we get Washington on the line?' she asked, without bothering to say hello.

'Well, we could,' said Vanderbilt, 'but it wouldn't do much good-'

'Cut to the chase, Jack.'

'If you want to speak to the President, there's no point in calling Washington. He's not there.'

NANAIMO, Vancouver Island

As she was leaving the elevator with Johanson, Oliviera ran into Fenwick and Anawak in the foyer. 'Where've you been?' she asked, surprised.

'For a stroll.' Anawak beamed at her. 'Been having fun in the lab?'

'Yeah, right.' Oliviera grimaced. 'It looks as though Europe's problems are washing in our direction. The jelly in the crabs was an old friend of ours. But that's not all they were carrying. Roche has isolated a biological agent.'

'Pfiesteria?' asked Anawak.

'Not far off,' said Johanson. 'It's a mutation of a mutation, as it were. The new strain is far more toxic than the European variety.'

'We had to sacrifice a few mice,' said Oliviera. 'We shut them in with a dead crab and they died within minutes.'

Fenwick took an involuntary step back. 'Is the toxin contagious?'

'Oh, no. Feel free to kiss me, if you like. The poison they produce can't be passed between humans. We're not dealing with a virus – it's essentially a bacteriological invasion. The trouble is, the whole thing spirals out of control once the Pfiesteria get into the water. They keep spreading exponentially, long after the crabs have given up the ghost. All but one was dead on arrival, and now the last one's gone too.'

'Kamikaze crabs,' Anawak muttered.

'Their job is to get the bacteria to land, just as the worms' mission was to import it into the ice,' said Johanson. 'After that, they perish. Jellyfish, mussels, even the jelly – none of these organisms live long, but they all fulfill their function.'

'Harming us at all cost.'

'Absolutely. Even the whales have become suicidal,' said Fenwick. 'Aggressive behaviour is normally part of a survival strategy, like flight, but there's no evidence of it here.'

Johanson smiled. His dark eyes flashed. 'I'm not so sure about that. I'd say there's a clear survival strategy at the heart of all this.'

Fenwick stared at him. 'You're starting to sound like Vanderbilt.'

'Actually, no. Vanderbilt's right in some respects, but fundamentally I don't agree with him.' Johanson paused. 'But before too long, he'll be sounding like me.'

LI

'What's that supposed to mean?' demanded Li, as she sat down. 'If the President's not in Washington, where is he?'

'He's heading for Offutt Air Force Base in Nebraska,' said Vanderbilt. 'Swarms of crabs have shown up in Chesapeake Bay and along the Potomac river. They seem to be marching up the estuary. We've also had reported sightings near Alexandria and just south of Arlington, but we're awaiting confirmation.'

'Who decided on Offutt?'

Vanderbilt shrugged. 'The White House chief of staff is afraid that Washington's about to turn into another New York,' he said. 'But you know the President. He fought against it tooth and nail. He was all for confronting the crabs and declaring war on the bastards in person. But in the end he agreed to a break in the country.'

Li thought for a moment. Offutt was the home of the United States Strategic Command, the control centre for America's nuclear weapons. The base was the ideal place to protect the President. It was situated at the heart of the country, out of reach of any danger emerging from the sea. From there the President could communicate with the National Security Council over a secure satellite link and exercise the full powers of government.

'We can't afford this kind of sloppiness,' she said vehemently. 'For future reference, Jack, I expect to be informed of this kind of thing straight away. If anything so much as sticks its head out of the water anywhere in the world, I want to know.'

I'll see what I can do,' said Vanderbilt. 'Maybe we can set up some talks with a few local dolphins and-'

'What's more, I certainly want to be informed if anyone sends the President anywhere else.'

Vanderbilt smiled jovially. 'If I could make a suggestion-'

Li cut him off: 'And I expect you to find out exactly what's happening in Washington. We need full information within the next two hours. If the reports turn out to be true, we'll evacuate the affected areas and turn Washington into an exclusion zone, like New York.'

'Funny you should mention it,' Vanderbilt said equably, 'but I was just going to say the same thing.'

'Good. What else have you got for me?'

'Shit and more shit,' he said.

'I'm used to that.'

'That's why I've been scraping around for all the bad news I can find. I'd hate for you to have withdrawal symptoms. OK, let's start with Georges Bank. NOAA was planning to send down two dive robots to scoop up some worms for research purposes. That, um, went fine.'

Li waited for him to continue.

'Like I said, they collected their sample,' Vanderbilt was enjoying every word, 'but they didn't get it back on board. The worms were already in the bag, so to speak – then something cut the cables. We lost both robots. Same story in Japan. A manned submersible on a worm-collecting mission went missing somewhere between Honshu and Hokkaido and according to the Japanese, the worms are spreading. I think we can safely say that things are stepping up a gear. At first, only divers were being attacked, but now it's subs, underwater probes and robots.'

'Any signs of suspicious activity?'

'Nothing conclusive – no enemy probes or submersibles around at the time. But NOAA's vessel picked up a sheet of something moving in the water at a depth of seven hundred metres. It extended over several kilometres. Their chief scientist is ninety per cent sure that it was a plankton shoal, but he can't swear to it.'

Li thought of Johanson. She almost regretted that he wasn't there to listen.

'Next up, deep-sea cables. They're still being destroyed. Of the major transatlantic links, ANTAT-3 and a number of the TAT cables have now gone down. Apparently we've also lost PACRIM WEST in the Pacific, one of our main links to Australia. In addition to that, the past two days have seen a proliferation of shipping accidents, all taking place in the busiest shipping lanes. There are two hundred main chokepoints in the world, and roughly half have been affected, in particular the Strait of Gibraltar, the Strait of Malacca and the English Channel. There was trouble in the Panama Canal too and… well, we probably shouldn't make too much of it, but there's news of a pile-up in the Strait of Hormuz and in the Khalij as-Suways, which is, um, in…'

Vanderbilt didn't seem as cynical or arrogant as usual, and now Li knew why. 'I know where Khalij as-Suways is,' she said. 'You mean the Gulf of Suez. It runs between the Red Sea and the Suez Canal. Which means two major Arab shipping hubs have been hit.'

'Bingo, baby. There were navigation problems. A new variety, incidentally. It's difficult to reconstruct exactly what happened, but the crash in the Strait of Hormuz involved seven vessels. At least two had no idea where they were going. The speed log and depth sounders had clearly screwed up.'

Four pieces of technology were essential for the safety of any ship: radar, anemometer, depth sounders and speed log. Radar scanning and wind speed measurement took place above the waterline, but the depth sounders opened out on to the keel, as did the speed log, a pitot tube with an integrated sensor that measured the speed of the water. It was basically the ship's speedometer. While the log provided the ship's radar system with data on the course and speed of the vessel, the radar calculated the risk of colliding with other objects and came up with alternative routes. Generally speaking, the crew blindly accepted the instruments' readings – blindly, since 70 per cent of the time it was either dark, foggy or choppy, so there wasn't any view.

'According to the reports, one craft had marine life clinging to its speed log,' said Vanderbilt. 'As far as the log was concerned, the vessel was at a standstill, so the radar failed to register the danger of collision, even though it was surrounded by ships. In the case of the other vessel, the depth sounder started claiming that the depth was diminishing. The water was plenty deep enough, but the crew were convinced they were about to run aground so they began to manoeuvre. Both ships smashed into other vessels, and because it was dark, a few more joined in. Similar antics have been going on all over the world. We've even heard claims that whales were swimming beneath the boats in the run-up to the crashes.'

'Well, that makes sense,' Li said thoughtfully. 'If a large object were to block the depth sounder for a significant amount of time, it could easily be mistaken for firm ground.'

'On top of all that, we're also seeing more infested rudders and thrusters. Sea-chests are still getting clogged – increasingly effectively. We've just had news of an iron-ore freighter sinking off the coast of India – apparently a case of accelerated corrosion, brought on by an infestation that had built up over weeks. The sea was perfectly calm, but its forehold just caved in. It sank within minutes. And so it goes on. There's no sign of a let-up. In fact, it's getting worse. And then you've got the toxic plague.'

Li pressed the tips of her fingers together, turning it all over in her mind.

It was ridiculous. But so were ships. Peak was absolutely right. They were outdated steel coffers that used high-tech navigation while slurping cooling water through a hole in the keel. And now crabs were invading twenty-first-century cities, getting mangled by cars and dumping tonnes of toxic algae into the sewers. They'd already had to barricade one city, and it wouldn't be long before they had to barricade the next. Even the President had been forced to flee inland.

'We need some more of those worms,' said Li. 'And we have to do something about the algae.'

'I couldn't agree more.' Vanderbilt did his best to sound obsequious.

His men were sitting on either side of him, faces expressionless, eyes fixed on Li. Strictly speaking, it was Vanderbilt's job to come up with a suggestion, but he was no fonder of Li than she was of him. He wasn't about to help her.

But Li didn't need Vanderbilt to come to a decision. 'First,' she said, 'as soon as we know if those reports are true, we're going to evacuate Washington. Second, I want tankers filled with drinking water to be sent to the affected areas. Supplies will be strictly rationed. We'll drain the pipes and burn those bugs with chemicals.'

Vanderbilt laughed. His men started grinning. 'Drain the pipes? Stop New York's drinking water?'

'Yes.'

'Great idea. Once we've killed the New Yorkers with chemicals, we can put the city up for rent. Maybe the Chinese would be interested? I heard they might be running out of space.'

'I don't care how you do it, Jack – I'll leave that up to you. I'm going to ask the President to call a plenary meeting of the Security Council so we can declare a state of emergency.'

'Of course!'

'We're going to close down the coastline. I want to see drones patrolling our shores, and troops in protective clothing on stand-by with flamethrowers. From now on, anything that tries to crawl out of the sea is going to get barbecued.' She stood up. 'As for the whales, it's about time we stopped acting like frightened kids. I want our vessels to be able to sail when and where they like – and that means every single boat, without exception. Let's see how they respond to psychological warfare.'

'What are you going to do to them, Jude? Give them a good talking-to?'

'No.' Li gave a thin smile. 'I'm going to hunt them down. Those whales and their masters need to be taught a lesson. To hell with animal conservation. From now on, they're going to get shot.'

'You want to take on the IWC?'

'No. We're going to blast them with sonar – and keep blasting them until they leave us in peace.'

NEW YORK, USA

Right in front of him, a man collapsed and died. Peak was sweating beneath his heavy protective suit. Breathing through an oxygen mask, he looked out through bulletproof goggles on a city that in the course of one night, had been turned into hell.

The sergeant sitting beside him steered the jeep slowly along First Avenue. Entire blocks of the East Village seemed deserted. Every now and then they'd spot a group of people being herded together by the military. The main problem was that no one could be allowed to leave the city until they knew for certain that the illness couldn't be spread. It didn't seem contagious. In fact, the scenes around them reminded Peak of a large-scale poison-gas attack. But still he felt doubtful. Many of the victims had coin-sized sores on their bodies. If New York was in the grip of killer algae, they weren't just releasing clouds of airborne toxin: they were clinging to the skin of their victims too. Theoretically, that meant they were present in bodily fluids. Peak was no biologist, but he couldn't help wondering what would happen if a diseased individual were to kiss a healthy one and pass on their saliva. The algae could survive in water, were comfortable in a wide range of temperatures, and multiplied, as far as he could tell, at an incredible speed.

The aim was to quarantine New York and Long Island in such a way that the diseased and the healthy would all be treated fairly. They were working flat out to achieve that, and at first the mood had been optimistic. New York seemed prepared. After the first attack on the World Trade Center in 1993, the mayor at the time had created the Office of Emergency Management, OEM, to tackle any future crisis. At the end of the nineties, it had carried out the biggest emergency drill in the city's history by simulating a chemical-weapons attack, calling on over six hundred police, fire-fighters and FBI agents to 'save' New York. The drill had gone without a hitch, and the Senate had authorised generous additional funding. Suddenly the OEM had found itself the recipient of fifteen million dollars to spend on a bombproof armoured command centre with its own air supply, big enough to house forty highly qualified workers, who were waiting in anticipation of Doomsday. It was built on the twenty-third storey of the World Trade Center shortly before 11 September 2001. Now, the OEM was still rebuilding itself, and it certainly wasn't capable of dealing with the crisis. People were falling ill and dying too fast for anyone to help.

The jeep swerved to avoid dead bodies and approached the junction with 14th Street. Cars sped by, honking frantically. People were trying to leave the city, but they wouldn't get far: the roads were closed. So far the army had only brought Brooklyn and parts of Manhattan under any kind of control, but at least no one was able to leave Greater New York without authorisation.

They drove on, passing military blockades on either side. Hundreds of soldiers were sweeping the city like alien invaders, faceless behind their gas-masks, lumbering and misshapen in their bright-yellow NBC suits. The OEM team was out in force as well. Across the city, bodies were being loaded on to stretchers and taken away in military jeeps or ambulances. Crashed and abandoned vehicles blocked the roads, cutting off access to parts of the city. The perpetual roar of helicopters echoed through the canyons of the streets.

Peak's driver trundled a few hundred metres along the sidewalk and stopped outside Bellevue Hospital Center on the hanks of the East River, where the provisional command centre was housed. Peak hurried inside. The foyer was crowded with people. Panic-stricken eyes turned towards him, and he quickened his pace. Photographs of missing people were thrust in his direction, and shouts and cries besieged him. Flanked by two soldiers, he crossed into the secure area and marched towards the hospital's IT centre. A tap-proof satellite link connected him to Chateau Whistler. After a few minutes, he had Li on the line.

'We need an antitoxin, and we need it now.'

'Nanaimo is on the case.'

'We can't wait that long. New York is out of our control. I've seen the plans for the drains, and you can forget about pumping the city dry. You may as well talk about draining the Potomac.'

'Do you have sufficient medical supplies?'

'We can't treat anyone! We don't know how to help them. All we can do is give them immuno-modulating medication and pray for the algae to die.'

'Listen, Sal,' said Li, 'we're not going to let this beat us. We're almost a hundred per cent certain that the toxins can't be transmitted from person to person. There's almost no risk of contagion from the bodies. We've got no choice but to wipe the bugs out of the system. We'll douse them in chemicals, burn them, plead with them – whatever it takes.'

'Well, go ahead,' said Peak, 'but it won't do any good. OK, the wind will probably blow away the toxic cloud, but as for the algae… Don't you realise that every single person in this city will have helped themselves to water? They'll have showered, done the dishes, had a drink, topped up the goldfish bowl and God knows what else. People have been washing their cars. The fire service has been putting out fires. This whole city is covered with algae. They're contaminating the buildings, swarming through the air vents and the air-conditioning. Even if we've seen the end of the crabs, I don't know how we could ever stop the algae reproducing.' He struggled for breath. 'I mean, Christ, Jude, there are six thousand hospitals in America, and less than a quarter are prepared for a crisis like this. How are we ever going to isolate so many people and get them treated before it's too late? The Bellevue can't cope, and it's huge.'

Li was silent for moment. Then she said, 'OK. You know what you have to do. Turn Greater New York into a prison. Don't let anyone in or out.'

'But they'll die if they stay here. We won't he able to help them.'

'I know. It's terrible. But we've got to think about everyone else. From now on, I want New York to be an island.'

'How am I supposed to do that?' Peak sounded desperate. 'The East River flows inland.'

'We'll think of something. But in the meantime…'

Peak didn't hear the explosion: he felt it. The ground shook beneath his feet. There was a muffled rumble and Manhattan trembled in the shock waves, as though there'd been an earthquake.

'Something's exploded,' said Peak.

'Find out what it is. I'll expect your report in ten minutes.'

Peak ran to the window, but there was no sign of trouble. He signalled to his men, and hurried out of the room, back along the corridor and towards the rear of the hospital, where there was a view across Franklin Drive and the East River towards Brooklyn and Queens.

He looked left, following the river upstream.

People were running towards the hospital. About a kilometre away he saw an enormous mushroom rising in the sky. It was hovering above the site of the United Nations headquarters. At first Peak was afraid that the building had exploded. Then he realised that the source of the cloud was closer than he'd thought.

It was billowing from the entrance to the Queens Midtown Tunnel, which crossed beneath the East River and connected Manhattan to the opposite bank.

The tunnel was on fire.

Peak thought of all the cars that littered the city – the pile-ups on the roads, the vehicles that had collided with shop-fronts or streetlights. He thought of all the drivers who'd collapsed at the wheel. He didn't need to be told what had happened in that tunnel, and it couldn't have happened at a worse time.

They ran back into the building, through the foyer, heading for the jeep, their movements hampered by the protective clothing, but somehow Peak managed to swing himself over the side of the vehicle and they accelerated away.

Three storeys above them, Bo Henson, the deliveryman who'd done battle with FedEx, passed away.

The Hoopers had already been dead for hours.

VANCOUVER ISLAND, Canada

'So why Whistler? What are you doing there?'

It was supposed to be an excursion back to normality, but so far it was nothing of the kind. For the first time in days Anawak was sitting in Davie's Whaling Station, talking to Shoemaker and Delaware, who were draining a couple of cans of Heineken in his honour. Davie had closed the Station until further notice. His land-based expeditions had failed to catch on. The idea of watching animals held no appeal. If the whales had turned against humanity, who could trust bears? Besides, there was no telling what the Pacific might spring on them, now that Europe had been flattened by waves. Most tourists had abandoned the island already. As Davie's manager, Shoemaker was taking care of the Station on his own, trying to keep the place afloat by calling in old debts. 'I'd give anything to know what you're up to,' he repeated.

Anawak shook his head. 'It's no use bugging me, Tom. I promised to keep my mouth shut. Can't we talk about something else?'

'Why can't you just tell me? It must be a really big deal if-'

'Tom…'

'The thing is, Leon, I'd like to know when to get the hell out of here,' he said, 'in view of the tsunamis and so on.'

'Who said anything about tsunamis?'

'We don't need you and your fancy committee to tell us what's going on. People aren't stupid, you know. Ships are capsizing, people are dying in Europe, and now we're hearing horror stories about a plague in New York.' He leaned forward and winked. 'What do you say, Leon? The two of us, we saved those people from the Lady Wexham, didn't we? Come on, buddy, I'm with you guys – one of the gang, part of the team.'

Delaware took a sip of beer and wiped her mouth. 'Oh, stop pestering him. If he can't tell us, he can't tell us, OK?'

She was wearing a new pair of glasses with round orange-tinted lenses. She must have done something to her hair, thought Anawak. It had lost its frizziness and swept her shoulders in silky waves. In fact, even with her oversized teeth, she looked pretty. Really pretty.

Shoemaker raised his hands, then let them drop back helplessly. 'You guys should sign me up too. I mean it, Leon. I could he useful. And it would sure heat sitting around here and wiping the dust off the guidebooks.'

Anawak didn't feel comfortable about being so secretive. The role didn't suit him. He'd kept quiet about his own life for so many years that any kind of secrecy was beginning to get on his nerves. It occurred to him to tell them the truth, but then he remembered the look in Li's eyes. She always seemed friendly and supportive, yet Anawak sensed that she'd be seriously angry if she found out.

He glanced around the office. All of a sudden he realised how distant the Station had become in the short time he'd been away. This wasn't his life any more. So much had changed since he'd patched things up with Greywolf He felt as if something decisive was about to happen; something that would turn his life upside-down. It was like being a kid on a roller-coaster – it had started moving, and he couldn't get out. The fear and horror were tinged with an indescribable sense of elation and expectation. The Station had been a kind of wall around him, but now he felt as though he was in the open and everything was bearing down on him with an intensity he wasn't accustomed to – too loud and too bright.

'Well, you're going to have to keep on dusting those guidebooks,' he said. 'You know as well as I do that your place is here, not with a bunch of scientists who'd never let you get a word in edgeways. Besides, Davie would be lost without you.'

'Was that supposed to be motivating?' Shoemaker asked.

'Why should I have to motivate you? I'm the one who's been told to keep my mouth shut and not talk to my friends. Why don't you try to motivate me?'

Shoemaker twisted the beer can in his hands. Then he grinned. 'How long can you stay?'

'As long as I like,' said Anawak. 'They're treating us like kings. We've got our own private helicopter service, day and night. I only have to call, and they'll be here to pick me up.'

'You're getting the full royal treatment, huh?'

'Well, they do expect us to work for it. In fact, strictly speaking, I should he working right now, in Nanaimo or at the aquarium or wherever – but I wanted to see you.'

'You can work here too, if you have to. OK, I'll motivate you. Come round to dinner tonight. You'll have a big fat steak to look forward to, and I'll fry it myself. It'll taste like pure heaven.'

'Sounds good,' said Delaware. 'What time?'

Shoemaker gave her a funny look. 'I'm sure I'll have room for one extra,' he said.

Delaware frowned. Anawak wondered what was going on, but promised Shoemaker he'd be there at seven. It was time for them to get moving. Shoemaker headed over to Ucluelet for a meeting with Davie, while Anawak set off down the high street in the direction of his boat, glad to have Delaware to talk to. She might be a pain in the butt but, somehow, he'd missed her.

'What was all that about?' he asked.

'What?'

'You know, about dinner tonight. I got the impression that Tom wasn't too keen on you bringing a friend.'

She fiddled with a strand of hair and scratched her nose. 'I guess there've been a few changes since you went away. I mean, life's full of surprises, isn't it? Sometimes you can't even believe it yourself.'

Anawak stopped in his tracks. 'Go on, then.'

'Well, the day you went to Vancouver – you disappeared overnight and never came back! No one knew where you were, and a few people got worried. And one of those people was, uh…Jack. So Jack called me up – well, actually, he wanted to talk to you, but you weren't there, and so…'

'Jack?' asked Anawak.

'Yes.'

'Greywolf? Jack O'Bannon?'

'He said you'd had a chat,' Delaware continued hastily. 'And I guess it must have been a positive chat. Or, at least, he was pleased about it, and he just wanted to, um, talk to you some more…' She looked him in the eye. 'It – was a good chat, wasn't it?'

'Well, what if it wasn't?'

'That would be a bit awkward because, you see…'

'OK, fine. Jack and I had a good chat. All right? If you've finished tying yourself in knots, maybe you could get to the point.'

'We're going out,' she said quickly.

Anawak's mouth opened and closed again.

'He drove up to Tofino – I'd given him my number because I thought he was kind of cool … I mean, well, you know I always had a kind of sympathy for his point of view, and…'

Anawak tried to stay serious. 'A kind of sympathy. Well, yes, of course.'

'So he came over. And we had a drink at Schooners, and then we went down to the jetty. He told me all kinds of things about himself, and I told him a bit about myself And you know how it is – we talked and talked and then… out of the blue… Well, you can guess the rest.'

Anawak grinned. 'And Shoemaker isn't happy.'

'He hates Jack!'

'I know. And you can't blame him either. Just because Greywolf has taken a liking to us – well, you in particular – doesn't change the fact that he behaved like an asshole. I mean, let's be honest here: he behaved like an asshole for years. He is an asshole.'

'No more than you are,' she blurted out.

Anawak nodded. Then in spite of all the wretchedness in the world, he laughed. He laughed about Delaware's awkward explanation, about his grudge against Greywolf, which had really been anger at the loss of a friend, and at himself He laughed so hard that it hurt.

Delaware cocked her head. 'What's so funny?'

'You're right,' chuckled Anawak.

'What do you mean, I'm right? Are you feeling OK?'

His hilarity was edging towards hysterics, and he knew it, but there was nothing he could do. He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed like this – if he ever had. 'Licia, you're priceless,' he said, between gasps. 'You're so darned right. We're assholes. Absolutely! And you're seeing Greywolf Oh, man, I can't believe it.'

Her eyes narrowed. 'You're laughing at me.'

'No, no, I'm not,' he spluttered.

'Oh, yes, you are.'

'I swear I'm not. It's just-' Suddenly he thought of something and his laughter dried up. 'Where's Jack at the moment?'

'I don't know.' She shrugged. 'At home, maybe.'

'Jack's never at home. I thought you two were together now?'

'For God's sake, Leon, we haven't got married. We're just having a hit of fun. I don't keep tabs on him.'

'No,' murmured Anawak. 'He wouldn't like that anyway.'

'Do you want to speak to him?'

'Yes.' He put his hands on her shoulders. 'OK, listen to me. I've got a few things to sort out, but try to find him, would you, Licia? Before dinner, if you can. We don't want Shoemaker going off his food. Tell him I – I'd be pleased to see him. No, I'd love to see him right now.'

Delaware smiled uncertainly. 'OK… Men are weird – I mean, honestly. And you two are just as weird as each other.'

ANAWAK WENT ON BOARD HIS BOAT, checked his post and dropped in at Schooners, where he got himself a coffee and talked to the locals. During his absence, two men had died. They'd defied the regulations and gone to sea in a canoe. In less than ten minutes, a pack of orcas had capsized them. The remains of one man had been washed ashore later, but there was no trace of the other, and no one felt like looking.

'And they don't give a damn about it,' said one of the fishermen, referring to the ferries, freighters, factory trawlers and warships. He was drinking his beer with the bitterness of one who was convinced he'd found the guilty party, and nothing was going to stop him laying the blame at their door. He looked at Anawak, as though expecting confirmation.

But that's where you're wrong, Anawak felt like saying. The big ships weren't faring any better. He kept quiet. He wasn't allowed to mention the other incidents, and the residents of Tofino saw only their corner of the world.

'They're probably laughing up their sleeves,' the old man grumbled. 'Those big fishing companies had the monopoly already. First they gobble up our stocks, and now they mop up what's left, while regular fishermen like me have to sit and watch.' He took a swig of his beer. 'We should shoot those damn whales. We need to show them who's boss.'

It was the universal refrain. Ever since he'd arrived in Tofino, Anawak had been confronted with the same demand: kill the whales. The frustrated fisherman had hit the nail on the head – the fishing grounds were only accessible to the largest factory trawlers, which gave ammunition to those who'd always agitated against the International Whaling Commission, fishing quotas and hunting bans.

Anawak paid for his coffee and went back to the station. The office was empty. He settled down behind the counter, switched on the computer and started to search the web for military applications of marine-mammal research. It was a tedious process. Back at the Chateau, they had access to all the information they needed, but the public network kept crashing, thanks to the problems with deep-sea cables.

He soon found the official website of the US Navy Marine Mammal Program. It couldn't tell him anything he didn't already know – every half-decent investigative journalist had written dozens of articles on the subject – but before long he had found information on a military programme in the former Soviet Union. During the Cold War, a large number of dolphins, sea-lions and belugas had been taught to find mines and retrieve lost torpedoes. According to the Internet, they'd been deployed to defend Soviet warships in the Black Sea. After the collapse of the Soviet Union, they had been transferred to an oceanarium in Sebastopol on the Crimean peninsula, where they'd performed tricks until their new owners ran out of cash for the vet bills and food. Some of the dolphins had ended up in therapy centres for children with autism. Others were sold to Iran, where the trail went dead, prompting the suspicion that their military career had continued elsewhere.

Marine mammals seemed to be making a comeback in strategic warfare. During the Cold War, the arms race had taken a new direction, with America and the Soviet Union each trying to create the most efficient sea-mammal fleet. After the dissolution of the USSR, the world was no safer; already the conflict between Israel and Palestine was spinning out of control and a new generation of terrorists was emerging, capable of sabotaging American warships. Underwater mines were being laid, projectiles went missing, and expensive weaponry sank to the bottom of the ocean and had to be retrieved. It was a job at which dolphins, sealions and belugas proved far more adept than any human or robot: tests showed that a dolphin could find a mine twelve times faster than a diver. Sealions at naval bases in Charleston and San Diego had a ninety-five per cent success rate at detecting torpedoes. Humans operating underwater couldn't see where they were going and had to spend hours in a decompression chamber afterwards, but marine mammals were working in their element. Sea-lions had good vision even when the light was weak. Dolphins could navigate in total darkness by using sonar, giving off a volley of clicks, whose echo they measured with amazing precision to detect the location and shape of any object. Marine mammals could dive dozens of times a day to depths of several hundred metres without tiring. Millions of dollars' worth of divers, vessels, crews and equipment could be replaced by a small fleet of dolphins. And the animals nearly always came back. In thirty years, the US Navy had lost just seven dolphins.

The American marine-mammal training programme was still going strong and there were indications that animals were being used again in Russia for military purposes. The Indian Army had begun a breeding and training programme. Similar initiatives had been launched in the Middle East.

Did that mean Vanderbilt was right?

Anawak was convinced that scouring the depths of the web would turn up details that went unmentioned on the US Navy's website. It wasn't the first time he'd heard of military attempts to subjugate whales and dolphins to full human control. The programme was based on neural research of the kind conducted by John Lilly. Armed forces all over the world were interested in echo-location, a sonar system that outperformed anything man had invented and that still hadn't been fully understood. There were indications that experiments had taken place in recent years that went beyond the bounds of what was publicly acceptable.

But the web refused to tell him anything. For three full hours it maintained its silence until Anawak was on the point of giving up. His eyes hurt, and his enthusiasm and concentration had sunk so low that he almost missed the short article by Earth Island Journal when it appeared on the screen: 'Did US Navy Order Dolphin Deaths?' The quarterly journal was published by Earth Island Institute, an environmental organisation committed to bringing new ideas to the conservation movement. It ran a variety of campaigns. The journal's staff were heavily involved in the climate debate and had uncovered some serious environmental scandals. A large part of their work was focused on preserving life in the oceans and protecting whales.

The article referred back to an incident that had occurred in the early 1990s when sixteen dead dolphins had been washed ashore in the French Mediterranean. The corpses were all marked with the same mysterious wound – a fist-sized hole on the underside of the neck, through which the lower cranium was exposed. At the time, investigators were unable to explain the presence of the marks, but there was no doubt that the injuries had caused the dolphins' deaths. The episode had taken place against the backdrop of the first crisis in the Gulf, when fleets of American warships were crossing the Mediterranean. The Earth Island article suggested a link to a classified programme of experiments that was rumoured to have been carried out by the US Navy at around the same time. By all accounts, the experiments had failed to achieve their expected success, forcing those involved to conceal the programme's existence. 'Something had gone badly wrong,' an expert had told the journal.

Anawak printed the article and searched through the journal's archive, hoping to find more leads. He was so immersed in what he was doing that he barely heard the Station door opening. It was only when a shadow fell over the screen that he looked up.

'I heard you wanted to talk to me,' said Greywolf.

His suede outfit was as greasy and scruffy as ever, but his hair was tied back in a long shiny plait. His teeth and eyes glinted. It was only a few days since Anawak had last spoken to him, but suddenly he saw Greywolf through different eyes. He exuded strength, charisma and natural charm. No wonder Delaware had fallen for him. 'I thought you were in Ucluelet,' he said.

'I was.' Greywolf pulled up a chair. It creaked as he sat down. 'Licia said you needed me.'

'Needed you?' Anawak smiled. 'I said it would be good to see you.'

'Same difference. Well, I'm here now.'

'How're things?'

'A drink would improve them.'

Anawak went over to the fridge, pulled out a beer and a Coke, and put them on the counter. Greywolf drank half of the Heineken in a single gulp.

'Did I call you away from anything important?'

'Nothing worth mentioning. I was fishing with a few rich pricks from Beverly Hills. All the jerks from your whale-watching have come over to my side. It seems no one's afraid of being attacked by a trout, so I branched out into angling. I'm doing fishing tours of our beloved island's lakes and rivers.'

'I see your attitude to whale-watching hasn't changed.'

'Why should it? I'm not going to cause you any trouble, though.'

'Why, thank you,' said Anawak, sarcastically. 'But right now it wouldn't much matter. I mean, it's pretty handy that you're still on your mission to get vengeance for nature. Tell me again what you used to do for the navy.'

Greywolf looked at him blankly. 'You know what I did.'

'Well, tell me again.'

'I was a dolphin-handler. We trained dolphins for military purposes.'

'In San Diego?'

'Yes, among other places.'

'And you were pensioned off because of a heart defect or whatever. Honourably discharged.'

'Exactly,' said Greywolf.

'That's not true, Jack. You weren't discharged. You walked.'

Greywolf set down the can almost cautiously on the counter. 'Where did you hear that bullshit?'

'The files at the Space and Naval Warfare Systems Center in San Diego seemed pretty clear to me,' said Anawak. 'Just so you know I'm in the picture: SSC San Diego took over from the Naval Command, Control and Ocean Surveillance Center, also of Point Loma, San Diego. The funding came from an organisation that now finances the US Navy's Marine Mammal Program. Each of those organisations is always mentioned in any account of marine-mammal training, and there's always the implication that they were involved in dubious experiments that allegedly never took place.' Anawak decided to call Greywolf's bluff. 'Experiments that were conducted in Point Loma, where you were stationed.'

Greywolf watched him warily as he paced round the room. 'Why are you telling me this crap?'

'The current research programme in San Diego looks at dolphin feeding habits, hunting, communication, training potential, possible ways of returning dolphins to the wild, and so on. But what really interests the military is the brain. Dolphin brains have fascinated the navy since the sixties, but around the time of the first Gulf War there was an upsurge of interest. You'd signed up a few years previously. By the time you left, you were a lieutenant, responsible for MK6 and MK7, two out of a total of four dolphin fleets.'

Greywolf frowned. 'So what? Haven't you got other things to worry about in your committee? Like Europe, for example.'

'One more step up the ladder, and you'd have been in charge of the entire dolphin programme. But you quit.'

'I didn't quit. They discharged me.'

Anawak shook his head. 'Jack, I've been given a few privileges lately, and that includes access to sources that are one hundred percent reliable. You left of your own accord, and I'd like to know why.'

He picked up the Earth Island article and passed it to Greywolf, who glanced at it and put it down.

For a while there was silence.

'Jack,' said Anawak, softly, 'you were right. I am pleased to see you, but I do need your help.'

Greywolf didn't respond.

'Tell me what happened back then. Why did you leave?'

Greywolf leaned back and crossed his hands behind his head. 'Why do yon want to know?'

'Because there's a chance we'll be able to figure out what's happened to our whales.'

'They're not your whales, Leon – or your dolphins either. You don't own them. Do you really want to know what's wrong with them? They're fighting back. It's payback time. We treated them like our playthings, hurt them, abused them, gawked at them and they're fed up with us.'

'You don't really believe they're doing this of their own free will?'

Greywolf shook his head. 'I'm not interested in why they do stuff. We shouldn't have taken such an interest in the first place. I don't want to understand them, Leon. I just want them to be left in peace.'

'Jack,' Anawak said slowly, 'they're being forced to behave like this.'

That's bull. Who the hell-'

'They're being forced! I've got proof. I'm not even supposed to tell you this much, but I need your help. You want to stop them suffering, well, go on, then. They're suffering more than you could imagine-'

'Than I can imagine?' Greywolf was on his feet. 'What the hell do you know about their suffering? You don't know a darned thing.'

'Then tell me.'

'I-' He seemed to be fighting an inner battle. Then he relaxed. 'Come with me,' he said. 'We're going for a walk.'

FOR A WHILE they strolled along in silence. Greywolf took a path through the forest and down to the sea. A rickety jetty led away from the shore, looking out across the austere beauty of the bay. Greywolf walked along the ramshackle planks and sat down, legs dangling over the edge. Anawak followed him. All that could be seen of Tofino were a few houses on stilts peeping out beyond the headland to the right and the Station on the wharf. They gazed up at the mountains, resplendent in the late-afternoon sun.

'There are a few things your sources didn't tell you,' Greywolf said finally. 'Officially there were four fleets of marine mammals: MK4 through to MK7. But there was a fifth in existence too, known as MKO. The navy calls them systems, not fleets, by the way. Each system is entrusted with a particular set of operational activities. The systems' centre is in San Diego, true, but I spent most of my time in Coronado, California, where the majority of the animals are trained. They're cared for in their natural habitat – creeks and ocean pens. And they have a pretty decent life there: they're well fed and they get excellent medical care – which is more than you can say for most people.'

'So you were in charge of this fifth system.'

'No, it wasn't like that. MKO is different. A regular system is made up of four to eight mammals with a specific objective. MK4, for instance, is assigned to finding mines on the seabed and marking their location. It's a dolphin-only system, and the animals are also trained to alert their handlers to the presence of saboteurs. MK5 is a sealion system. MK6 and MK7 are also used for mine-hunting, but their main purpose is to guard naval facilities against enemy divers.'

'By attacking them?'

'By nudging up against them. They affix a coiled rope to the suit of the diver, which connects the intruder to a float. The float is linked to a strobe, so it's easy to determine the diver's position, and the guys can take care of the rest. It works the same way with mine-sweeping. The dolphin alerts its handler as soon as it finds the mine. In some cases it dives down with a rope and a magnet – the magnet stays on the mine, and the end of the rope is returned to the boat. Provided the mine isn't anchored too firmly, it only takes a tug on the rope to get the job over and done with. You know, killer whales and belugas can even retrieve torpedoes from a depth of one kilometre. It's pretty darned impressive. What you have to realise is that mine-hunting is a dangerous business for humans. First, there's the risk of the thing exploding in your face, but worse, nine times out often you're searching the seabed at the heart of the conflict, right next to the shore – you get fired at all the time.'

'But don't the mines kill the dolphins?'

'According to the navy, no dolphin has ever been killed by a mine. In fact, a few have, but it's relatively rare. At any rate, when I started out, I didn't have anything to do with MKO, and I dismissed the stories as rumours. You see, MKO isn't a system as such: it's the codename for a series of programmes and experiments that take place in different locations with a constant stream of new animals. MKO mammals never come into contact with other systems, although members of the regular systems are sometimes recruited for MKO. That's the last anyone hears of them.' Greywolf paused. 'I was a good handler. MK6 was my first system. We participated in every major manoeuvre. In 1990 I took over MK7 as well. Eventually someone decided that maybe I should be told a bit more.'

'About MKO.'

'Naturally I knew all about the navy's first big dolphin-success story – Vietnam in the early seventies. Dolphins were used to guard the harbours in Camranh Bay and intercept Vietcong frogmen on sabotage missions. That's the first thing they tell you at MMS, and they're pretty damn proud of it. What they don't tell you are the details. Things like the Swimmer Nullification Program – you can bet you won't hear about that. You see, it wasn't your regular dolphin operation. Those animals were trained to tug at divers' masks and flippers and disconnect their air-supply. Oh, and to make things really brutal, they had lance-like knives on their beaks and fins. Some even had harpoons strapped to their backs. They weren't dolphins any more – they were killing machines. But that was harmless, compared to what came next. The navy strapped hypodermic needles to their beaks and the dolphins were ordered to ram the divers. The syringes contained carbon dioxide compressed at 3000 psi, which coursed through the divers' bodies and expanded. The victims exploded. Our animals killed over forty Vietcong and two of our own guys by mistake.'

Anawak could feel his stomach cramping.

'The same thing happened at the end of the eighties in Bahrain,' Greywolf continued. 'That was my first time on front-line duty. My system did exactly what was expected of it, and I still knew nothing about MKO. I had no idea that they were parachuting dolphins into enemy territory. Some were dropped from a height of three kilometres, and not all survived. Others were pushed out of helicopters without a parachute from a height of twenty metres. Dolphins were being used to attach mines to enemy warships and subs. If things looked risky, the charges would be detonated as soon as the creatures were in range. I should have quit when they told me all about it but the navy was my home. I was happy there. I'm not asking you to understand, but it's the truth.'

Anawak was silent. He understood only too well.

'So I took comfort in the fact that I was one of the good guys. But the men at the top had made up their minds that my talents could be put to better use on MKO. According to the bad guys, I was pretty damn good at handling animals,' Greywolf spat. 'And the son-of-a-bitches were right. I was good. Good, but stupid. Instead of telling them where they could stick their MKO, I said I'd help out. War was like that, I told myself. People are always dying in combat – they tread on a mine, get shot or burnt to death – so why make a fuss about a few dead dolphins? They sent me to San Diego where they were researching ways to make orcas carry nuclear weapons…'

'Carry what?

'I stopped being surprised by this stuff a long time ago. They wanted whales to carry nuclear warheads. The weapons weigh up to seven tonnes, but you can train a fully grown orca to drag them for miles, right into enemy waters. Stopping a nuclear orca is virtually impossible. I don't know what stage they're at now, but I figure they must have got it licked – back then they were still running tests. And that was how I came to witness another kind of experiment. The navy likes to show reporters video clips of dolphins: the dolphin swims off with a live mine, but instead of dumping it on the Russians and blowing the hell out of them, it comes back smiling with the mine between its teeth. The footage is designed to dispel any rumours that killer dolphins exist. Dolphins have been known to return with live mines, but it's practically unheard of. Besides, if it all goes wrong, it only costs the navy one vessel and three men, and that's a risk they're willing to take. They kept experimenting.' Greywolf paused. 'The trouble comes if you lose a nuclear whale. If one of those babies comes back with a primed bomb in its jaws, you're in trouble. The navy can send out as many orcas as it likes, but it needs to be sure that they won't get any funny ideas. And the best way to avoid that is to ban ideas altogether.'

'John Lilly,' muttered Anawak.

'What?'

'He was a scientist. Carried out brain experiments on dolphins in the sixties.'

'Yeah, I remember they talked about it,' Greywolf said. 'In any case, it was in San Diego that I saw them cracking open dolphins' skulls. That was in 1989. They used a hammer and chisel to make holes in the top of their heads. The animals were fully conscious, so it took a gang of strong guys to pin them down. They kept trying to leap off the table. It wasn't because of the pain, they kept telling me – the dolphins just didn't like the sound of hammering in their ears. The procedure was supposedly much less traumatic than it seemed. At any rate, they shoved electrodes through the holes to stimulate the brain using currents.'

'That's exactly what Lilly did,' Anawak interrupted in excitement. 'He was trying to create a map of the brain.'

'The navy has plenty of those, believe you me,' Greywolf said bitterly. 'It made me sick, but I kept my mouth shut. Next they showed me a dolphin. It was swimming in a tank with a kind of harness round its neck. The contraption was fitted with electrodes that pushed through the flesh. They'd found a way of steering the dolphin via electric signals. I mean, it was pretty amazing, to give them their due. They had it swimming left, right, then leaping clean out of the water. They could switch on its aggression and make it attack. They could even trigger its flight mechanism or induce calm. It didn't matter whether the animal would have wanted to participate. It was robbed of its will. It may as well have been a remote-controlled car or a wind-up toy. Well, they were excited, of course. It looked as though they'd made a breakthrough. So while the research team in San Diego continued to work on nuclear whales, we set off to the Gulf in 1991 with two dozen clockwork dolphins. I just went along with it. I'm not the quiet sort by nature, but for once I kept my mouth shut. It was none of my business, I kept telling myself. In the meantime, my dolphins looked for mines and were rewarded with food and attention. Then they started pressurising me to get actively involved in MKO. Somehow I managed to buy myself some thinking time – unpopular in the navy because you're not supposed to think. By that time we were in the Strait of Gibraltar, and we'd started to trial the technology at sea. At first it all went smoothly, but then we ran into problems. The control harnesses had worked perfectly in the laboratories and tanks, but in the open water the dolphins were subject to all kinds of stimuli. We started to get more misses than hits. It was obvious that it didn't work in the wild – or not in the way they'd expected. By now the dolphins were compromising our safety, and it was too late to take them back to the States. On the other hand, no one liked the idea of them swimming around in the Gulf so in the end we stopped off in France. The idea was to consult a French institute where experts were working on MKO. We don't usually get too friendly with the French, but they know a lot about the oceans so an alliance had been formed. We thought maybe they could help us. A man called Rene Guy Busnel was introduced to us as the head of the venerable Laboratoire d'Acoustique Animale. He promised to look into the problem, and took us on a tour of his splendid facility. First stop was a mutilated dolphin wedged into a vice. There was a knife the size of my arm sticking out of its back. I never did ask why. They gave us a card from the institute with their names signed in dolphin blood. To them it was all a big joke.'

Greywolf sighed.

'Busnel gave a long spiel about neural research and came to the conclusion that the procedure was flawed. There was evidently some critical factor that had been overlooked or misjudged. Back on board we held council and the decision was taken to get rid of the animals. We released them into the water. Then, when they were a few hundred metres away from the boat, someone pushed the button. The electrode-harness contained explosives to stop the technology falling into the wrong hands. The charge was only small, but it was enough to blast away the equipment. The animals died. We continued on our way.'

Greywolf chewed his lip. Then he looked up at Anawak. 'So there you have it: your Earth Island dolphins. The animals that washed up in France.'

'And after that you…'

'I told them I'd had enough. They tried talking me round, but I'd made up my mind. Of course, they didn't like the idea of one of their best dolphin-handlers quitting for undisclosed reasons – that kind of thing always attracts the attention of the press. So we talked, and in the end we came to an agreement. I got some cash, and they discharged me on the grounds of ill-health. I was a combat diver, you see, and you can't do that with a heart defect. No one asks awkward questions if they think there's something wrong with you. So they let me go.'

Anawak was gazing out across the bay.

'I'm not a scientist like you,' Greywolf said softly, 'I understand a bit about dolphins and how to handle them, but neurology means nothing to me. I can't stand to see anyone getting too interested in whales or dolphins. It winds me up just to see them taking photos. I can't help it.'

'Shoemaker thinks you're still mad at us.'

Greywolf shook his head. 'For a while I thought whale-watching was OK, but I couldn't handle it. I got myself thrown out- I made you guys do the hard part for me.'

Anawak rested his chin on his hands. It all looked so beautiful – the bay, the mountains, the island. 'Jack,' he said, 'you're going to have to revise your opinions. It's happening again. Those whales aren't taking revenge. They're under someone's control. Someone's busy with their very own MKO. Your navy stuff is nothing compared to this.'

In the end they left the jetty and walked in silence through the woods towards Tofino. Greywolf stopped outside Davie's Whaling Station. 'Just before I quit, I heard the nuclear whale programme had taken a big-leap forward. They mentioned a name. It was something to do with neurology and neural network computers. They said that to exercise full control over the animals you needed to know about Professor Kurzweil. Maybe it's nothing, but I just thought I'd tell you.'

CHATEAU WHISTLER, Canada

It was early evening when Weaver knocked on Johanson's door. She tried the handle, but the room was locked.

She knew that he was back from Nanaimo. So she took the elevator to the lobby and found him in the bar, bent over some diagrams with the Geomar scientist and Stanley Frost.

'Hi.' Weaver walked over to them. 'Any progress?'

'We're stumped,' said Bohrmann. 'Still too many unknowns.'

'Hey, we'll get there in the end,' growled Frost. 'God doesn't play dice.'

'That's what Einstein said,' objected Johanson. 'And he was wrong.'

'I'm telling you, God does not play dice?

She tapped Johanson on the shoulder. 'Apologies for the interruption, but could we have a quick chat?'

Johanson hesitated. 'Right now? We haven't finished with Stan's scenario yet. It's pretty strong stuff.

'Sorry.'

'Why don't you join us?'

'This'll only take a moment. Can't they do without you for a second?' She smiled at the others. 'And then I'll join you, I promise. You can show me as many simulations as you like, and I'll bug you with comments.'

'Sounds good to me,' grinned Frost.

'Which way now?' asked Johanson, as they headed away from the table. The lobby?'

'Is it important?'

'Important doesn't begin to cover it.'

'OK.'

They went outside. 'The sun was low in the sky, and as it set, it bathed the Chateau and the snowy peaks of the Rockies in shades of red. A helicopter was perched on the forecourt, like an enormous gnat. They strolled in the direction of Whistler village. Suddenly Weaver felt embarrassed. The others were probably thinking that she and Johanson shared a secret, but in fact she just wanted his advice. It was up to him when he decided to share his theory with the committee but to make that decision he needed to hear her news.

'How was it in Nanaimo?'

'Pretty scary.'

'I heard killer crabs have invaded Long Island.'

'Crabs packed with killer algae,' said Johanson. 'Like in Europe, only more toxic. Oliviera, Fenwick and Rubin have started to analyse the poison.' He cleared his throat. 'I don't mean to be impatient, but I thought you had something to tell me.'

'I've been studying satellite data all day – comparing radar scans to rnultispectral images. I would have liked to see more data from Bauer's drifting profilers, but they've stopped transmitting. In any case, there's no real doubt. I'm guessing you know about oceanic gyres?'

'A little.'

'The sea level rises along the perimeter of a gyre. That applies to the Gulf Stream too – it's a boundary current Bauer was worried that a change was taking place. He couldn't locate the North Atlantic chimneys, where the water normally plummets. He was sure that something was disturbing the flow of the currents, but he couldn't say what.'

'And?'

She turned to him. I've done all the calculations, compared the data, checked it, recalculated, compared it again, rechecked it and started from the beginning. The sea level has dropped in the Gulf Stream.'

Johanson frowned. 'You mean…'

'The gyre has altered its rotation. If you look at the multispectral scans, it's clear that the temperature is dropping as well. There's no doubt about it, Sigur. We're looking at another ice age. The Gulf Stream has stopped flowing. Something's stopped it.'

SECURITY COUNCIL

'It's a goddamn outrage. And someone's going to pay!'

The President was baying for blood. The first thing he'd done on arrival at Offutt Air Force Base was to convene a National Security Council meeting over a secure video link. The teleconference linked Washington, Offutt and the Chateau. The Vice-President was sitting in the White House Situation Room, together with the defense secretary, the defense secretary's deputy, the secretary of state, the assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, the head of the FBI and the chairman of the joint chiefs of staff. Across the Potomac River, deep in the windowless interior of the Counter-terrorist Center at CIA headquarters, the director of Central Intelligence, the deputy director for Operations, and the director of the CTC and head of Special Forces, were also on screen. Commander-in-chief of the United States Central Command General Judith Li and deputy director of the CIA Jack Vanderbilt completed the line-up. They were sitting in Chateau Whistler's makeshift war room, watching the other members of the council on the long row of monitors. Most wore expressions of grim determination, though some seemed at a loss.

The President didn't bother to disguise his wrath. That afternoon the Vice-President had suggested that the White House chief of staff should convene an emergency cabinet, but the President was determined to chair plenary meetings of the Security Council himself. He had no intention of giving up the reins.

That suited Li perfectly.

Li's voice wasn't the most influential in the hierarchy of advisers. The highest-ranking military position was held by the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the President's principal military adviser. Next came his deputy. Every last idiot had a deputy. All the same, Li knew that the President appreciated her advice, which made her ecstatically proud. Her ambitions for the future were at the forefront of her mind. Even now, as she stared in concentration at the screens, she hadn't lost sight of her dream. For the moment she was only commander-in-chief, but soon she'd be chair of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The current chairman was on the brink of retirement, and it was no secret that his deputy was a dud. From there, she'd switch to politics and do a stint in the Pentagon or as secretary of state. And then she could run for President. If she got things right – which meant acting 100 per cent in the interests of America – her election was as good as guaranteed. The world was teetering on the abyss, but Li was on her way up.

'Our adversary is faceless,' the President was saving. 'Some of you are of the opinion that we should turn our attention to those parts of the world that could be the source of the threat. Others, I know, think there's nothing more to this business than a tragic build-up of natural disasters. For my part, I'm not interested in hearing any lectures. I want a consensus that will allow us to act. I want to see plans. I want to know how much it's going to cost and how long it's going to take.' His eyes narrowed. As always, the shrinking distance between his eyelids signalled growing fury and determination. 'Personally, I don't believe all that hooey about nature gone crazy. This is a war we're fighting. America is at war. So, what are we going to do?'

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff remarked that wars weren't won on the defensive and that it was time to go on the attack. He sounded resolute. The defense secretary frowned. 'Attack who?' she asked.

'All I'm saying is that we need to attack,' said the chairman, authoritatively. 'Find the culprit and attack them.'

The Vice-President made it clear that he didn't believe any terrorist organisation had the resources to carry out such a large-scale offensive. 'If anyone's attacking us,' he said, 'it has to be a state. Or an alliance of states. A political bloc or something. Jack Vanderbilt was the first to voice his suspicions, and he may well he right. We need to focus on those countries or regions capable of organising an attack of this kind.'

'There are a number of countries with that capability,' said the director of the CIA.

The President nodded. Ever since the CIA chief had given him a long lecture on the eve of his presidency about the CIA's list of the good, the bad and the ugly, he had been convinced that the world was peopled with godless criminals planning the downfall of the USA. He wasn't entirely wrong. 'But can we be sure that it's one of our traditional enemies?' he asked all the same. 'After all, the whole free world is under attack, not just America.'

'The free world?' The defense secretary snorted. 'We are the free world. Europe is part of the American free world. The freedom of Japan is the freedom of the USA. The same goes for Canada and Australia… An attack on America's freedom is an attack on freedom worldwide.' There was a piece of paper in front of him, and he banged his hand on it. It contained his notes for the day. He believed that nothing was so complicated that it couldn't be summarised on a single sheet of paper. Just to remind you all,' he added, 'we've got access to biological weapons, and so has Israel. We're the good guys. Then there's South Africa, China, Russia and India – they're ugly. Finally, North Korea, Iran, Iraq, Syria, Libya, Egypt, Pakistan, Kazakhstan and Sudan are bad. And this is a biological attack. This is bad.'

'I thought chemical components were also involved,' said his deputy. 'Isn't that right?'

'Let's slow down here.' The director of the CIA gestured for quiet. 'Let's start with the assumption that a campaign of this kind would require a vast amount of cash and considerable effort. Chemical weapons are cheap and easy to make, but all that biological stuff swallows a lot of resources. And remember, we're not blind. Pakistan and India are working with us. We've trained over a hundred Pakistani secret agents for covert operations. Dozens of agents are working for the CIA in Afghanistan and India, and some have excellent contacts. That's a whole region you can strike off your list. We've got paramilitary troops in Sudan, working with the opposition. In South Africa some of our friends are government ministers. The fact is, there's been no indication that anything big is under way. Our priority is to find out where money has been changing hands and where suspicious activities have been noticed. We don't need an itemised list of world villains – we need to narrow the field.'

'As far as money is concerned,' said the director of the FBI, 'there isn't any.'

'Meaning?'

'The new measures on monitoring terrorist assets have allowed us to take a pretty good look at suspicious transactions. You can bet that if a large sum of money changes hands, the Treasury will know. We would have heard by now.'

'And have you?' asked Vanderbilt.

'Nothing. Not a peep from Africa, Asia or the Middle East. There's nothing to indicate that any state might be involved.'

Vanderbilt cleared his throat. 'They're hardly going to tell us about it,' he said. 'It won't make the headlines of the Washington Post!

'Like I said, we've got no-'

'I'm sorry to disillusion you,' Vanderbilt cut in, 'but you can't seriously believe that someone who's capable of running riot in the North Sea and poisoning New York is going to show us his wallet?'

The President's eyes were slits. 'The world is changing,' he said. 'And that means we need to be able to see into everyone's wallet. Either those bastards are too smart or we're too stupid. But no matter how goddamn smart they are, it's our job to be smarter. Starting from now.' He turned towards the director of Counter-terrorism. 'So, how smart are we?'

The director shrugged. 'The latest warning came from India. It was about Pakistani jihadists trying to blow up the White House. The terrorists are known to us, and there isn't any danger. We were on to it before the Indians told us and we traced all of the financial transactions. The Global Response Center collects mounds of information on international terrorism every day. It's true, Mr. President. Nothing happens without us getting wind of it.'

'And it's all quiet at the moment?'

'It's never quiet, but there's no sign of any serious planning or financial activity. Which isn't conclusive, I guess.'

The President's gaze shifted to the deputy director for Operations. 'I expect your team to step up its efforts,' he snapped. 'I don't care where your agents are posted or what backwater they're operating in, I'm not going to stand by and see American citizens killed, simply because someone hasn't done their homework.'

'Of course not, sir.'

'And in case any of you have forgotten, we're being attacked. We're at war! I need to know who we're fighting.'

'Well, take a look at the Middle East, then,' Vanderbilt called impatiently.

'We're doing that already,' Li said.

The fat man sighed. He didn't bother to turn; he knew Li didn't buy his theory.

'You can always punch yourself in the face to make it look as though you've been beaten ' said Li, 'but let's be realistic. It's all very well claiming that this is about hostile countries taking a swipe at America because they're intent on protecting their interests; but why would they hurt themselves? Sure, if it's us they're after, and it would make sense to distract us by causing trouble elsewhere – but not on that scale.'

'That's not how we see it,' said the director of the CIA.

'I know. But I see it this way: we're not the main target. There's too much going on, and it's all too extreme. Just imagine the amount of effort it would involve – training thousands of animals, breeding millions of new organisms, triggering a tsunami in Europe, sabotaging the fish stocks, plaguing Australia and South America with jellyfish, and wrecking tankers… No one would stand to gain anything economically or politically. But there's no denying that it's happening – and whether Jack likes it or not, the Middle East isn't exempt. Those are the facts, and I'm not going to join in and pin the blame on the Arabs.'

'OK, so there've been a couple of minor shipping accidents in the Middle East,' growled Vanderbilt.

'They weren't exactly minor, Jack.'

'Maybe we're dealing with a megalomaniac,' suggested the secretary of state. 'A criminal mind.'

'That's more plausible,' said Li. 'An individual would be able to shift large amounts of money around and dabble in technology for ostensibly respectable purposes. If you ask me, though, we need to look at it this way – someone sends us a plague of worms, so we invent something to kill them, and so on.'

'What kind of measures have you taken so far?' asked the secretary of state.

'We've-' the defense secretary began.

'We've isolated New York,' Li interrupted. She didn't like other people taking the credit for her work. 'And I've just learned that the warnings about crabs in Washington have been confirmed. They've been sighted by surveillance drones. We're going to have to quarantine the city as well. The White House staff should follow the President's example and leave town for the duration of the crisis. I've ordered troops with flame-throwers to surround key coastal cities. In the meantime we're developing an antitoxin.'

'Any plans to use submersibles and dive robots?' enquired the CIA director.

'No. We can't release anything into the depths without it disappearing. We don't have any means of controlling things down there. ROVs, for example, are only connected via cables and, right now, scientists are lowering them into the water, and hauling up a bunch of frayed wires. The ROVs detect a blue glow, then the cables are cut. As for what's happening to the AUVs, it's impossible to say. Last week four Russian scientists set off in MIR submersibles. They were all rammed and sunk a thousand metres down.'

'So we're abandoning the field?'

'We're still trying to cull the worms. At the moment we're using dragnets to sweep the seabed. We're also deploying nets in strategic coastal areas to ward off marine life. It's another of our anti-invasion measures.'

'That's a little primitive, isn't it?'

'So are the methods of attack. In any event, we're about to start using sonar to get at the whales. We're going to deafen them with Surtass LFA. Someone's got control of the creatures, and it's high time we responded in kind. We'll turn up the volume till their eardrums explode. Then we'll see who's boss.'

'That sucks, Li.'

'If you've got a better idea, I'd love to hear it.'

No one said anything.

'How about satellite surveillance? Is that any help?' asked the President.

'Up to a point.' The deputy director for Operations shook his head. 'The army is accustomed to searching the jungle for camouflaged tanks.

There aren't many systems capable of identifying objects the size of a crab. OK, so there's KH-12 and the new generation of Keyhole satellites. We're also collaborating with the Europeans on Topex/Poseidon and SAR-Lupe – but they use radar, as does Lacrosse. It all comes down to a basic problem: we have to zoom in to detect small objects, which means we have to focus on a limited section of coast. Until we know where the next invasion is likely to happen, we're almost guaranteed to have our backs turned. General Li has suggested using drones to patrol the coastline, which makes sense, although even drones can't see everything. The NRO and the NSA are doing their best to come up with information. Maybe some of the transmissions we've intercepted will offer a few more clues. We're using every possible aspect of SIGINT.'

'Well, perhaps that's our problem,' the President said slowly. 'Maybe we should be focusing a bit more on HUMINT.'

Li repressed a smile. HUMINT was one of the President's personal hobbyhorses. In security jargon SIGINT stood for signals intelligence, which covered all forms of intelligence-gathering that revolved around the interception of transmissions. HUMINT was all intelligence gleaned through espionage – human intelligence. The President, who was a straightforward guy with no real grasp of technology, liked to look a person in the eye. Even though he commanded the most technologically advanced army in the world, he felt more comfortable being protected by spies crawling through undergrowth than by satellites.

'Put your guys to work,' he said. 'Some are too quick to let computer programs and service switching points do the job for them. I want less programming and more thinking.'

The director of the CIA pressed his fingertips together. 'Well,' he said, 'I guess we shouldn't pay too much attention to the Middle East theory, after all.'

Li glanced at Vanderbilt, who was staring rigidly ahead. 'I hope you haven't been too hasty, Jack,' she whispered.

'Save it, Li.'

She leaned forward. 'Maybe we could talk about something more positive?'

The President smiled. 'Sounds good. Fire away, Jude.'

'Sir, the present crisis won't go on forever. It's up to us to think about what happens next. And in the end what really matters is who comes out on top. The world will look different by the time this is over. A number of regimes will have been destabilised – and in some cases we won't be sad to see them go. The world is indeed facing a terrible threat, but a crisis is also a chance. If we're unhappy with a particular regime, and something undermines it, maybe we can speed things along and make sure the right successor is in place.'

'Hmm.' The President was thinking.

After a moment's reflection, the secretary of state said, 'So the question isn't so much who started this war, but who's going to come out victorious?'

'Don't get me wrong. The civilised world will have to rally together against our invisible foe,' said Li. 'If the situation continues, our allies are going to look increasingly to the UN for guidance. That's fine for the moment. I'm not saying we should push ourselves forward, but we should be waiting in the wings, ready to offer our help. When it comes down to it, we need to win. And anyone who's ever threatened or opposed us should wind up on the side of the losers. The more we can influence the outcome of the situation, the clearer the divide between victors and losers.'

'That's a nice firm standpoint,' said the President.

There were a few nods of approval, with a hint of irritation. Li leaned back. She'd said enough. In fact, she'd said more than her position on the council warranted, but her words had made an impression. She'd alienated a few guys whose job it was to come up with that kind of stuff, but so what? She'd been well received in Offutt.

'OK,' said the President. 'We should keep that suggestion in mind, but we shouldn't lose sight of other options. The last thing we want is the rest of the world thinking we're intent on taking over. How are your scientists progressing, Jude?'

'In my opinion, sir, they're our biggest asset.'

'When can we see some results?'

'We're meeting tomorrow. Major Peak will be present as well. I've instructed him to leave New York – he can deal with the crisis from here.'

'It's time you addressed the nation,' said the Vice-President.

'Absolutely.' The President banged his fist on the table. 'Our communications team needs to rally the speechwriters. I want something frank, not it'll-be-all-right-you'll-see, but something that'll give them hope.'

'Any mention of a possible aggressor?'

'No. I want this handled as a natural disaster. We're not even sure yet where we stand, and besides, the public is anxious enough. We need to reassure them that we're doing everything in our power to protect them. And they need to believe that we have that power. That we're ready and prepared. That we can handle anything. America isn't merely a place of freedom, it's a place of safety. No matter what comes out of the ocean, America is safe. They need to believe that. And one more thing: I want you all to pray. It's God's country, and He'll be with us. He'll give us the power to emerge from this victorious.'

NEW YORK, USA

We can't handle it. That was the only thought in Peak's mind as he clambered into the helicopter. We're not prepared for this. Nothing we can do will stem the horror.

The helicopter lifted off from Wall Street heliport and headed northbound through the night air over Soho, Greenwich Village and Chelsea. The city sparkled with light, but you could see at a glance that things weren't right. Some streets were bathed in the harsh glare of floodlights, and the stream of traffic had stopped. New York was in the hands of the OEM and the army. Choppers were taking off and touching down all over the city and the harbour was closed. The only boats on the East River were military vessels.

They were powerless to help. The death toll kept rising, and there was nothing they could do to stop it. The OEM had published reams of regulations and recommendations, but the steady stream of warnings and drills had been in vain. Every household had been instructed to keep a canister of drinking water at the ready, in case of an emergency, but no-one was prepared. In any case, a safe supply of drinking water couldn't protect people against the toxins rising from drains or wafting up from washbasins, toilets and dishwashers. All Peak could do was herd those who were still in good health out of the danger zone and quarantine them in vast camps. New York's schools, churches and other public buildings now served as hospitals, and the belt of land surrounding the city was an enormous jailhouse.

He looked to the right. The fire was still blazing in the tunnel. The driver of a military tanker had failed to follow the protocol for securing his gas mask, and had lost consciousness at the wheel. He'd been part of a convoy. The accident had set off a chain reaction: dozens of vehicles had burst into flames. Right now the temperature down there was equivalent to the heat inside a volcano.

Peak berated himself for not having prevented the accident. It was obvious that the danger of contamination would be many times higher inside a tunnel than on the streets, where the toxins could disperse. But how could he be everywhere at once?

If there was anything Peak hated, it was the feeling of powerlessness.

And now it was Washington's turn.

'We can't handle it,' he'd told Li on the phone.

'We have to.'

They crossed the Hudson River and made for Hackensack airport, where a military chopper was waiting to take Peak to Vancouver. They left the lights of Manhattan behind them. Peak thought of the scientists' meeting scheduled for the following day. Would they make any headway? He wished they could at least find a drug that would put an end to the horror in New York, but something told him not to get his hopes up.

Peak leaned back and closed his eyes.

CHATEAU WHISTLER, Canada

Li was pleased with herself. In view of the impending Armageddon, it would have been more appropriate to feel anguished or shocked, but the day had been a resounding success. Vanderbilt had been forced on to the defensive, and the President had listened to her advice. After countless telephone calls she now knew all the latest on the apocalypse, and was waiting impatiently to talk to the defense secretary. The sonar offensive would be starting the next day, and she wanted to discuss the deployment of boats. The defense secretary was caught up in a meeting, and wouldn't be able to talk for another few minutes.

It was approaching two o'clock in the morning when she sat down at the piano to play some Schubert. The telephone rang. She jumped up to answer it. She'd been expecting the Pentagon, so she was thrown by the voice on the line. 'Dr Johanson! What can I do for you?'

'Have you got a moment?'

'Now?'

'I'd like to speak to you in private.'

'I'm afraid I'm busy. How about in an hour? I need to make some calls.'

'Aren't you curious?'

'Curious?'

'You said you thought I had a theory.'

'Come up to my suite.'

With a smile she replaced the receiver. It was exactly as she had expected. Johanson wasn't the type to use every last second of a deadline, and he was too well mannered to go back on his word. He had wanted to be the one to decide when he told her, and he'd chosen the middle of the night.

She called the Pentagon switchboard. 'Postpone my teleconference with the defense secretary by half an hour.' She changed her mind. 'Make that an hour.'

Johanson was bound to have plenty to say.

VANCOUVER ISLAND

Anawak didn't have much of an appetite after Greywolf's explanations, but Shoemaker had excelled himself. He'd fried some steaks and concocted an impressive salad, topped with croutons and nuts. They ate on the veranda. Delaware was careful not to mention her budding relationship, and she was excellent company. She had an inexhaustible supply of jokes, and delivered even the corniest with perfect timing.

The evening was an oasis in a sea of misery.

During the Dark Ages, people had danced and caroused in the streets of Europe while the Black Death raged round them. Although there was no dancing or singing at Shoemaker's, they talked for several hours without a word about tsunamis, whales or killer algae. Shoemaker told anecdotes about the early days at the Station, and they enjoyed the balmy evening. Relaxing on the veranda, they gazed out over the dark waters of the bay.

Anawak left at two in the morning, but Delaware stayed behind. She and Shoemaker were deep in conversation about old movies and had just cracked open another bottle of wine. They were descending into tipsiness, so Anawak made his way through the night air to the station. He switched on the computer and went online.

Within minutes his search for Professor Kurzweil was rewarded.

As dawn broke, a picture began to emerge

12 May

Chateau Whistler, Canada

Maybe, thought Johanson, this will be the turning-point. Or maybe they'll think I'm a crazy old fool.

He was standing on the little dais to the left of the screen. The projector was switched off. There'd been a few minutes' delay as they waited for Anawak, who'd stayed the night in Tofino, but now the delegates were assembled. The front row was occupied by Peak, Vanderbilt and Li. Peak had returned overnight from New York, and looked as though he'd left most of his energy there.

Addressing an audience was second nature to Johanson. He was used to lecturing students and speaking at conferences, occasionally adding his own insights and hypotheses to the standard set of facts. But for the most part standing at a lectern was the easiest thing in the world: you merely imparted the fruits of other people's research, and answered questions at the end.

Yet this morning he was experiencing the unfamiliar sensation of self-doubt. How on earth could he put across his theory without his audience laughing in his face? Li had conceded that he might be right, so he'd stayed up most of the night, drafting and redrafting his speech. Johanson had no illusions. He was only going to get one shot at this: either he won them over with a surprise attack, or they decided he was nuts.

He glanced at the top page of his print-out. He'd written a detailed introduction. Now, after three hours' sleep, it suddenly struck him as impenetrably complicated. He'd been satisfied with it in the early hours of the morning, when he was almost too exhausted to think, but now…

He laid aside his notes, and felt relieved of a burden. His self-assurance returned to him like a cavalry ready for battle, flags flying and trumpets blaring. He took a step forward and, once he was sure he had his audience's attention, he said, 'It's very simple, really. Dealing with the implications will be tricky, but the basic principle is logical and straightforward. We're not dealing with a series of natural disasters. And we're not doing battle with any terrorist organisation or rogue state. Not even evolution is to blame.' He paused. 'No. What we're experiencing is the fabled war of the worlds – a war between two worlds that we've always thought of as one because they're bound together. All this time we've been gazing upwards in anticipation of an alien species arriving from space, when intelligent life-forms have been with us all along, inhabiting part of the planet that we've never seriously attempted to explore. Two radically different systems of intelligent life coexist on the Earth, and they've done so peacefully until now. While one has been observing the development of the other since time immemorial, the other has no concept of the complexity of the underwater world – or, if you like, the alien universe sharing our globe. Outer space is on Earth, in the oceans. We've found our extraterrestrials, and they don't come from faraway galaxies. They evolved at the bottom of the sea. Life in the water existed long before the first organisms appeared on land, and this species is likely to be far, far older than humanity. I can't tell you what these creatures look like, or how they live, think or communicate. But we're going to have to get used to the notion that we're not the only smart species on this planet. For decades we've been systematically destroying the habitat of another intelligent race – and now, ladies and gentlemen, these creatures seem justifiably irate.'

No one spoke.

Vanderbilt's heavy jowls began to tremble and his entire body shook, as though a peal of laughter was mounting inside him. His fleshy lips twitched and he opened his mouth.

'I can see how that might be possible,' said Li.

The deputy director of the CIA looked as though he'd been stabbed in the ribs. His mouth closed. Then he wheezed, 'You can't be serious.'

'Oh, yes, I can,' Li said calmly. 'I didn't say Dr Johanson was right, but we should at least hear him out. He must have some evidence to support his claims.'

'Thank you, General. 'Johanson gave a little bow. 'I do.'

'Then please continue. Try to keep your explanation as succinct as possible so that we can start the debate right away.'

Johanson let his eyes rove round the room. Hardly anyone appeared openly dismissive. Most of the faces before him were frozen in surprise. Some looked fascinated, others disbelieving, and a few were impossible to read. Now he had to take the second step. He had to persuade them to assimilate his theory so that they could develop it on their own.

'Our main problem over the past few days and weeks,' he said, has lain in trying to connect the various phenomena. In fact, there wasn't any obvious connection until a jelly-like substance started to crop up. Sometimes it appeared in small quantities, sometimes in larger amounts, but always with the distinguishing characteristic that it disintegrated rapidly on contact with air. Unfortunately the discovery of the jelly only added to the mystery, given its presence in crustaceans, mussels and whales – three types of organism that could hardly be more different. Of course, it might have been some kind of fungus, a jellified version of rabies, an infectious disease like BSE or swine fever. But, if so, why would ships be disappearing or crabs transporting killer algae? There was no sign of the jelly on the worms that infested the slope. They were carrying a different kind of cargo – bacteria that break down hydrates and cause methane gas to rise. Hence the landslide and the tsunami. And what about the mutated species that have been emerging all over the world? Even fish have been behaving oddly. None of it adds up. In that respect, Jack Vanderbilt was right to discern an intelligent mind behind the chaos. But he overestimated our ability – no scientist knows anything like enough about marine ecology to be capable of manipulating it to that extent. People are fond of saying that we know more about space than we do about the oceans. It's perfectly true, but there's a simple reason why: we can't see or move as well in the water as we can in outer space. The Hubble telescope peers effortlessly into different galaxies, but the world's strongest floodlight only illuminates a dozen square metres of seabed. An astronaut in a spacesuit can move with almost total freedom, but even the most sophisticated dive suit won't stop you being crushed to death beyond a certain depth. AUVs and ROVs are only operational if the conditions are right. We don't have the physical constitution or the technology to deposit billions of worms on underwater hydrates, let alone the requisite knowledge to engineer them for a habitat that we barely understand. Besides, there are all the other phenomena: deep-sea cables being destroyed at the bottom of the ocean by forces other than the underwater slide; plagues of jellyfish and mussels rising from the abyssal plains. The simplest explanation would be to see these developments as part of a plan, but such a plan could only be the work of a species that knows the ocean as intimately as we do the land – a species that lives in the depths and plays the dominant role in that particular universe.'

'Have I understood you correctly?' Rubin asked excitedly. 'You're claiming that we share this planet with another intelligent race?'

'Yes.'

'If that's so,' said Peak, 'why haven't we heard of or seen them before?'

'Because they don't exist,' Vanderbilt muttered testily.

'Wrong,' said Johanson vigorously. 'I can think of at least three good reasons why we've never come across them. First, there's the phenomenon of the invisible fish.'

The what?

'Most deep-sea creatures can't see any better than we can, but they've refined their other senses. Their bodies respond to the slightest change in pressure. Sound waves are detected over hundreds, if not thousands of kilometres. No submersible could ever get in viewing range without attracting their attention. In theory, millions of fish could be living in a particular region but if they stuck to the shadows, we'd never find out. If that's true of ordinary fish, how are we supposed to spot intelligent beings? If they don't want us to see them, they – won't let us! Second, we have no idea what these creatures might look like. So far, we've filmed a few peculiar phenomena – a blue cloud, flashes that look a bit like lightning, and an odd thing on the Norwegian continental slope. Are those signs of alien intelligence? And what about the jelly? Or the noises that Murray Shankar can't identify? And, finally, the third reason. At one time we were convinced that life was only viable in the upper layers of the ocean, where sunlight penetrates. Now we know that the whole ocean is teeming with life, even at depths of eleven thousand metres. Many organisms don't need to seek out shallower water. In fact, most wouldn't survive the transition – the water temperature would be too high, the pressure too low, and they wouldn't find their usual food. We, on the other hand, are well acquainted with the surface of the water, but only a handful of robots and scientists in bulky submersibles have ever visited the depths. Imagine an alien spaceship lowering cameras to Earth. Each captures only a few square metres at a time. The first zooms in on the Kalahari Desert. The second takes a snap of the Mongolian steppes. A third is lowered over Antarctica, and the fourth hovers over a city and films just a few square metres of grass and a dog peeing up against a tree. What impression would the aliens have? No sign of intelligent life, though primitive life-forms are sporadically present.'

'They'd have to have some kind of technology to accomplish all this,' said Oliviera.

I've been thinking about that,' said Johanson. 'It strikes me that there's an alternative to technology as we know it. We use materials to create our equipment and tools – houses, vehicles, radios, clothes and so on. But sea water is far more aggressive than air. Only one thing matters in the depths: optimal adaptation. Living organisms are usually fantastically well adapted, so you could imagine a technology based entirely on biology. If we're assuming this race is highly intelligent, then it seems reasonable to suppose that it's also creative and has a detailed knowledge of the biology of marine organisms. I mean, we're doing it too, if you think about it. For thousands of years we've been using other life-forms as part of our inventions. Hannibal crossed the Alps with a herd of living trucks. Horses are a kind of sentient motorbike. We've been training animals throughout the course of history, but now we're able to genetically modify them as well. We're already cloning sheep. What if we take the idea a bit further? What if we imagine a race that has based its culture and technology entirely on biology? They'd simply breed whatever they need, whether for daily life, transport – or warfare.'

'God help us,' groaned Vanderbilt.

'Of course, humans use living organisms for warfare too,' continued Johanson, as if he hadn't heard. 'Scientists are growing strains of Ebola and other viruses, and experimenting with smallpox. For the moment, the conventional method is to cram them into warheads, but it's not the most straightforward way of doing things, and even satellite-guided missiles don't always hit their mark. Dispatching a pack of diseased dogs might be more effective. Or you could use a battalion of birds – or insects, for that matter. Just imagine trying to defend yourself against a swarm of virus-infested flies or an army of infected ants … Or against millions of crabs, transporting killer algae.' He paused. 'The worms on the continental slopes were genetically engineered. It's not surprising that we'd never seen them before. They didn't exist. Their sole purpose is to convey bacteria into the ice. They're annelid cruise missiles, if you like – biological weapons developed by a race of beings whose entire culture is based on manipulating organic life. It gives us an explanation for all the various mutations. In some cases, organisms have been modified only slightly, while others are new creations. Take the jelly-like tissue. It's a highly versatile biological product, but it certainly wasn't arrived at via standard evolution. Like the worms, it's there for a purpose – to control other living creatures by invading their neural networks. It's somehow affecting the behaviour of live whales. The crabs and lobsters are a slightly different story. The jelly steers their movements, but they're not actually alive. They're empty shells with incomplete nervous systems – organic spacesuits for the journey on to land.'

'This jelly,' said Rubin, 'couldn't a scientist have developed it instead?'

'Unlikely.' Anawak joined the discussion. 'Dr Johanson's explanation makes more sense. If this were a human project, what would be the point of attacking via the depths? That's a pretty big detour.'

'Because killer algae are found in the sea.'

'Why use killer algae in the first place? Anyone capable of creating a strain of algae more toxic than Pfiesteria would surely be able to find some pathogen that doesn't live in water. Why breed crabs if ants, birds or rats would do the job?'

'Rats can't trigger a tsunami.'

'That jelly was concocted in a lab,' insisted Vanderbilt. 'It's a synthetic substance, which-'

'I don't buy it,' interrupted Anawak. 'Not even the navy would be capable of that, and from what I've heard, it's pretty darned good at messing with animals.'

Vanderbilt's head was shaking so fast that he looked as if he was having a convulsion.

'What are you trying to say?'

'I'm referring to a programme of experiments codenamed MKO.'

'Never heard of it.'

'Well, for years now the navy has been experimenting with dolphins and other marine mammals, trying to manipulate their behaviour by putting electrodes in their-'

'Bullshit.'

'It didn't work, though, or at least not in the way they'd intended, so now they're using Ray Kurzweil's ideas to-'

'Kurzweil?'

'A leading authority on artificial intelligence,' Fenwick explained. Suddenly he had become animated. 'He came up with a vision of the future that pushed back the boundaries of current neural research. If you want to establish how much we know about the workings of the brain … in fact, better still, if you want to understand how much another intelligent species might know about the brain, you should study his work.' Fenwick was flushed with excitement. 'That's it! Kurzweil's neural network computer! You could really be on to something.'

'I'm sorry,' said Vanderbilt, 'but I have no idea what you're talking about.'

'Really?' Li smirked. 'I thought the CIA took a professional interest in brainwashing.'

Vanderbilt snorted. 'Can anyone tell me what he's talking about? Because I'll be darned if I know. Is someone going to explain?'

'The neural network computer is a blueprint for creating a perfect replica of an individual brain,' said Oliviera. 'Our brains are made up of billions of nerve cells, or neurons. Each neuron is connected to countless others. They communicate using electrical pulses, allowing our brains to continually update, reorder and archive what we know, learn and feel. Every single second of our lives, even when we're asleep, our brains are being reconfigured. Modern scanning technology gives us pictures of the brain that are accurate to within one millimetre of detail. We can watch how the brain thinks and feels, and which neurons are activated when, for example, we kiss or experience pain or recall a past event.'

'The scans show which parts of the brain do what, so the navy knows where to place the electrical signals to achieve a particular response.' Anawak had taken over. 'But they aren't detailed enough. If you think of them as maps, you can only see objects in excess of fifty square metres. Kurzweil predicts that we'll soon have the ability to scan an entire brain, mapping every single synaptic connection and every neurotransmitter, and detailing the concentration of every chemical. We'll have a complete model of every cell.'

'Gee,' said Vanderbilt.

'And once you've gathered all that information,' said Oliviera, 'you'll be able to install the entire brain and all its functions in a computer, which would replicate that particular person's thought processes, memories and abilities. You'd have a kind of clone.'

Li raised her hand. 'I can assure you that MKO hasn't reached that stage,' she said. 'At the present time, Kurzweil's neural network computer remains just a vision.'

'Jude!' Vanderbilt whispered, aghast. 'What are you thinking? This stuff is classified – it's none of their business.'

'MKO is based purely on military necessity,' Li said calmly. 'If it didn't exist, we'd have to sacrifice human lives instead. We can't always choose our wars, as I'm sure you've realised. The programme is currently at an impasse, but I'm confident it's merely a temporary hitch. We're well on the way to creating artificial intelligence. In medicine, it won't be long before we can replace organs with microchips. Implants are already allowing blind people to regain some of their sight. Entirely new forms of intelligence will emerge.' She fixed her gaze on Anawak. 'That's what you're getting at, isn't it? All the evidence would seem to support the Middle East theory, if only humanity were as advanced as Kurzweil predicted. But we're not. This jelly does the job of a neural network computer, and no living scientist is capable of inventing it.'

'In practice, a neural network computer would be in control of every thought process,' said Anawak. 'Assuming that's how the jelly functions, it doesn't simply steer a creature, it becomes that creature. It becomes part of its brain. The cells of the substance assume the function of brain cells. They either add to the capacity of a brain-'

'Or they replace it,' chimed Oliviera. 'Leon's right. An organism like that can't come from any human lab.'

Johanson's heart was pounding as he listened. They were engaging with his theory. With every word that was spoken, his hypothesis gained weight. While the debate raged around him, he envisaged a biological computer that could copy every neuron in the brain.

Roche jumped to his feet. 'Perhaps you could explain one thing, Dr Johanson. How do you account for these underwater life-forms knowing so much about us? I dare say it's an impressive theory, but how could an inhabitant of the ocean depths obtain that kind of knowledge?'

Johanson saw Vanderbilt and Rubin nodding. 'That's quite straight-forward,' he said. 'Whenever we dissect a fish, we do it in our world, not in the water. Why shouldn't these creatures find out about us in their world? Drownings happen all the time – and these beings are certainly capable of fetching more bodies, should they need them. Having said that, it's a valid point. How much do they really know about us? I first started to come round to the idea of an organised attack just before the shelf collapsed in Europe. Oddly enough, it never occurred to me that humans might have been responsible. The strategy seemed too outlandish. Wiping out large swathes of the infrastructure in northern Europe was a stroke of genius, and had serious consequences for humanity, but using whales to sink small craft strikes me as naive. Poisonous jellies are never going to stop people plundering fish from the ocean. Shipping accidents cause a lot of damage, but I seriously doubt whether swarms of mutated organisms are capable of paralysing international trade. But it does make one thing clear: they know a lot about boats. They're familiar with anything that comes into direct contact with their habitat, but they're not so well informed about dry land. Dispatching killer algae in an army of crabs shows excellent military planning, but the first attempt, involving Brittany lobsters, wasn't as effective. They clearly hadn't reckoned with the pressure difference. The jelly was introduced into the lobsters in the depths – that is, in conditions of high pressure. Once it reached the surface, it expanded, and some of the lobsters exploded before they came into contact with humans.'

'By the time they deployed the crabs they seemed to have learned from that mistake,' said Oliviera. 'The crabs stayed stable.'

'What do you mean, stable?' Rubin pursed his lips. 'They died almost as soon as they reached land.'

'That's irrelevant,' retorted Johanson. 'Their mission had already been accomplished. These creatures are all destined for an early death. They're not trying to colonise our world. It's purely an attack. Whichever way you look at it, humans would never fight a war like this. Why approach from the sea? What possible reason could anyone have for manipulating the genes of organisms that live several kilometres underwater – like vent crabs, for instance? You won't find any humans at work here. All this is designed to discover our weak points. They're experimenting – and, more than that, they're trying to distract us.'

'Distract us?' echoed Peak.

'Yes. The enemy is attacking on all fronts at once. Some of the attacks cause nightmare scenarios, others are more of a nuisance, but the main thing is, they succeed in keeping us busy. They're needling us, which means we don't notice what's really going on. In our eagerness to limit the damage, we're blind to the ultimate threat. We're like circus clowns, balancing a series of plates on poles. All the time we're running from one pole to the next to keep the plates spinning and stop them crashing to the ground. As soon as we've spun the last plate, we have to rush back to the first. But the number of plates exceeds our powers of juggling. We won't be able to cope with the volume of attacks. Individually, whale attacks and disappearing fish stocks wouldn't be much of a worry. But taken together, they fulfill their purpose, which is to paralyzed and overwhelm us. If the phenomena continue to spread, governments are going to lose control, other states will take advantage of the situation, and there'll be regional, maybe even international, conflicts. The trouble will get out of hand, and no one will be able to stop it. We'll undermine our own strength. International aid organisations will collapse, and medical supply networks will be overstretched. The barrage of head-on assaults serves to mask what's silently unfolding in the depths, and soon we won't have the technology, energy, know-how or even the time to prevent it.'

'Prevent what?' asked Vanderbilt, in a bored voice.

'The annihilation of mankind.'

'Excuse me?'

'Isn't it obvious? They've decided to deal with us in the same way that we deal with pests. They want to wipe us out.'

'I've heard enough of this bull.'

'Before we wipe out all the life in the sea.'

The CIA chief lumbered to his feet and pointed a trembling finger at Johanson. 'That's the biggest pile of crap I've ever heard. We summoned you here to deal with a crisis. Are you trying to tell us that those, uh, do-gooding aliens from The Abyss have come back to wag their fingers at us because we've been misbehaving?'

'The Abyss? Johanson thought for a moment. 'Oh, I see. No, I wasn't thinking of creatures like that. They were extra-terrestrials.'

'It's the same kind of crap.'

'Actually, no. In The Abyss the alien creatures come from space. The film makes them out to be a nicer version of humans. They're supposed to have a moral message. The main difference, though, is that those aliens aren't interested in toppling us from our throne at the top of terrestrial evolution, which is what any intelligent species that had developed in parallel to us and that shared our planet would want to do.'

'Dr Johanson!' Vanderbilt pulled out a handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his forehead. 'You're not a professional snoop like me. You don't have the benefit of my experience. You've done a great job in keeping us entertained for these past fifteen minutes, but the first thing you've got to do when you're trying to get to the bottom of a mess like this is to ask yourself who gains. Who stands to gain? That's how you get on the scent. Not by poking around like-'

'No one stands to gain,' said a voice.

Vanderbilt heaved himself round.

'That's just it, Vanderbilt.' Bohrmann had risen to his feet. 'Last night Kiel finished modelling the scenarios for what's likely to happen if further continental slopes collapse.'

'I know,' Vanderbilt said brusquely. 'Tsunamis and methane. We'll have a spot of bother with the climate-'

'No,' said Bohrmann. 'Not a spot of bother. It's a death sentence. We all know what happened fifty-five million years ago, the last time enormous quantities of methane were released into the atmosphere-'

'Know? Come on, it was fifty-five million years ago.'

'We reconstructed what happened – and now we're predicting that the same thing will happen again. Tsunamis are going to hit the coastlines and wipe out coastal populations. Then the surface of the Earth will get warmer, and it will keep getting warmer until we all die out. That's everyone, Mr. Vanderbilt, including the Middle East and all your terrorists. The dissociation of the hydrate reserves in the western Pacific and off the east coast of America would be enough to kill us all.'

There was a deathly hush.

'And there'll be nothing,' said Johanson softly, looking at Vanderbilt, 'absolutely nothing you can do. You won't even know where to start. And because you've been dealing with all those whales, sharks, mussels, jellies, crabs, killer algae and invisible cable-munching monsters, you won't have had time to prepare. In fact, you won't even have been able to peek under water, because all your divers, dive robots and other gadgets will have disappeared.'

'How long will it take for the atmosphere to heat up sufficiently to pose a threat to humanity?' asked Li.

Bohrmann frowned. 'A few hundred years, I guess.'

'That's OK, then,' growled Vanderbilt.

'On the contrary,' said Johanson. 'If these creatures have launched their crusade because we're threatening their habitat, they've got to get rid of us fast. A few hundred years are nothing in the context of the history of the planet, but mankind has inflicted incredible damage in no time at all. So they've quietly decided to go one step further. They've stopped the Gulf Stream.'

Bohrmann stared at him. 'They've what?'

'It's stopped already,' Weaver spoke up. 'OK, so maybe there's still a weak current, but it's practically gone. The world had better start bracing itself for another ice age. It's going to get seriously cold within the next century. It may come sooner than that – in forty or fifty years' time, or perhaps even earlier.'

'Hang on,' Peak called. 'Methane's going to heat up the planet. We know that for a fact. The climate might shift. But how does that fit with the Gulf Stream causing an ice age? What the hell happens then? Do two catastrophes balance each other out?'

Weaver turned towards him. 'I'd say they make things worse.'

IF AT FIRST it seemed that Vanderbilt was alone in vehemently rejecting the theory, over the next hour the situation changed. The assembly split into two camps that were locked in bitter combat. Everything that had happened was rolled out and picked over again. The first anomalies. The rampaging whales. The circumstances leading to the discovery of the worms. It was like watching a rugby match, as arguments were tossed back and forth, then knocked out of play by rhetorical elbows, allowing one side to surge forwards, flanked by the opposition, then thwarted by its tricks. But behind all the manoeuvring was an impulse that Anawak recognised: some people couldn't countenance the existence of a parallel intelligence that challenged the supremacy of mankind. They didn't voice their outrage, but Anawak – versed in debates about animal intelligence – could hear it. An undercurrent of aggression entered the debate. The split caused by Johanson's theory wasn't merely scientific; it created a schism within a group of experts who were, first and foremost, people. Vanderbilt counted Rubin, Frost, Roche, Shankar and a hesitant Peak on his side, while Johanson was backed by Li, Oliviera, Fenwick, Ford, Bohrmann and Anawak. At first the intelligence agents and diplomats looked on in silence, then one by one they joined the scrum.

It was astonishing.

Johanson would never have expected it, but the professional spies, arch-conservative defence advisers and counter-terrorist experts were almost unanimously on his side. One commented, I'm a reasonable kind of guy. If I hear something that seems to make sense, I'm willing to give it the benefit of the doubt. If the alternative explanation has to be pounded into shape before it fits the mould of our experience, it seems to me that it's unlikely to be true.'

Peak was the first to desert from Vanderbilt's team. Frost, Shankar and Roche followed suit.

In the end, an exhausted Vanderbilt suggested they take a break.

They left the room and headed for the buffet, where fresh juice, coffee and cake awaited them. Weaver squeezed in next to Anawak. 'You didn't take much persuading,' she said. 'How come?'

Anawak looked at her and smiled. 'Coffee?'

'Yes, please. And milk.'

He poured it and handed her the cup. Weaver was only marginally smaller than him. Suddenly it struck him that he'd liked her ever since he'd set eyes on her, when he'd seen her on the forecourt of the Chateau.

'I suppose not,' he said. 'It's a well-reasoned theory.'

'Is that all? Or does it have something to do with you believing in animal intelligence?'

'I don't I just believe in intelligence in general. Animals are animals and people are people. If we could prove that dolphins are as intelligent as we are then, logically, they wouldn't be animals.'

'Do you think that's so?'

'No. And if we judge them by human criteria we'll never know. Do you think humans are intelligent?'

Weaver laughed. 'If you're talking about one human, yes… but lots of them together make an unenlightened mob.'

That was his kind of answer. 'Exactly! And the same applies to-'

'Dr Anawak?' One of the intelligence agents was hurrying towards him. 'You're Dr Anawak, aren't you?'

'Yes.'

'You're wanted on the phone.'

Anawak frowned. They weren't directly contactable in the Chateau, but there was a number for relatives to call in case of emergencies. Li had asked the delegates to distribute it with caution. Shoemaker had the number. Did anyone else?

It's in the lobby,' said the man. 'Or would you like me to have the call transferred to your room?'

'No, that's fine. I can come right away.'

'See you later,' Weaver called after him.

He followed the man through the lobby. A row of makeshift telephone booths had been erected in a side aisle.

'Take this one, right here,' said the man. 'I'll get the call put through to you. The phone will ring. Answer it, and you'll be connected with Tofino.'

Shoemaker.

Anawak waited. It rang. He picked up. 'Leon,' said Shoemaker, 'sorry to disturb you. I know you've got important stuff to do but-'

'No problem. Thanks for dinner last night. It was great.'

'Oh, yes… Right. . . Well, I'm afraid this is important too. It's, urn…' Shoemaker sighed. 'Leon, I've got some sad news. We had a call from Cape Dorset.'

It was as though someone had pulled the carpet from under his feet. He knew what was coming.

'Leon, your father's died.'

He stood motionless in the phone booth.

'Leon?'

'It's OK, I…'

But it wasn't OK at all.

LI

'Extra-terrestrials?' The President seemed remarkably composed.

'Not exactly,' said Li. They'd been through this countless times already. 'Not extra-terrestrials, inhabitants of our planet. A rival species, if you like.'

The Chateau was hooked up via satellite link to Offutt Air Force Base. In addition to the President, the delegation in Offutt was made up of the defense secretary, the assistant to the President for National Security Affairs, the secretary of Homeland Security, the secretary of state and the director of the CIA. There could no longer he any doubt that Washington would suffer the same fate as New York. The city had been evacuated, and practically the entire cabinet had decamped to Nebraska. The retreat inland had gone largely to plan: this time they'd been prepared for it.

Li, Vanderbilt and Peak were participating in the briefing from the Chateau. Li could tell that the Offutt contingent loathed being stuck at the air base. The CIA director longed to be back in his office on the sixth floor of the agency's headquarters on the Potomac River. He secretly envied the director of Counter-terrorism who had flatly refused to evacuate his staff.

'Get your people to safety,' he'd ordered him.

'This isn't a natural disaster, this is a planned attack,' the reply had come. 'A terrorist attack. We need those guys in the Global Response Center to stay at their computers and keep working. Their role is crucial. They're our window on terrorism, and they're not going anywhere.'

'New York is under siege from biological killers,' the CIA director had countered. 'Don't you know what's happening there? Washington won't be any different.'

'The Global Response Center wasn't created so that it could close its doors at the critical moment.'

'Sure, but those guys could die.'

'Then they'll die.'

The defense secretary was also wishing himself back in his spacious office at the Pentagon, and the President was by nature the sort of person who had to be held down to prevent him commandeering a plane and flying back to the White House. People could say what they liked about him, but he wasn't a coward. In fact, he was so unflinching that some of his critics suspected he was simply too stupid to experience fear.

Offutt Air Force Base had all the facilities to serve as a seat of government, but they'd had to flee there. And that, Li figured, was why the idea of intelligent oceanic beings had met with instant approbation. The thought of fleeing from a human adversary, whose offensive had left them stymied, was too much of a humiliation for the administration to bear. Johanson's theory cast events in a different light. Retrospectively it cleared the intelligence agents, the Department of Defense and the President of blame.

'So what do you think,' the President asked the council, 'is this possible or not?'

'What I personally believe doesn't matter either way,' the defense secretary said tersely. 'The scientists at the Chateau are the experts. If they think this is the explanation, then we need to take it seriously and consider our next step.'

'Take it seriously?' Vanderbilt echoed incredulously. 'Aliens? Little green men?'

'They're not aliens as such,' Li put in patiently.

'I guess it presents us with an entirely new dilemma,' said the secretary of state. 'Supposing the theory's right. How much do we divulge to the public?'

'To the public?' the CIA director queried. 'Nothing. The whole world would be plunged into chaos.'

'It already is in chaos.'

'That's not the point. The media would hang us out to dry. They'd say we'd gone nuts. They'd never believe us. They wouldn't want to believe us. The existence of another intelligent species would shake the foundations of what it means to be human.'

'That's a religious issue.' The defense secretary made a dismissive gesture. 'Politically speaking, it's irrelevant.'

'Politics are irrelevant,' said Peak. 'There's nothing out there but suffering and fear. You should take a trip to Manhattan and see for yourself. People who've never been to church are praying on their knees.'

The President gazed thoughtfully at the ceiling. 'We need to reflect,' he said, 'on what the Lord's intention might be.'

'With all due respect, sir, I wasn't aware He was part of this council,' said Vanderbilt. 'He isn't even on our side.'

'That's a pretty bad attitude, Jack.' The President frowned.

'Good, bad, what does it matter? I judge an opinion on whether it makes sense. Everyone here seems to think there's some truth to this theory. Which makes me wonder if I'm the dope or-'

'Jack,' the CIA director warned him.

'Oh, I'd be happy to concede that it's me – once I've seen some proof. I'm not going to believe in this gang of bad guys in the water until I've spoken to the little schmucks in person. But until then you need to think seriously before you dismiss the possibility of a large-scale terrorist attack. We can't afford to let down our guard.'

Li laid a hand on his arm. 'Jack, why would terrorists attack us from the depths?'

'To make people like you believe we're being bullied by E.T. And it's working, for Christ's sake – it's actually working.'

'We're not stupid, you know,' the national security adviser said irritably. 'No one's going to let down their guard. Frankly, Vanderbilt, your terrorism obsession isn't going to get us anywhere. We can search all we like for crazed mullahs and stinking rich arch-villains, but in the meantime the continental slope's going to cave in, our cities will be flooded and innocent Americans will die. So what do you suggest we do?

Vanderbilt crossed his arms. He looked like a smoldering Buddha.

'You know what, Jack?' Li said slowly. 'I think you just made a suggestion.'

'Namely?'

'To talk to the little schmucks. Make contact.'

The President pressed his fingertips together. His voice was measured. 'This is a test for all humanity. Perhaps God intended two powerful races to inhabit this planet – maybe the Good Book was right about the horned beast that comes up from the water. "Replenish the Earth, and subdue it." Those were the Lord's instructions, and He didn't give them to any kind of monster in the sea.'

'Hell, no,' grumbled Vanderbilt. 'He preached it to America directly.'

'This could be the final battle in the fight against evil.' The President straightened in his chair. 'And we've been appointed by God to fight for Him – and win.'

'Perhaps,' said Li, seizing on the idea, 'whoever wins this battle will govern the earth.'

Peak gave her a sideways look and said nothing.

'I think we should have a frank discussion with the other NATO states and the EU,' said the secretary of state, 'after which, we'll have to put the UN in the picture.'

Li jumped in: 'Of course, the UN won't be capable of handling this kind of operation, and we'll need to make that clear. Sure, they'll have people with know-how and ideas, and there's no reason why we shouldn't pick their brains. Let's enlist the help of our Asian and African allies as well – that sends out the right kind of message. But this is our chance to position ourselves at the head of the international community. Mankind isn't about to be wiped from the face of the Earth by a meteorite. This is a terrible threat we're facing, but we're going to overcome it – provided we get things right.'

'Have your counter-measures proven successful?' asked the national security adviser.

'We're running an international campaign to find an anti-serum that will protect against the toxins. Initiatives are under way to stop the advance of the crabs, bring a halt to the whale attacks and get rid of the worms – which is proving trickier than expected. We've taken all kinds of measures to contain the risks, but conventional solutions won't be enough. There's nothing we can do about the Gulf Stream, and the methane crisis is beyond our control. We could keep fishing worms out of the ocean in their millions, but if we can't see where they're coming from, there'll always be fresh plagues. Without the capacity to send down divers, probes or subs, we're as good as blind. Anything could be going on down there. In the course of this afternoon I was informed that two large drag nets have been lost near Georges Bank. In addition to that, there's no sign of the three trawlers that we'd dispatched to the Laurentian valley to sweep the seabed. Recon planes are out looking for them, but conditions are terrible. The Grand Banks are to the east of there, and the fog never lifts. Besides, a storm's been raging for the past two days.' She paused. 'There are thousands of other examples I could give you. All the reports coming in bear witness to our failure. OK, so the drone surveillance is working well, and troops with flame-throwers are beating back the crabs – but it's only temporary. They just crawl ashore elsewhere. The fact is, as far as the oceans are concerned, we don't call the shots. We never really called them in the first place, but now…'

'What about the sonar offensive?'

'We're still pressing ahead with it, but we're not anticipating any significant success. The only way we can get it to work is by killing the whales. They don't flee from the noise, as any creature with healthy instincts would do. I guess they're in horrible pain, but they don't have a choice – they're not in control. They're still terrorising the waters.'

'Speaking of control,' said the defense secretary, 'have you identified a strategy?'

I'd say we're looking at a five-point plan. The first step is to clear the waters of all human presence, whether on the surface or in the depths. Step two is to expel or annihilate the coastal population, as with northern Europe. Step three aims to destroy our infrastructure – the offshore industry in northern Europe would he a case in point. The disruption of the fishing industry also falls into this category – it's going to cause us some serious issues with malnutrition, especially in third-world countries. Step four targets the major cities, the pillars of our civilisation – urban populations are forced to retreat inland. And, finally, step five, the climate shifts, and the Earth becomes uninhabitable for our species. It either freezes or floods, warms up or cools down, or maybe all of those – we don't know the details.'

'But wouldn't that make it uninhabitable for the entire animal kingdom?' asked the national security adviser.

'On land, yes. It's fair to say it would wipe out most species of flora and fauna. I've been reliably informed, though, that the same thing happened fifty-five million years ago, with the net result that large numbers of animals and plants died out, making way for other species. They're bound to have thought very carefully about their own survival before precipitating a crisis like this.'

'Such destruction. It's…' The secretary of Homeland Security struggled for words. 'It's so extreme. It's inhuman…'

'Well, they're not human,' Li reminded him.

'What hope do we have of stopping them?'

'We've got to find out who they are,' said Vanderbilt.

Li turned to him. 'Don't tell me you're finally coming round?'

'Oh, I haven't changed my view,' Vanderbilt said evenly, 'but if you identify the purpose of an action, you'll identify the culprit. In this particular instance, I have to admit that the five-point strategy is the most convincing explanation I've heard. Now we need to find out more. Who exactly are they? Where are they? How can we see inside their minds?'

'And how are we going to stop them?' the defense secretary added.

'Evil,' muttered the President, his eyes narrowing. 'How best to vanquish evil?'

'We talk to them,' said Li.

'We make contact?'

'Even the devil's been known to bargain. I don't see any alternative.

Johanson reckons they're trying to keep us busy so we don't have time to think. We're not going to let that happen. We're still in a position to act, so let's find them and make contact. Then we'll strike.'

'You want to launch an offensive against deep-sea organisms?' The secretary of Homeland Security shook his head. 'Dear God.'

'Hold on. Are we all in agreement that we should take this theory seriously?' the director of the CIA asked. 'We're talking about it as though it were fact. Are we really prepared to believe that we share the planet with another intelligent species?'

'Only one species was made in the image of God,' the President said firmly, 'and that was mankind. These creatures may be intelligent, but just how intelligent remains to be seen. And I very much doubt that they've got any intrinsic right to inhabit this planet like we have. There's certainly no mention of them in the scriptures. But the fact that an alien life-form is to blame for all this chaos sounds logical to me.'

'So, going back to my question,' said the secretary of state, 'what are we going to tell the world?'

'It's too early.'

'People are going to ask questions.'

'Then make up some answers. You're a politician, aren't you? If we come right out and tell them there's another intelligent species at the bottom of the sea, we're going to kill them with shock.'

'Incidentally,' said the CIA director, turning to Li, 'how would you like us to refer to these deep-sea deviants?'

Li smiled. 'Johanson had a suggestion. Yrr!

'Yrr?'

'He came up with it by accident. His fingers slipped on the keyboard. He says it's as good a name as any, and I agree.'

'OK, Jude.' The President nodded. 'We'll see how this theory shapes up. We have to keep considering all the possibilities, all the options. And if it turns out that we're fighting a battle against these aliens – yrr or whatever you want to call them – we'll fight them and win. We'll declare war on the yrr.' He looked at the others. This is an opportunity for us. A big opportunity. I want you to use it.'

'With God's blessing,' said Li.

'Amen,' mumbled Vanderbilt.

WEAVER

One of the benefits of staying at the Chateau under military occupation was that nothing was ever closed. None of the usual conventions of the catering trade applied. Li had made it clear that everybody, especially the scientists, would be working day and night, and a T-bone steak at four in the morning might be exactly what they needed.

For the past thirty minutes Weaver had been ploughing up and down the pool. It was well past one in the morning. Now, wrapped in a soft towelling bathrobe, with bare feet and wet hair, she padded across the lobby on her way towards the elevators. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Leon Anawak sitting at the hotel bar, which struck her as an unlikely place to find him. Perched forlornly on a stool and eyeing an untouched glass of Coke, he was dipping into a bowl of peanuts, picking one up, then letting it drop.

There'd been no sign of him since their conversation that morning. Maybe he didn't want to be disturbed. A bustle of activity filled the lobby and the adjoining rooms, but the bar was virtually empty. Two men in dark suits were sitting in a corner, talking in hushed tones, while a woman in combats stared at a screen. The west-coast music in the background gave the scene an air of inconsequential ordinariness.

Anawak looked unhappy.

She was just thinking that it might be best to go back to her suite when she found herself walking towards him. Her damp feet left tracks on the parquet floor. 'Hi.'

Anawak turned, his eyes empty.

She stopped. It was the easiest thing in the world to encroach on someone's private space and earn yourself a reputation for interfering. She leaned against the bar and drew the bathrobe closer. There were two stools between them.

'Hi,' said Anawak. His eyes shifted. At last he seemed to see her.

She smiled. 'What. . . urn, what are you doing?' Stupid question. 'You disappeared this morning.'

'Yeah, I'm sorry.'

'Oh, no, don't apologise,' she said. 'I didn't want to disturb you. I just saw you sitting here and I thought-'

Something was wrong. It would be wise to leave him to it.

Anawak roused himself from his paralysis. He reached for his glass, picked it up and put it down again. His eyes moved to the stool beside him. 'Would you like a drink?' he asked.

'Are you sure I'm not disturbing you?'

'No, really, it's fine.' He hesitated. 'My name's Leon – Leon Anawak.'

'I'm Karen. Bailey's on ice, please.'

Anawak summoned the barman and ordered her drink. She took a step closer, but didn't sit down. Her wet hair sent droplets of cold water trickling down her neck and between her breasts. She should drink up and leave, she thought. 'So, how're things?' she asked, and sipped.

Anawak's brow furrowed. 'I'm not sure.'

'Not sure?'

'No. My father died.'

Shit. 'What was wrong with him?' she asked cautiously.

'No idea.'

'You mean the doctors don't know yet?'

'I don't know yet' He shook his head. 'I'm not even sure I want to know.'

He fell silent for a while. Then he said, 'I was in the woods this afternoon, walking. I was out there for hours, trying to… feel something. I thought, there has to be some kind of emotion that goes with a situation like this. But I just felt sorry for myself. He looked her in the eye. 'Do you ever get that feeling, like wherever you are you want to be somewhere else? And then suddenly you realise that it isn't you that wants to get away – the place you're in is pushing you away, telling you, you don't belong there. But it won't tell you where you do belong, so you have to keep running.'

She ran a finger round the rim of her glass. 'I guess you didn't have a very good relationship with your father, then.'

'I didn't have a relationship with him at all.'

'Really?' Weaver frowned.

Anawak shrugged. 'How about you?' he asked. 'What do your parents do?'

'They're dead.'

'Oh… I'm sorry.'

'It's OK. You couldn't have known. They died when I was ten. A diving accident off the coast of Australia. I was in the hotel when it happened. They got caught in a rip. They were experienced divers, but, well… you can never tell with the sea.'

'Did anyone ever find them?'

'No.'

'How did you cope?'

'For a while it was pretty tough. I'd had an amazing childhood. My parents were teachers and loved the water. We went sailing in the Maldives, scuba-diving in the Red Sea, cave diving in the Yucatan. We even dived in Scotland and Iceland. Of course, they never went too deep when I was with them, but there was plenty for me to see. They only left me behind if the dive was going to be dangerous – and then, one day, they never came back.' She smiled. 'But, hey, I turned out OK in the end.'

'True.' He smiled back.

Then he slid off his stool. 'I should probably get some sleep. I'm flying out for the funeral tomorrow.' He hesitated. 'Good night. . . and thanks.'

SHE SAT THERE, looking at her half-drunk Bailey's, remembering her parents and how the hotel staff had come to find her. She had to be brave, the manager had said.

She swished the liquid in her glass. Anawak didn't know just how tough it had been. How her grandmother had tried to look after the disturbed, fearful little girl, whose sorrow had vented itself in rage. At school her grades went downhill, and so did her behaviour. Then there was the bunking off class and bumming around on the streets, smoking her first joint, hanging out with punks, drinking herself into a stupor, and sleeping with anyone who was interested – which they always were. Nicking stuff, being expelled from school, the backstreet abortion, hard drugs, the young offenders' institute. Six months in a home for problem kids. Then all the piercings, the shaved head, the scars. Her mind and her body had been a battleground.

But the accident had done nothing to diminish her love for the sea. The water seemed to exercise a dark fascination, calling to her and summoning her to the depths. It beckoned to her so powerfully that one night she had hitched a lift to Brighton and swum away from the shore. Then, when the lights of the town were almost swallowed by the oily blackness of the moonlit water, she had allowed herself to sink beneath the surface.

Drowning wasn't easy.

She'd floated in the dark waters of the Channel, holding her breath as her heartbeats thundered in her ears. But instead of sapping the life from her body, the sea was showing her: look, see how strong your heart is. She'd shot up to the surface and out of the nightmare that had begun when she was ten years old. A cutter was sailing nearby and picked her up. She was taken to hospital with severe hypothermia. There, she began to make plans for the future. After she'd been discharged, she stared at her body in the mirror for an hour, and decided she never wanted to look like that again. She removed the piercings, stopped shaving her head, tried to do ten press-ups and collapsed. After a week she could do twenty.

She put all her strength into trying to win back what she had lost. They allowed her to return to school on the condition that she saw a therapist. She agreed. She showed them that she was disciplined and eager to learn, and read everything she could lay hands on, especially if it was about the environment and the oceans. She jogged, swam, boxed and climbed, trying to eradicate the last traces of the lost time, until there was no sign of the scrawny, hollow-eyed girl she'd once been. She finished school at nineteen, a year older than her classmates but with perfect grades and a body like a sculpture of an ancient Greek athlete. She began a degree in biology and sport.

Karen Weaver was a new person.

With an ancient longing.

In order to better understand the workings of the world, she took a course in computing. The idea of programming computers to model complex changes intrigued her, and she persisted until she knew how to model oceanic and atmospheric change. Her first big project was a comprehensive report on ocean currents. It didn't add anything to existing research, but it was an intelligent piece of work: a homage to two people she'd loved and lost. She set up her own media business deepbluesea, and wrote for Science and National Geographic. Popular science magazines gave her regular columns to fill, which attracted the attention of research institutes, whose scientists needed a voice to convey their ideas. She was invited along on expeditions. She dived to the Titanic in MIR, visited the hydrothermal vents in the depths of the Atlantic with Alvin, and took the Polarstern to visit the over-winterers in the Antarctic. She went everywhere, making the most of every opportunity, because since that night in the Channel she had never felt fear. She wasn't afraid of anyone or anything.

Except of being alone. Sometimes.

Now she looked at herself in the mirror on the wall of the bar, wrapped in a bathrobe, looking a little lost.

She knocked back the Bailey's and made her way to bed.

14 May

Anawak

His decision to make the trip hadn't come easily, and even then there'd been no guarantee that Li would let him leave. As it happened, she'd practically forced him to go. 'If you stay here, you'll never forgive yourself. Family comes first in life. It's the only thing you can count on. Make sure we can contact you, that's all I ask.'

Now, sitting in the plane, he wondered why Li was so eager to sing the praises of kinship. He couldn't share her enthusiasm.

The man sitting next to him, a climatologist from Massachusetts, began to snore. Anawak tilted back his seat and looked out of the window. He'd been alone with his thoughts for hours. From Vancouver he'd flown on one of Air Canada's Boeings to Toronto Pearson airport, where a long line of planes was waiting for takeoff. A violent storm had descended over Toronto, bringing air traffic to a temporary halt. To Anawak it had seemed like an omen. Waiting anxiously in the departure lounge, he'd watched as the planes were hooked up one by one to concertinaed walkways. Finally, after a two-hour delay, his flight had left for Montreal.

From there, everything had gone smoothly. He'd stayed overnight at a Holiday Inn near Dorval airport, then returned first thing in the morning to the departure lounge. At last there were signs that he was entering a different world. A group of men with steaming coffee cups were standing by a plate-glass window, their overalls emblazoned with the logo of an oil company. Two had faces like Anawak's: wide cheekbones, dark skin and Mongolian eyes. Outside on the airfield, enormous pallets trussed with netting were being loaded into the belly of the Canadian North Airlines Boeing 737. The lifting ramp was still shunting them into the aeroplane when the boarding call went out. They crossed the airfield on foot and climbed the steps at the tail. The seating area was limited to the front third of the plane; the rest of the space was given over to storage.

For more than two hours now Anawak had been in transit. From time to time the plane juddered. For most of the journey they'd been looking down on thick plains of cloud, but now, as they approached Hudson Strait, the grey mass of vapour parted to reveal the dark brown landscape of the tundra below, mountainous and jagged, with snow-fields and ice floes drifting on the lakes. Then the coast came into view. Hudson Strait passed beneath them, and Anawak knew he was crossing the frontier. A rush of emotions flooded through him, sweeping away his torpor. In every venture there was always a point of no return. Strictly speaking, that point had been Montreal, but symbolically it was Hudson Strait. Across the water was a world to which he'd sworn never to return.

Anawak was on his way to the country of his birth, to his homeland on the edge of the Arctic Circle – to Nunavut.

He stared out of the window, willing himself not to think. After thirty minutes the water gave way to land and then to a shiny frozen expanse, Frobisher Bay, cutting deep into the south-eastern tip of Baffin Island. The plane banked to the right, descending rapidly. A bright yellow building with a stumpy tower appeared in the window. It looked like a lone human outpost on an alien planet, although it was actually the airport, the way into Iqaluit, 'place of many fish', Nunavut's capital.

The plane touched down and taxied slowly to a halt.

It wasn't long before Anawak's luggage appeared. He hoisted the heavy rucksack on to his back and made his way through the terminal, passing a display of wall coverings and soapstone sculptures promoting Inuit art. In the middle of the building a giant figure, sturdily built, clad in boots and traditional attire, held a fiat drum above his head in one hand and a drumstick in the other. It exuded vigour and self-assurance. Anawak stopped to read the inscription: 'Throughout the Arctic there is drum dancing and throat singing when the people come together.' He went to the First Air ticket counter and checked in his rucksack for the flight to Cape Dorset. The woman at the desk informed him that it was delayed by an hour. 'Maybe you've still got some errands to run in town,' she said, with a smile.

Anawak hesitated. 'Er, no, actually. I don't know my way around.'

She looked surprised. She was clearly wondering how someone whose appearance identified him as an Inuk could be unfamiliar with the capital. 'There's plenty to see,' she suggested. 'You should wander into town. There's the Nunatta-Sunaqutangit Museum. It has a wonderful collection of traditional and contemporary art.'

'Uh… sure.'

'Or you could try the Unikkaarvik Visitor Center. And it's well worth stopping off at the Anglican church. It's the only church in the world to look like an igloo.'

She was an Inuk, small with a black fringe and a ponytail. Her eyes shone as a smile spread over her face. 'I could have sworn you came from Iqaluit,' she said.

'No.' For a moment he was tempted to say that he came from Cape Dorset 'Vancouver, actually.'

'Oh, I love Vancouver,' she exclaimed.

Anawak glanced round, worried that he was holding up the queue, but he seemed to be the only person on the onward flight that day. 'You've been there?'

'No, but I've seen the pictures on the web. It's a beautiful city.' She laughed. 'A bit bigger than Iqaluit, I guess.'

He smiled back. 'I'd say so.'

'But Iqaluit's bigger than it used to be. We've got six thousand inhabitants and we're growing all the time. Soon we'll be the size of Vancouver – well, almost anyway. You'll have to excuse me.'

A man and a woman had appeared behind him. He wouldn't be flying alone. He said goodbye and disappeared outside, in case she took it into her head to give him a tour of the city.

Iqaluit.

It was all so long ago. Some things looked familiar, but he had no recollection of most of what he saw. The clouds seemed to have stayed behind in Montreal, and now the sun shone down from a steel-blue sky, making it pleasantly warm. It was at least ten degrees, thought Anawak, and felt overdressed. He pulled off his down jacket and tied it round his waist, then trudged along the dusty road. There was a surprising amount of traffic. He couldn't remember there being so many four-by-fours and ATVs, small multi-axial buggies ridden like motorbikes. The street was lined with timber houses built in characteristic Arctic style with little stilts to raise them off the ground. Any building that rested directly on the tundra would melt the permafrost and start to sink.

As Anawak made his way through the town, he couldn't help thinking that God's hand must have descended over Iqaluit, shaking a clutch of buildings like dice and scattering them at random. Gigantic edifices made of windowless harsh white panels loomed up like abstract cubist structures among olive-green or rusty-red barracks. The school resembled a marooned UFO. Some of the houses glowed in deep shades of petrol blue or aquamarine. Towards the centre of town he came across the Commissioner's House, a cross between a cosy country villa and a space dome for astronauts. He tried to remain detached from his surroundings, but since the seaplane accident he had lost the ability to cloak himself in indifference. The crazy architectural hotchpotch conveyed nonchalance, even merriment, that he couldn't shut out.

The depressive Iqaluit of the seventies had vanished. People seemed friendly, greeting him in Inuktitut. He responded tersely. Without stopping he walked through the streets for an hour, popping in briefly to the Unikkaarvik Visitor Center, which boasted an even larger sculpture of a drum dancer.

When he was a kid, there'd been plenty of drum dancing. But that was a long time ago, when things were still OK… if they ever had been.

He went out on to the street where the glaring sunshine was oppressively hot. He passed to the right of the Anglican church – a stone igloo with a spire – then went back to the terminal where he sat down on a bench with a newspaper. With the exception of the couple, no one else was waiting for the flight. He held up the newspaper to cut himself off from the world and skimmed the articles without absorbing their content, then tossed it aside.

Eventually the young woman from the ticket desk came to collect them. They filed out through a side door, then walked on to the aircraft manoeuvring area, where a small twin-engined propeller plane, a Piper, was waiting. Anawak and his fellow passengers climbed the two steps to the cramped interior. There were only six seats. All the baggage had been stashed under netting at the rear of the plane. The cockpit led straight in to the cabin without any partition. They taxied on to the runway, waited for another Piper to land, then took a short, fast run-up and lifted off shakily. The terminal shrank and vanished, Frobisher Bay glittering far below. They flew west over mountains carved by glaciers and capped with snowfields and ice sheets. To their left, rays of sunshine glistened on Hudson Strait, while to the right, they sparkled on a lake, whose name Anawak suddenly remembered: Amadjuak.

They had gone there sometimes.

It was coming back to him at giddying speed. The memories appeared before him like silhouettes in a snowstorm, drawing him into the past, where he didn't want to go.

The terrain levelled out, then gave way to water. The flight continued over the sea for twenty minutes, until Rigged land reappeared through the cockpit window. The seven islands of Tellik Inlet came into view. A thin line cut into one of the islands: Cape Dorset runway.

They touched down.

Anawak felt his heart spring forward. He was home. As the Piper taxied slowly towards the terminal, he felt loath to get out.

Cape Dorset, capital of Inuit art and home to 1200 people: the New York of the north, as it was half jokingly, half admiringly called.

That was the modern Cape Dorset.

Back then things had been different.

Cape Dorset: Kinngait, or 'high mountain' in the Inuit tongue, was situated in the Sikusiilaq region, 'where no ice ever forms on the sea', so-named because even in the harshest winter, temperate currents prevented the water freezing round Foxe Peninsula on the south-west extremity of Baffin Island. Names flooded back. Mallikjuaq, a tiny island near Cape Dorset, a nature reserve full of marvels – fox-traps from the nineteenth century, ruins from ancient Thule culture, burial sites that were the source of countless legends, and a romantic lake where they had camped. Anawak remembered the stone kayak-stands. He'd loved it there. Then he pictured his parents, and remembered what had driven him out of Nunavut, when it was still part of the Northwest Territories and didn't have its own name.

He picked up his rucksack and clambered out of the plane.

A man ran over to greet the couple. The reunion was effusive, but that was nearly always the way: the Inuit had any number of words for 'welcome', but none for 'farewell'. No one had bidden Anawak farewell when he'd taken his leave nineteen years previously, not even the weather-beaten old man who was left standing alone on the airfield as the trio of friends moved noisily away. For a moment Anawak had difficulty recognising him. Ijitsiaq Akesuk had aged noticeably and now sported a thin grey moustache on his once clean-shaven face. But it was him. The creased face widened into grin. He hurried towards Anawak and threw his arms round him. A stream of Inuktitut words spilled from his lips.

Then he switched into English. 'Leon, my child. What a handsome young scientist you are.'

Anawak let him finish embracing him, and thumped Akesuk halfheartedly on the back. 'Uncle Iji. How are you?'

'Oh, as well as can be expected, considering the occasion. Did you have a good flight? You must have been travelling for days – all those places you must have been just to get here…'

'I had to change planes a few times.'

'Toronto? Montreal?' Akesuk let go of him and beamed. Like many of the Inuit, he had gaps in his top teeth. 'Montreal. You travel a lot, don't you? What a joy. You'll have to tell me all about it. You'll stay with us, now, won't you? We've got everything ready for you. Is that all your luggage?'

'Er, Uncle Iji-'

'Iji – you're too old for "uncle" now.'

'I booked a hotel.'

Akesuk took a step back. 'Which one?'

'The Polar Lodge.'

There was fleeting disappointment on the old man's face, but then he beamed. 'We can cancel it. I know the manager. No problem.'

'I don't want to put you to any trouble,' said Anawak. I only came to bury my father in the ice, he thought, and then to get the hell out of here.

'It's no trouble,' said Akesuk. 'You're my nephew. How long are you staying?'

'Two nights. I thought that would be enough, right?'

Akesuk frowned. He took Anawak's arm and pulled him through the airport. 'We'll talk about that later. Aren't you hungry?'

'Very.'

'Excellent. Mary-Ann's made caribou stew and a seal soup with rice. A real feast. When was the last time you had seal soup, hmm?'

Anawak allowed himself to be whisked away. A line of vehicles was parked outside the airport and Akesuk headed purposefully towards a truck.

'Throw your rucksack in the back. Do you remember Mary-Ann? Of course you don't. You'd already left by the time she moved out here from Salluit. We got married. I hated being alone. She's younger than me – which isn't a bad thing, I might tell you. Are you married? Goodness me, there's so much to talk about after all these years.'

Anawak shuffled around on the passenger seat. Akesuk seemed determined to talk him into submission. He tried to remember if the old man had always been so chatty. Then it occurred to him that his uncle might be feeling as nervous as he was. One retreated into silence; the other talked.

They trundled along the high street. The hills cut right through Cape Dorset, dividing it into hamlets. In addition to the main hamlet of Kinngait, there was Itjurittuq in the north-east, Kuugalaaq in the west and Muliujaq in the south. Kuugalaaq had been their home. Akesuk, his mother's brother, had lived in Kinngait.

Anawak wondered whether he still lived there.

They seemed to be driving through the entire town and his uncle commented on almost every building. Suddenly it dawned on Anawak that Akesuk was giving him a tour. 'Uncle Iji, I know all these places,' he protested.

'Rubbish! You've been away for nineteen years. All kinds of things have changed. Do you remember that supermarket?'

'No.'

'You see? It wasn't there back then. It's new. There's an even bigger one now. We always used to go to the Polar Supply Store – you can't have forgotten that, surely. That's our new school. Well, I guess it's been there a while now, but it's new to you. See that, on the right? The Tiktaliktaq community hall. You wouldn't believe all the important people who've come here to hear the throat singing and drum dancing. Bill Clinton, Jacques Chirac, Helmut Kohl. Kohl was a giant- he made us look like dwarfs. Now when was that? Let me see…'

And so it went on. They drove past the Anglican church and the cemetery where his father was to be buried. Anawak saw an Inuk woman crouching outside her house, working on a sculpture. The enormous stone bird reminded him of Nootka art. A two-storey blue-grey building with a futuristic lobby turned out to be the hamlet office. Nunavut's decentralised administration meant that any decent-sized community had its own council office. Anawak resigned himself to his fate, not least because he realised that the Cape Dorset of his childhood was nothing-like the place before him.

Suddenly he heard himself say, 'Let's go to the harbour, Uncle Iji.'

Akesuk turned the wheel briskly. They sped down a steep road in the direction of the sea. Timber houses in all sizes and colours were dotted in no apparent order over the dark brown landscape. A few patches of hardy tundra grass were scattered here and there, with the occasional stretch of snow. Cape Dorset's harbour consisted of little more than a wharf and some loading cranes where, once or twice a year, the supply ship would dock with its vital cargo of goods. Not far from there you could walk across the tidal flats of Tellik Inlet at low tide to get to the neighbouring island, Mallikjuaq, the territorial park with its burial sites, and the kayak-stand, and the lake where they used to pitch camp.

They stopped. Anawak got out, walked along the wharf and stared out across the blue polar water. Akesuk followed him a little way, then let him go on alone.

The view of the wharf had been Anawak's last glimpse of Cape Dorset before he left – not on the plane but on the supply ship. He'd been twelve. The ship had carried him away with his new family, who were leaving the country full of hope and excitement about the new world ahead of them, while mourning the paradise in the ice that had long since been lost.

After five minutes he walked slowly back to the truck and climbed in without a word.

'Yes, the old harbour,' Akesuk said softly. 'Our harbour. I'll never forget it. The way you left, Leon. It broke our hearts…'

Anawak looked at him sharply. 'Whose hearts?' he asked.

'Well, your-'

'My father's? Yours? The people down the street?'

Akesuk started the engine. 'Come on,' he said. 'Let's go home.'

AKESUK STILL LIVED in the same little house in the settlement. With its light blue walls and dark blue roof, it was attractive and well tended. The hills rose behind it, stretching for several kilometres until they reached their apex in Kinngait, the 'high mountain', whose rock was scarred with veins of snow. It looked more like a landscape of sculpted marble than a high mountain. In Anawak's memory the Kinngait range towered into the sky, but the comb of rock in the distance invited competent hikers to explore it on foot.

Akesuk went to the back of the truck and hauled down the rucksack. Although he was slight, he didn't seem to notice the weight. He held it in one hand and opened the door with the other. 'Mary-Ann,' he called, 'he's here!'

A puppy made its way unsteadily to the door. Akesuk stepped over it and disappeared into the house, returning seconds later with a plump woman, whose friendly face was propped on an imposing double chin. She hugged Anawak and greeted him in Inuktitut.

'Mary-Ann can't speak English,' Akesuk said apologetically. 'I hope you haven't forgotten your language.'

'My language is English,' said Anawak.

'Well, yes, it is now, of course.'

'I still understand a fair bit, though – enough to know what she's saying.'

Mary-Ann was asking if he was hungry.

He answered in Inuktitut, and she smiled, then picked up the dog, which was sniffing at Anawak's boots, and made signs for him to follow. There was a line of footwear in the hall. Anawak bent down automatically to remove his.

'I see you've still got your manners,' his uncle joked. "They haven't turned you into a qallunaaq.'

Anawak glanced down at himself, then followed Mary-Ann into the kitchen. He saw a modern electric cooker and gadgets of the kind used in any well-equipped household in Vancouver. It was worlds away from the impoverished state of his family's old home. Next to the window was a circular dining-table, then a door leading out on to the balcony. Akesuk exchanged a few words with his wife, then pushed Anawak into a cosily furnished lounge. A cluster of heavy armchairs were grouped round a stack of equipment, including a TV set, video recorder, radio and CB transmitter. The kitchen was visible through a hatch. Akesuk showed him the bathroom, then the laundry and the larder at the back, the bedroom and a little room with a single bed and a vase of fresh flowers on the bedside table. Arctic poppies, saxifrage and heather.

'Mary-Ann picked them,' said Akesuk. It sounded like an invitation for him to make himself at home.

'Thank you, but I… I think it would be better if I stayed at the hotel.'

He expected his uncle to be hurt, but Akesuk regarded him thoughtfully. 'Would you like a drink?' he said.

'I don't drink.'

'Nor do I. We usually have fruit juice with our meal. Would that suit?'

'Yes, please.'

Akesuk poured two glasses, and they took their drinks to the balcony.

His uncle lit a cigarette. Mary-Ann had announced that the dinner wouldn't be ready for at least another quarter of an hour.

I'm not allowed to smoke in the house,' said Akesuk. 'That's what happens when you marry. I'd smoked in the house all my life. But I guess it's better this way. Smoking isn't good for you, but it's hard to give up…' He laughed and drew the smoke into his lungs with obvious pleasure. 'Let me guess. You don't smoke, boy, do you?'

'No.'

'And you don't drink. That's good.'

For a while they gazed out at the mountain ridge with its gullies of snow. Wisps of cloud shimmered high above, while ivory gulls soared in the sky then swooped down.

'How did he die?' Anawak asked.

'Dropped dead,' said Akesuk. 'We were on the land. He saw a hare and started to chase it. He just collapsed.'

'You brought him back?'

'His body.'

'Did he drink himself to death?' Even Anawak was shocked by the bitterness in his voice. Akesuk gazed past him towards the mountains and wreathed himself in smoke.

'He had a heart-attack. That's what the doctor said in Iqaluit. He didn't do enough exercise and he smoked too much. He hadn't touched a drop in ten years.'

THE CARIBOU STEW WAS DELICIOUS. It tasted of his childhood. Seal soup, on the other hand, had never appealed to him, but he took a large helping. Mary-Ann watched in satisfaction. Anawak did his best to revive his Inuktitut, but the result was embarrassing: he kept stumbling over the words, so they talked mainly in English, discussing the events of the past few weeks, the rampaging whales, the catastrophe in Europe, and all the other news that had penetrated as far as Nunavut. Akesuk assumed the role of interpreter. He tried to steer the conversation to Anawak's father, but Anawak refused to be drawn. The burial would take place in the late afternoon at the little Anglican cemetery. The dead were buried quickly at this time of year, but in winter they were stored in a hut near the graveyard until the ground was soft enough to dig. The bodies kept for a surprisingly long time in the natural chill of the Arctic, but the hut had to be guarded with a gun. The lands of Nunavut were wild: wolves and polar bears had no qualms about eating humans, dead or alive, especially when they were hungry.

After their meal Anawak decamped to the Polar Lodge. Akesuk didn't try to persuade him to stay. He fetched the flowers from the little bedroom and put them on the table. 'You can always change your mind,' he said.

TWO HOURS REMAINED until the funeral. Anawak didn't leave his room, just lay on the bed and tried to sleep. He didn't know what else to do. Of course, there were plenty of things he could have done. He could have found someone to take him to Mallikjuaq, or maybe walked there himself. Tellik Inlet was still frozen and would have carried his weight. Or he could have asked Akesuk. No doubt he would have been delighted to drag him around half of Cape Dorset and introduce him to everyone personally. In Inuit settlements everyone was family, either by blood or marriage, and a tour of Cape Dorset, the capital of Inuit art, would be like wandering round a vast exhibition. But to be shown round by Akesuk would have been too much like the return of the prodigal son, and he didn't want anyone thinking that this was a homecoming. He was determined to maintain a safe distance. Allowing this world to get close to him would reopen old wounds. So instead he lay motionless on his bed, boring holes in the ceiling, until he finally dozed off.

His alarm clock roused him from his slumber.

As he stepped out of the Polar Lodge, the sun was already sinking on the horizon, but the sky was still bright. Across the frozen inlet, he saw Mallikjuaq, only a stone's throw across the ice. The lodge was on the north-east periphery of Cape Dorset, and the cemetery was on the other side of town. Anawak looked at his watch. Plenty of time. He'd arranged to meet Akesuk and drive to the church in the truck. Next to the Lodge, on the street leading down to the sea, was the Polar Supply Store. On closer inspection Anawak realised that the shop also offered a delivery service, vehicle hire and car repairs. The building seemed familiar, but the sign was new, and when Anawak walked in he didn't recognise the men behind the counter. They weren't local. The shop was cosy and cluttered on the inside, and sold practically everything from dried caribou sausages to fur-lined boots. Towards the back there were stacks of prints and numerous sculptures. It wasn't his world.

He went back out and wandered down the street towards town. An old man was sitting in front of his house on a wooden pallet, working on a sculpture of a loon. A little further down the road a woman was carving a falcon in white marble. They greeted him, and Anawak continued on his way, feeling their eyes on his back. The news of his arrival must have spread like wildfire. There wasn't any need for anyone to introduce him: they all knew that the son of Manumee Anawak had arrived in Cape Dorset to bury his father. No doubt he'd already set tongues wagging by staying at the Lodge instead of at his uncle's house.

Akesuk was waiting for him. It was only a few hundred metres to the Anglican church, but they drove. A crowd had gathered outside. Anawak asked if the people were there because of his father. Akesuk was astonished. 'Of course. Why else would they come?'

'I didn't know that he had… that he had so many friends.'

'These are the people he lived with. What does it matter if they were his friends? When a man dies, they all go with him on the final stage of the journey.'

THE BURIAL WAS short and unsentimental. Anawak had been obliged to shake hands with everyone before the ceremony. People whom he'd never set eyes on embraced him. The priest read from the Bible and said a prayer, then the body was lowered into a shallow hole, just deep enough to accommodate the coffin. A layer of blue plastic was placed on top, and the men dropped stones into the grave. The cross was askew in the hard ground, like all the other crosses in the graveyard. Akesuk pressed a small wooden box with a glass lid into Anawak's hands. Inside were some faded artificial flowers, a packet of cigarettes and a metal-capped bear's tooth. His uncle gave him a little shove, and Anawak walked obediently to the grave and set the box beside the cross.

Akesuk had asked whether he'd wanted to see his father one last time, but Anawak had declined. While the priest was still speaking, he tried to picture the man inside the coffin. It was hard to believe that anyone was in there at all. Suddenly he realised that the dead man would never do anything wrong again: his father was gone forever. Guilt and innocence stopped mattering. Whatever he'd done or failed to do in his lifetime became meaningless now that his plain coffin was surrounded by cold earth. For Anawak it had long since ceased to matter anyway. The old man had been dead to him for so many years that the burial seemed an overdue formality.

He'd stopped trying to make himself feel anything. All he wanted was to leave. To go home. Where was home? As the congregation began to sing, he experienced a sense of isolation. He was shivering, but it had nothing to do with the cold. He had thought of home and meant Vancouver or Tofino, but now he saw that it wasn't true.

Anawak was staring into a black hole. His field of vision narrowed, and the world spun. Darkness swept over him, as powerful and inevitable as a wave. He was like an animal in a trap, forced to watch as the dark rushed towards him.

'Leon.'

Panic coursed through him.

'Leon!'

Akesuk had grabbed his arm. Anawak stared in confusion at the wrinkled face and grey moustache.

'Is everything OK, boy?'

'No problem,' he murmured.

'Good God, you can barely keep upright,' Akesuk said, full of sympathy. The mourners turned.

'I'm OK, thanks, Iji.'

He could see what the others were thinking – and they couldn't have been more wrong. They assumed that it was part of the ritual of bereavement. There was nothing unusual about collapsing at the grave of a loved one – even if you were an Inuk and too proud to let anything break your will.

Except maybe alcohol and drugs.

Anawak felt nauseous.

He turned and strode across the graveyard. When he reached the church and felt the road beneath his feet, he felt an urge to run; but he didn't Heart pounding, he paced up and down. He wouldn't have known where to run to. None of the roads was marked for him.

HE HAD AN EARLY dinner at the Polar Lodge. Mary-Ann had prepared a meal for them, but Anawak had told his uncle that he wanted to be on his own. The old man had nodded briefly and dropped him at the hotel. There had been a sadness in his eyes that wasn't inspired by the thought of his nephew in silent communion with his father, as Anawak had led him to believe.

Hours went by, and Anawak lay on one of the twin beds in his room, staring at the TV. How could he survive another day in Cape Dorset without the memories overwhelming him? He'd booked the room for two nights because he'd assumed there'd be a will and other paperwork to deal with, but Akesuk had taken care of that already. There was no need for him to stay.

He decided to cancel the second night. He was bound to be able to get a flight to Iqaluit and, with a bit of luck, there'd be a spare seat on the plane to Montreal. From there he didn't care how long he had to wait for his connection. There was plenty to see in Montreal, and it was far enough from this hellhole at the end of the earth…

ANAWAK WAS DREAMING. He was in a plane, circling Vancouver, waiting for permission to land, but the control tower wouldn't let them. The pilot turned to him.

'They're not going to let us land. Vancouver and Tofino are out of the question.'

'Why?' yelped Anawak.

'We've made our enquiries. You don't live anywhere near here. We've got no record of a Leon Anawak. Ground Control says I have to take you home. Where do you want me to go?'

'I don't know.'

'You must know where your home is.'

'Down there.'

'Fine.'

The plane dipped, then banked around again. The city lights came into view, but only a scattering, too few for Vancouver. This wasn't Vancouver. There were ice floes drifting on dark water, and a marble mountain range beyond the town.

They were landing in Cape Dorset.

Suddenly he was in his childhood home, and there was a celebration – his birthday. Some of the local kids had been invited, and his father suggested a race in the snow. He gave Anawak an enormous package tied clumsily together. It was his only present, and it was precious, he said. 'You'll find everything in there that you'll need in life,' he explained. 'But you must carry it with you while we're running.'

Anawak tried to balance the enormous parcel on his head, steadying it with both hands. They went outside, and as the white snow glistened in the darkness, a voice whispered to him that he had to win the race or the others would kill him. At night they were wolves and would rip him to pieces. He had to reach the water first, had to run before they caught him.

Anawak began to weep. He cursed his birthday, because he knew that soon he would grow up, and he didn't want to grow up and be torn to pieces. Digging his fingers into the parcel, he started to run. The snow was deep and he sank into it. It reached his hips, scarcely allowing him to move. He glanced back but no one was running with him. He was on his own. Only his parents' house was visible behind him, with the door closed and the lights out. A cold moon shone down from above, and suddenly it was deathly still.

Anawak wondered whether he should return to the house, but everyone seemed to have left. It looked eerie and forbidding-. There was no one to be seen in the frozen moonlit night, and not a sound. He remembered the wolves, waiting to eat him alive. Were they in the house? Had the party ended in a bloodbath? It didn't seem possible. In a mysterious way Cape Dorset and the house seemed to defy the laws of nature. This was where they had gathered for his birthday; but now it was a distant future or an even more distant past. Or maybe time had stood still and he was looking at a frozen universe hostile to life.

Fear won out. He turned away from the house and trudged towards the water. The wharf belonging to the real Cape Dorset had vanished, and the ice led directly to the sea. His parcel was getting smaller all the time, so small that he could carry it in one hand, and in a few steps he was at the edge.

Rays of moonlight shimmered on the dark waves and the drifting slabs of ice. The sky was studded with stars. Someone was calling his name. The faint voice was coming from a snowdrift, and Anawak moved forward until he was close enough to see. Two bodies, dusted with snow, lay side by side. His parents. They were staring at the sky with empty eyes.

I'm a grown-up now, he thought. It's time to open the parcel.

He examined it on the palm of his hand.

It was tiny. He began to unwrap it, but there was nothing inside, only paper. He tore away the crinkled sheets, discarding layer after layer, until the parcel was gone and so were the fallen bodies of his parents, leaving him alone on the edge of the ice, with the dark waves beyond.

A mighty hump parted the water and sank down.

Anawak turned his head slowly. He saw a small, shabby house, a shack made of corrugated iron. The door was open.

His home.

No, he thought. No! Tears came to his eyes. This wasn't right. This couldn't be his life. It wasn't where he belonged. It couldn't end like this.

He crouched in the snow and stared at the hut, weeping uncontrollably, in the grip of a nameless misery. His sobs almost burst his chest, echoing in the sky, filling the world with lamentation, a world in which no one existed but him.

No. No!

Then the light.

ANAWAK SAT UPRIGHT IN BED. The display on his alarm clock read 2:30 a.m. His tongue was sticking to his palate so he got up and went to the mini-bar. He reached for a Coke, opened it and drank. Then, clutching the can, he went to the window, opened the curtains and looked out.

The hotel was on a hill overlooking Kinngait and parts of the neighbouring hamlets. It was a clear and cloudless night and a nocturnal half-light steeped the houses, tundra, snowfields and sea in an improbable shade of reddish-gold. It was never truly dark at this time of year: the contours just softened and the colours mellowed.

All of a sudden he saw its beauty. He looked in wonder at the sky, then let his eyes roam over the mountains and the bay. The frozen seascape of Tellik Inlet shimmered like molten silver, while Mallikjuaq Island rose up from the water like a slumbering whale.

What now?

He remembered how he had felt at the Station with Shoemaker and Delaware, his sense of alienation, from Davie's, Tofino, and everything around him. How he had seemed to be missing some inner space to protect him from the world. Something decisive had been on the horizon, of that he had been certain. He had waited, elated and fearful, as though an extraordinary change would sweep over him.

Instead his father had died.

Was that it, then? The event that would change everything? His return to the Arctic to bury his father?

He had far greater challenges to deal with. Right now he was facing one of the greatest that mankind had ever seen. Just him and a few other people. Yet it had nothing to do with his life. His life had a different framework, in which tsunamis, climate disasters and plagues had no place. His father's death had pushed his own life into the foreground and now Anawak felt, in Nunavut, a chance to reclaim it.

After a while he got dressed, pulled a fur-lined hat down over his ears and walked into the moonlit night. He had the streets to himself He roamed the town until a wave of tiredness engulfed him, then returned to the warmth of the hotel room, and was asleep before his head had hit the pillow.

THE NEXT MORNING he called Akesuk. 'How about breakfast?' he asked.

His uncle seemed surprised. 'We've just sat down here. I thought you'd be busy.'

'OK. No problem.'

'Hold on – we've only just started. Why don't you come over? There's scrambled eggs and bacon.'

'Great.'

The plateful with which Mary-Ann presented him was so large that Anawak felt full before he started, but he still dug in. A smile spread across her face, and he wondered what Akesuk had told her. He must have found a good reason for Anawak to have turned down their offer of supper last night. She didn't seem in the least offended.

It felt odd to grasp the hand that Akesuk and his wife had extended to him. It pulled him back into the family. Anawak wondered whether it was a good thing. The magic of the moonlit night had vanished now and he was far from making peace with Nunavut.

After breakfast Mary-Ann cleared the table and went shopping. Akesuk twiddled with the dials on his transistor radio, listened for a while and said, 'IBC is forecasting mild weather for the next few days. You can't rely on it entirely, of course, but even if it's only half true, it'll be good enough for us to go out on the land.'

'You've got a trip planned?'

'We're leaving tomorrow. The two of us could do something today, though, if you like. Are you sticking to your plans – or were you thinking of flying back early?'

The old fox had guessed.

Anawak stirred his coffee. 'Last night I was on the point of leaving.'

'I guessed as much,' Akesuk said drily. 'And now?'

'I don't know. I thought maybe I'd take a trip to Mallikjuaq or Inuksuk Point – I don't feel comfortable in Cape Dorset. I don't mean to offend you, Iji, but good memories are hard to come by with a… well, with a …'

'With a father like yours,' his uncle said. He stroked his moustache. 'What astonishes me is that you're here at all. It's been nineteen years since any of us heard from you and now I'm the only one left. I got in touch with you because I thought you ought to know, but I never believed we'd see you here again. Why did you come?'

'Who knows? It wasn't as though anything was drawing me back. Maybe Vancouver wanted to get rid of me for a while.'

'Nonsense.'

'Well, it had nothing to do with my father, if that's what you're thinking. I'm not going to shed any tears over him.' He knew it sounded harsh, but it was too bad. 'I can't do that, Iji.'

'You're too hard on him.'

'He led a bad life.'

Akesuk gave him a long look. 'Yes, he did, but there weren't many options back then.' He drained the dregs of his coffee. Then he was smiling. 'Here's a suggestion. We'll start our trip today. Mary-Ann and I were planning to go somewhere different for a change – north-west to Pond Inlet. You could come too.'

Anawak stared at him. 'It's out of the question,' he said. 'You'll be out there for weeks. I can't possibly be away for that long – even if I wanted to.'

'I'm not suggesting you stay the whole time. We'll all set out together, and after a few days you can fly back on your own. You're a grown man – you don't need me to hold your hand. You can get on a plane by yourself, can't you?'

'But that'll be far too much trouble, Iji, I-'

'I'm fed up of hearing about trouble. Why should it be any trouble for you to come too? There's a group of us meeting in Pond Inlet. All the arrangements have been made, and I'm sure we'll find room for your civilised behind.' He winked at him. 'But don't go thinking it'll be an easy ride. You'll be given your share of bear duty like the rest of us.'

Anawak pondered his uncle's invitation. It had caught him off-guard. He'd prepared himself for one more day, not three or four.

But Li had made clear that he should stay for as long as he needed to.

Pond Inlet. Three more days.

'Why are you so keen for me to come?' he asked.

Akesuk laughed.

'Why do you think?' he said. 'I'm going to take you home.'

ON THE LAND. Those three words encapsulated the Inuit philosophy of life. Going out on the land meant escaping from the settlements and spending the summer camped in tents on the beaches or on the floe-edge, fishing, and hunting walrus, seal or narwhal, which the Inuit were permitted to kill for their own consumption. They would take everything they needed for life beyond the reaches of civilisation, loading clothes, equipment and hunting tools on to ATVs, sledges or boats. The territory they were venturing into was untamed: a vast expanse of land that people had roamed for thousands of years.

Time was of no importance on the land, where the routines and patterns of cities and settlements ceased to exist. Distances weren't measured in kilometres or miles but in days. Two days to this place, and half a day to that. It was no help to know that it was fifty kilometres to your destination, if the route was filled with obstacles like pack ice or crevasses. Nature had no respect for human plans. The next second could be fraught with imponderables, so people lived for the present. The land followed its own rhythm, and the Inuit submitted to it. Thousands of years as nomads had taught them that that was the way to gain mastery. Through the first half of the twentieth century they had continued to roam the land freely, and decades later the nomadic lifestyle still suited them better than being confined to one place by a house.

Some things had changed though, as Anawak was increasingly aware. They seemed to have accepted that the world expected them to take regular jobs and become part of industrial society, and in return they'd been granted the acceptance denied to them when Anawak was a child. The world was returning part of what it had taken, and giving them a new outlook, in which ancient traditions took their place alongside a western lifestyle.

The place Anawak had left behind had been a geographical region devoid of identity or self-worth, its people robbed of their energies and respected by no one. Only his father could have redrawn that picture for him, but he was the one who'd done most to inspire it. The man buried in Cape Dorset had become symbolic of the wider resignation: a worn-out alcoholic prone to self-pity and temper, who'd failed to stand up for his family. That day, as Cape Dorset had disappeared from his view, Anawak had stood on deck and shouted into the fog: 'Go ahead, kill yourselves! Then you won't be such an embarrassment.' For a second he'd toyed with the idea of leading by example and jumping overboard.

Instead he'd become a west-coast Canadian. His adoptive parents had settled in Vancouver, good people who did everything they could to support him in his schooling. They'd never grown accustomed to each other, though: a family united purely by circumstance. When Leon was twenty-four, they'd moved to Anchorage in Alaska. Once a year they sent him a greetings card, and he'd reply with a few friendly lines. He never visited, and they didn't seem to expect it – the idea would probably have surprised them.

Akesuk's talk of an expedition on the land had prompted a new wave of memories – long evenings round the fire, while people told stories and the whole world seemed alive. When he was little, he'd taken for granted that the Snow Queen and the Bear God were real. He'd listened to the tales of men and women who'd been born in igloos, and imagined how one day he'd journey over the ice, hunting and living in harmony with himself and the Arctic myth – sleeping when he was tired, working and hunting when the weather was right, eating when he was hungry. On the land they would sometimes leave the tent for a breath of fresh air and end up hunting for a day and a night. On other occasions they'd be ready to go, and the hunt never took place. The apparent lack of organisation had always seemed suspect to the qallunaat: how could anyone live without timetables and quotas? The qallunaat constructed new worlds in place of the existing one: Nature's ways were sidelined, and if things didn't fit with their notions, they ignored or destroyed them.

Anawak thought of the Chateau and the challenges he and the team were facing. He thought of Jack Vanderbilt, clinging to the belief that the events of the past months were down to human planning and activity. Anyone who wanted to understand the way of the Inuit had to let go of the mania for control that characterised the western world.

But at least they were all of the same species. There was nothing familiar about the beings in the sea. Anawak was convinced that Johanson was right. Humanity was on the brink of losing this war – people like Vanderbilt couldn't see any perspective but their own.

Maybe the CIA boss was aware of his failings, but he wasn't about to change.

Anawak suddenly realised that they would never solve the crisis without the right team.

Someone was missing, and he knew who it was.

WHILE AKESUK PREPARED for their departure, Anawak sat in the hotel and tried to place a call to the Chateau. After a few minutes he was redirected to a secure line and diverted several times. Li wasn't in Whistler: she was on board a US warship near Seattle.

A quarter of an hour later, he was connected and made his request for another three or four days' leave. When she agreed, he felt a prick of conscience, but told himself that the fate of the world hardly depended on it. Besides, he would be working: he might be in the Arctic Circle, but his mind would still be busy.

Li mentioned that she'd launched a sonar offensive against the whales. 'I don't expect you to be pleased,' she said.

'Is it working?'

'We're on the point of giving up. It hasn't achieved the desired results. We're having to try everything – at least if we can keep the whales away for a while, we've got more chance of sending down divers or robots.'

'You need to expand the team.'

'Who did you have in mind?'

'Three people.' He took a deep breath. 'I'd like you to recruit them. We need more input in the areas of behavioural and cognitive science. And I need someone to help me. Someone I can trust. I'd like you to get Alicia Delaware on board. She usually spends her summers in Tofino. She's a student – majored in animal intelligence.'

'Fine,' Li said. He hadn't expected her to agree so quickly. 'And the second person?'

'A guy in Ucluelet. If you take a look at the MK files, you'll find him under the name of Jack O'Bannon. He's good at handling marine mammals. He knows a thing or two that might help us.'

'Is he a scientist?'

'No. An ex-dolphin-handler with the US Navy. Marine Mammal Program.'

'I see,' said Li. 'I'll look into it. We've got plenty of our own experts. Why him?'

'That's who I want.'

'And the third person?'

'She's the most important of all. In a sense, we're dealing with aliens, so you'll need someone who devotes their time to thinking about how we could communicate with non-human life-forms. Dr Samantha Crowe is head of SETI in Arecibo.'

Li laughed. 'You're a bright guy, Leon. We'd already decided to recruit someone from SETI. Do you know Dr Crowe?'

'Yes, she's good.'

I'll see what I can do. Make sure you get back here safely.'

INSTEAD OF TAKING a direct route northwards, the Hawker Siddeley turboprop headed east. Akesuk had persuaded the pilot to make a small detour so Anawak could admire the Great Plain of Koukdjuak, a wildlife sanctuary dotted with perfectly round ponds that were home to the world's largest colony of geese. The passengers, from Cape Dorset and Iqaluit, were all en route to Pond Inlet, where the expedition into the wilderness would begin. Most were already familiar with the view, and had dozed off Anawak, however, was entranced.

They followed the line of the coast for a while, crossing into the Arctic Circle. Below them was the lunar landscape of Foxe Basin, its frozen surface fissured with cracks, leads, and pools of water. After a while, land reappeared, mountainous territory with steep drops and sheer palisades of rock. Snow glinted from the bottom of deep, shadowy gorges. Rivulets of meltwater poured into frozen lakes. In the light of the setting sun the scenery looked more majestic than ever. Rugged brown mountains were interspersed with snowy valleys, while jagged ridges reached up into the sky, the rock disguised by snowdrifts. Then, almost seamlessly, the plane passed above a blue-tinted shoreline, and they were staring down at a continuous layer of pack ice, Eclipse Sound.

Anawak forgot everything around him as he gazed at the strange beauty of the High Arctic. Colossal snow-white crystals stuck out of the white sheet of the Sound: icebergs. Beneath them the tiny forms of two polar bears raced across the ice, as though the turboprop's shadow was chasing them. Shimmering dots swooped through the air- ivory gulls. Further on, the glaciers and precipitous cliffs of Bylot Island rose into view. Then the plane dropped down, heading towards a shoreline as a marbled brown landscape appeared before them, a settlement of houses and an airstrip – Pond Inlet, or Mittimatalik in Inuktitut, 'the place where Mittima rests'.

The sun glared into their eyes from the north-west. It wouldn't set completely at this time of year, merely come to rest on the horizon for a few minutes at two o'clock in the morning. When they landed it was nine in the evening, but Anawak had lost all sense of time. He looked at the scenes from his childhood, and felt as though a weight had been lifted from his chest.

Akesuk had succeeded in doing something that, twenty-four hours earlier, Anawak would not have thought possible.

He had brought him home.

POND INLET WAS of a comparable size to Cape Dorset, but in most other respects it had little in common with the south of the island. The region had been settled for over four thousand years, but no one had embarked on any daring architectural experiments of the kind that Anawak had seen in Iqaluit. Akesuk explained that tradition played a more important role in this area of Nunavut than anywhere else. Some people even practised shamanism, he said cautiously, and hastened to add that they were good Christians too.

They stayed overnight at a hotel. Akesuk woke him early, and they strolled down to the shore. The old man sniffed the air. The mild weather would continue, he announced. They could look forward to the hunt.

'Spring hasn't kept us waiting this year,' he said, in satisfaction. 'I heard at the hotel that it's half a day's journey to the floe-edge. Or maybe a full day, depending.'

'On what?'

Akesuk shrugged. 'All kinds of things can happen. It depends. You'll see plenty of animals – whales, seals, polar bears. This year the ice is breaking up earlier than usual.'

Now that was hardly surprising, thought Anawak, given what else was going on.

The group was made up of twelve people. Anawak recognised some from the aeroplane; others he met in Pond Inlet. Akesuk had a word with the two guides, who were putting together the equipment for the trip. Anything that wouldn't be needed was left in the storeroom at the hotel. Four qamutiks were waiting. In Anawak's memory, the sleds had been pulled by dogs, but now they were hitched to snowmobiles and skidoos. The qamutiks hadn't changed, though: two wooden runners four metres long, curving up at the front, to which horizontal slats were tightly lashed. No screws or nails, the sleds were held together with rope and cord, which made repairs considerably easier. Open-topped wooden compartments mounted on three of the quamutiks would protect the passengers from the worst of the weather while the fourth was the pack sled.

'You won't be warm enough,' Akesuk warned him, glancing at Anawak's jacket.

'I checked the temperature. It's six degrees.'

'You're forgetting the wind chill from the sled. And I hope you're wearing two pairs of socks. We're not in Vancouver, you know.'

There was so much that he had forgotten. He was only just regaining his instinct for what it was like to be out there in the cold. He felt almost ashamed of himself. The challenge was in keeping your feet warm – it always had been. He pulled on another pair of socks and an extra sweater. In their padded clothes and snow goggles, they all looked like Arctic astronauts.

Akesuk and the guides made one last check of the equipment. 'Sleeping-bags, caribou pelts…'

There was a shine in the old man's eyes. His thin grey moustache seemed to bristle with pleasure. Anawak watched as he hurried between the sleds. Ijitsiaq Akesuk was nothing like Anawak's father.

His thoughts turned to the unknown force in the sea.

Once the expedition started, their decisions would be governed by Nature. 'To survive on the land, you had to adopt an almost pantheistical attitude: you were just part of the living world that manifested itself in animals, plants, ice and sometimes humans.

And in the yrr, he thought, whoever they are, whatever they look like, however and wherever they live.

There was a jerk as the snowmobile set off, pulling them over the snow-covered sea. Anawak, Akesuk and Mary-Ann shared a sled. From time to time they saw puddles of water on the surface, where the ice was melting. 'They curved round the settlement on the coastal hill, and headed towards the north-east, moving away from Baffin Island, which now protruded from the ice behind them. Across the sound the soaring-peaks of Bylot Island towered into the sky, surrounded by icebergs. An immense glacier poured down from the mountains and on to the shore. Anawak reminded himself that the surface beneath them was the frozen crust of the ocean. Fish were swimming below. Every now and then the qamutik's runners lifted as they hit a patch of rough ground, but the sled cushioned them from the impact.

After a while the two Inuit in the first qamutik changed course and the other sleds followed. For a moment Anawak was puzzled, but then he saw that they were making their way round a gaping crack in the ice, too wide to be crossed in a sled. Dark fathomless water appeared inside the blue-tinged icy chasm.

'This could take a while,' said Akesuk.

'Yep, we'll lose some time.' Anawak knew what it meant to drive a sled round cracks.

Akesuk's nose wrinkled. 'I wouldn't say that. Time stays the same whether we travel due east or take a detour further north. Out here it doesn't matter when you arrive. Don't you remember? Your life doesn't stop unfolding because you take a longer route. No time is wasted.'

Anawak was silent.

'You know,' his uncle added, with a smile, 'maybe the biggest problem we've had to face in the last hundred years was the qallunaat bringing us time. They believe that time spent waiting is time wasted – wasted lifetime. When you were a child, we all thought so. Your father did so too, and because he couldn't see any way to do something useful with his life, he decided that it was worthless, just wasted time. A life not worth living.'

Anawak turned towards him. 'Don't feel sorry for him. Feel sorry for my mother,' he said.

'Well, she felt sorry for him,' Akesuk retorted, and said something to Mary-Ann.

They had to travel several kilometres until the crack had narrowed enough to cross. One of the Inuit drivers unhitched his snowmobile and revved it at high speed over the gap. Then he threw ropes across to the qamutiks and pulled them one by one to safety. The journey continued. Anawak's uncle pushed a strip of something fatty into his mouth. He held out the tin to Anawak.

It was narwhal skin. During Anawak's childhood, they'd always taken it on journeys to the floe-edge. It was an excellent source of vitamin C, he remembered – far better than oranges or lemons. He chewed, and the flavour of nuts filled his mouth. The taste evoked a string of pictures and emotions. He heard voices, but they didn't belong to this expedition: they came from the people he'd been travelling with twenty years earlier. He felt the caress of his mother, stroking his hair.

'Cracks in the ice, pressure ridges…' His uncle laughed. 'Well, this certainly isn't a freeway. Come on, be honest, you must have missed something of this?'

Anawak shook his head. 'No,' He said and immediately felt ashamed.

ANAWAK HAD SPENT most of his life on Vancouver Island, and had dedicated himself to marine biology, so he was bound to feel more of an affinity with nature than with any man-made construct. Yet whale-watching in Clayoquot Sound was quite different from sledging across a featureless expanse of white, gliding over the strait towards the ocean, with brown tundra on the right and the glaciated peaks of Bylot Island to the left. While the climate in western Canada seemed to have been designed with humans in mind, the Arctic was spectacularly hellish: fantastically beautiful, but sufficient unto itself, and fatal to anyone deluded enough to think that humans could conquer it. The settlements looked like a stubborn attempt to take ownership of a land that defied subjugation. The ride in the qamutik to the floe-edge resembled a journey into the unconscious.

Anawak's sense of time had abandoned him after another night in the midnight sun. They were on their way to the earth's primal source. Even someone as rational as Anawak, who could find a scientific explanation for everything, suddenly saw the logic in the old Inuit story of why the polar bear padded mournfully over the ice. Its love for an Inuk woman had clouded its judgment. The bear had warned the woman not to tell her husband about their illicit meetings, but when the hunter returned after weeks of tracking in vain, she took pity on him and told him where her lover could be found. The bear heard her treachery, and while the hunter went to look for it, it crept to her igloo, intending to kill her. Raising its paw, it was overcome with sorrow. Not even her death could undo the betrayal. It trudged away.

Anawak's skin prickled with the cold.

Whenever Nature had allowed man to approach, her trust had been betrayed. Since then, so the legend continued, man had been attacked by polar bears. This was the bears' kingdom. They were stronger than man, but in the end mankind had defeated them and, in so doing, had defeated itself. Although Anawak had turned his back on his homeland for the best part of two decades, he was well aware that industrial chemicals, like DDT and highly toxic PCBs, were transported by the wind and the currents from Asia, North America and Europe to the Arctic Ocean. They accumulated in the fatty tissue of whales, seals and walruses, which were eaten by polar bears and humans, who fell ill. Breastmilk from Inuit women contained levels of PCBs that were twenty times higher than the amount listed as harmful by the World Health Organisation. Inuit children suffered from neurological impairments, and K levels were falling. The wilderness was being poisoned because the qalhinaat still couldn't, or wouldn't, grasp the way in which the world worked: sooner or later, everything was distributed everywhere, through the winds and the water.

Was it any surprise that something at the bottom of the ocean had decided to put a stop to it?

After two hours of sledging over the ice they veered right towards the coast of Baffin Island. Stiff from sitting down for so long and from bracing themselves against the bumpy ground, they trudged over the flat ice and up on to the land, past rocks covered with lichen and towards the snow-free tundra. Individual flower buds dotted the mossy waterlogged ground: crimson saxifrage and cinquefoil, colours glowing against the boggy soil. The group had chosen the right time of year to come here. In summer the place would be buzzing with flies.

The ground rose gently. One of the guides led them on to a plateau with a view of the ocean and the snow-capped mountains. He pointed out the remains of an ancient Thule settlement and showed them two plain crosses that marked the graves of German whalers. Some siksiks, or Arctic ground squirrels, chased each other over the plains, disappearing into burrows in the ground. Mary-Ann picked up some stones and juggled them deftly. It was an Inuit sport, as old as the hills. Anawak tried to copy her, but his efforts provoked a roar of collective laughter. The slightest thing, like someone slipping, always had the Inuit in stitches.

After a quick lunch of sandwiches and coffee, they crossed an even wider lead in the ice and headed for Bylot Island. Meltwater spurted in all directions beneath the skidoos' rubber tracks. Pack ice piled up in odd formations, blocking their path and necessitating further detours, but it wasn't long before they were gliding beneath the cliffs of Bylot Island. The noise of squawking birds filled the air. Kitti wakes were nesting in the rocks in their thousands. Great flocks circled the cliffs. The convoy halted.

'Time for a walk,' announced Akesuk.

'We've only just had one,' said Anawak.

'That was three hours ago, my boy.'

Unlike Baffin Island's gently sloping tundra, the shoreline of Bylot Island rose precipitously out of the water. The walk turned into a climb. Akesuk pointed to a trail of white bird droppings leading down from a crevice in the rock, high above their heads. 'Gyrfalcons,' he said. 'Beautiful creatures.' He made curious whistling noises, but the falcons wouldn't be tempted out. 'If we were further inland, we'd have a good chance of spotting them. We'd probably see a few foxes, snow geese, owls, falcons and buzzards.' Akesuk smiled ironically. 'On the other hand, we might not. That's the Arctic for you. You can't count on anything. An unreliable lot, these animals – just like the Inuit, right, Leon?'

'I'm not a qallunaaq, if that's what you're suggesting,' Anawak protested.

'Good.' His uncle sniffed the air. 'We'll spare ourselves the trouble of going any further. Seeing as you're no longer a qallunaaq, you're bound to return. Now, let's head out to the floe-edge – we should make the most of this weather.'

FROM THEN ON time ceased to exist.

As they made their way east, leaving Bylot Island in their wake, the ice became rougher and the runners took even more of a battering. Cold winds had left thin layers of ice on the surface of the puddles, which tinkled beneath them like shattering glass. Anawak spotted a narrow lead and called to the driver, but the man had already seen it – he turned as the skidoo raced over the ice, pulling the qamutik behind it, and grinned.

'So you haven't forgotten everything,' laughed Akesuk.

Anawak hesitated. Then he joined in. He felt ridiculously proud to have spotted a crack in the ice.

The afternoon light conjured sun dogs in the sky. That was what the Inuit called the peculiar apparitions that formed on either side of the sun, coloured luminous spots created by the refraction of the sun's rays through tiny frozen crystals in the air. Pack ice had stacked up in the distance, forming steep, jagged harriers. Then smooth, open water appeared on their right. A seal rose up, glanced at them and dived. After a while its head popped back up to stare at them inquisitively. They left the water behind them and headed for a larger pool, which seemed to Anawak to stretch forever, until he realised that it wasn't a pool but the open ocean. They had reached the floe-edge.

Before long they saw a collection of tents ahead. The procession halted. There were greetings all round – some people knew each other already. The group at the camp came from Pond Inlet and Igloolik. They'd caught a narwhal earlier and had carved it up, leaving the carcass further to the east near the floe-edge, in the direction that Anawak's expedition was heading. Pieces of its skin were passed round, and the talk turned to the hunt. Two men joined them, hunters returning from the floe-edge on skidoos, on their way home. Their qamutiks were loaded with hunting kayaks and the bodies of two seals they'd shot the day before. One man said the seals would follow the retreating ice, arriving at their feeding and breeding grounds earlier than usual. He swung his Winchester 5.6 as he talked, and advised them to be careful. The slogan on his cap read, 'Work is only for people who don't know how to hunt.' Anawak asked if he'd noticed anything odd about the whales, whether they'd seemed aggressive or had attacked. Apparently they hadn't. Suddenly the whole camp flocked to listen. Everyone was au fait with the reports and knew every last fact about the phenomena that had terrified the world. As far as Anawak could tell, though, the Arctic had been spared.

As evening drew in, they left the camp.

The two hunters headed back to Pond Inlet, while Anawak's party continued in the direction of the floe-edge. After a while they passed the remains of the dead narwhal. Flocks of birds were squabbling over the meat. They carried on, trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the carcass, but when they finally stopped it was still within sight. The guides set up camp thirty metres or so from the floe-edge. Boxes were unloaded from the sleds, and the radio mast was erected so that they could keep in contact with the outside world. In no time the guides had pitched five tents, four for the travellers and a kitchen tent, all with wooden flooring and camping mats. Three sheets of plywood daubed with white paint served as a toilet, housing a bucket lined with a blue plastic bag and topped with a scratched enamel seat.

'About time too,' beamed Akesuk.

While the others finished setting up camp, he was the first to disappear into the honey-pot, as the Inuit nicknamed it. The guides detached the skidoos from the sleds and proposed a race. Anawak was shown how to manoeuvre one, and soon they were shooting past each other on the shimmering ice. Anawak's heart lightened. He loved being there.

The races continued until one of the men from Igloolik was declared the overall winner, and their thoughts turned to food. Mary-Ann shooed them out of the kitchen tent, so they stood outside, leaning up against the sleds and huddling together to fend off the cold. A young woman started to tell an Inuit story of the kind that was told and retold but never the same way twice. Anawak could remember such stories lasting for days.

It was getting on for midnight when Mary-Ann served dinner – grilled Arctic char, caribou chops with rice, roasted Eskimo potatoes, and to wash it all down, litres of tea. The kitchen tent was supposed to accommodate everyone, but it was unquestionably too small – Akesuk was furious, and cursed the man from whom he'd hired it- so they took their plates outside and balanced them on the sleds and boxes.

One after another, the travellers retired to bed. Then at half past one in the morning, Akesuk reached into the depths of his bag and brought out a bottle of champagne. He winked slyly at Anawak. Mary-Ann turned up her nose and said goodnight, so Anawak and his uncle were left alone, with the exception of the man on bear-watch, who was standing on a mound of pack ice with a rifle at his feet.

'In that case we'll have to drink it by ourselves,' said Akesuk.

'I don't drink.'

'Of course.' Akesuk looked at the bottle mournfully. 'Are you sure? I packed it specially. I was waiting for the right occasion. And the occasion… Well, you've come home, so I thought…'

'I don't want to lose control, Iji.'

'Control of what? Of your life or of this moment?' He stowed the bottle away. 'No problem. There'll be other occasions. Maybe we'll catch something big. Who knows? We might get a beluga or a walrus. How about a walk before we turn in?'

'Good idea.'

They strolled down to the floe-edge. Anawak let his uncle take the lead. The old man had a better sense of where the ice was stable and where it might break. The Inuit had hundreds of words for every possible kind of snow or ice, but not one that meant 'snow' or 'ice' in general. Right now they were walking on elastic ice. Salt separated from water as it froze, so icebergs were formed entirely of fresh water. Pack ice and drift ice contained traces of salt – the faster the water froze, the greater the salinity of the ice. That increased its elasticity, which was good in winter because it prevented it cracking too easily, but problematic in spring when it heightened the risk of break-up. The mere shock of falling into the cold water was enough to kill someone, but the greater danger was of being swept beneath the ice.

They found a spot near the floe-edge and leaned up against a block of pack ice. The silvery sea stretched in front of them. Anawak spotted the steel-blue bodies of graylings flitting just beneath the surface. For a while they let the minutes tick by, and suddenly, as though Nature had decided to reward them for their patience, two spiral-ridged tusks rose out of the water like a pair of crossed swords. A couple of male narwhal appeared a few metres from the floe-edge. Their rounded mottled heads came into view, then the dark grey bodies dived down. In less than fifteen minutes they'd be back. That was their rhythm.

Anawak watched in fascination. Narwhal were hardly ever seen off the coast of Vancouver Island. For years they'd been threatened with extinction. Their tusks, which were actually modified teeth, were pure ivory, condemning them to centuries of slaughter. They were still on the list of endangered species, but the narwhal population in Nunavut and Greenland had crept back up to ten thousand.

The ice made soft creaking and groaning noises as the water rose and fell. Birds were still squawking around the remains of the dead narwhal. A gentle light bathed the mountains and glaciers of Bylot Island, casting shadows on the frozen sea. The sun hugged the horizon, pale and icy.

'You asked whether I'd missed this,' said Anawak.

Akesuk stayed silent.

'I hated it, Iji. I hated it, and I despised it. You wanted an answer. Now you know.'

His uncle sighed. 'You despised your father,' he said.

'Maybe. But you try explaining the difference to a twelve-year-old, whose father and people seem as wretched as each other. My father was weak and constantly drunk. All he did was whine and drag my mother down till she put an end to it all – she couldn't see any other way. Everyone was killing themselves back then. Name one family that wasn't in mourning for someone who'd taken their own life. All those stories about the proud Inuit, the self-sufficient Inuit – well, there wasn't much evidence of it back then.' He faced Akesuk. 'If your parents are reduced to wrecks in the space of a few years, get addicted to drugs, lose the will to live, how do you cope? What do you do when your mother hangs herself and all your father can do is get drunk. I told him to stop. I told him that I could get a job, that I'd do anything if he stopped drinking, but he just stared at me and went on as usual.'

'I know. He wasn't himself any more.'

'He gave me up for adoption,' said Anawak. The bitterness that had built up over the years was on the point of spilling out 'I wanted to stay with him, and he gave me up for adoption.'

'He wanted to protect you.'

'Oh, really? Did he ever wonder how I might cope? Like hell he did. Ma died of depression, he knocked himself out with liquor. They both threw me out of their lives. Did anyone bother to help me? No. They were too busy staring into the snow and bewailing the fate of the Inuit. Oh, yeah, and that reminds me, Uncle Iji. You always told good stories, but you never changed anything. That was all you could ever think of- fairytales about the free spirit of the Inuit. A noble people. A proud people.'

'That's right.' Akesuk nodded. 'We were a proud people.'

'When would that have been?'

He waited for Akesuk to lose his temper, but the old man merely stroked his moustache. 'Before you were born,' he said. 'People of my generation came into the world in igloos at a time when everyone knew how to build them. Back then we used flints and not matches to light fires. Caribou weren't shot, they were hunted with bows and arrows. We didn't hitch skidoos to our qamutiks, we had huskies. Sounds romantic, doesn't it? Like the long-lost past. . .' Akesuk mused. 'It was barely fifty years ago. Look around you, boy. Look at our lifestyle. I mean, there are good things too. Hardly anyone on Earth knows as much about what's going on in the world as we do. Every second household has a computer with a modem, including ours. We've got our own country now too.' He chuckled. 'The other day there was a question posted on nunavut.com. On the face of it, it seemed harmless enough. Do you remember those old Canadian two-dollar notes? Queen Elizabeth was on the front, with a group of Inuit on the back. One of the men was positioned beside a kayak with a harpoon in his hand. It all looked idyllic. The question was, "What does the scene really show?" What do you think?'

'I don't know.'

'Well, I do. It's the image of an expulsion. The government in Ottawa had a more palatable term for it. They preferred to call it "relocation." A Cold War phenomenon. The politicians in Ottawa were scared that the Soviet Union or the United States would take it into their heads to lay claim to the uninhabited Canadian Arctic so they relocated the nomadic Inuit from their traditional territory in the southern Arctic to Resolute and Grise Fjord near the North Pole. They claimed that the hunting grounds were better there, but the opposite was true. The Inuit were forced to wear numbered dog-tags as though they were animals. Did you know that?'

'I can't remember.'

Tour generation and the kids growing up today have no idea what their parents had to live through. And it started long before that, with the white trappers in the 1920s who came here with guns. The seal and caribou populations were decimated – and not just because of the qallunaat. The Inuit killed them off too. That's what happens when you exchange your bow and arrows for a gun. Anyway, the Inuit people were plunged into poverty. They'd never had much trouble with disease, but now there were outbreaks of polio, tuberculosis, measles and diphtheria, so they left the land and moved into settlements. By the end of the 1950s our people were dying of starvation and infectious disease, and the government did nothing about it. Then the military got interested in the Northwest Territories and secret radar stations were erected on traditional Inuit hunting grounds. The Inuit who lived there were in the way, so at the instigation of the Canadian government they were packed into aeroplanes and deposited hundreds of kilometres further north – without their tents, kayaks, canoes or sleds. When I was a young man, I was relocated too. So were your parents. Back then the authorities justified it by claiming that the chances of survival for the impoverished Inuit were better in the north than in the vicinity of the military bases. But the new settlements were nowhere near the caribou trails or any of the summer breeding grounds.'

There was a lengthy silence. Every now and then the two narwhal reappeared. Anawak watched the clash of swords, waiting for his uncle to resume his story.

'After our relocation, they bulldozed our hunting grounds. Everything that might remind us of our old lives here was razed to the ground to stop us returning. And, of course, the caribou didn't change their habits to suit us. We had nothing to eat, no clothes. What use is all the courage in the world, if all you can hunt are a few siksiks, hares and fish? People could be as determined and strong as they liked, but there was nothing they could do to stop their kinsmen dying. I won't go into the details. Within a few decades we were reliant on welfare. Our old way of life had been destroyed, and we didn't know any other. Around the time you were born, the Canadian government started to feel bad about us again, so they built us some houses – boxes. It was the obvious thing for the qallunaat. They live in boxes. If they want to take a trip somewhere, they get into a box with wheels. They eat in public boxes, their dogs live in boxes, and the boxes they sleep in are surrounded by other types of boxes that they call walls and fences. That was their way of life, not ours, but now we live in boxes too. Losing your identity comes at a price. Alcohol, drug abuse, suicide.'

'Did my father ever fight for his people?' Anawak asked softly.

'We all did. I was still a young man when we were driven out. I campaigned for compensation. For thirty years we struggled for our rights and went through the courts. Your father campaigned with us, but it broke his spirit. Since 1999 we've had our own state, Nunavut, "our land". No one can tell us what to do any more, and no one can force us to move. But our way of life, the only way of life that was truly ours, has been lost forever.'

'You'll have to find yourselves a new one.'

'I expect you're right. Self-pity never helped anyone. We were nomads, free to come and go as we pleased, but we've come to terms with the idea of our territory being limited. A few decades ago, our only social structure was the family. We didn't have chiefs or leaders, and now the Inuit are governed by the Inuit, as in any civil state. The concept of property was alien to us, but now we're going the way of every modern industrial nation. We're starting to revive our traditions – people are using dog-sleds again, the young are being taught how to build igloos and start a fire with flints – and that's good, but it won't stop the march of time. You know, boy, I'm not dissatisfied. The world moves on. These days we're nomads in the Internet, wandering through the web of data highways, tracking and collecting information. We can roam all over the world. Young people chat with friends from different countries and tell them about Nunavut. But too many of our people still kill themselves. We're coming to terms with a profound trauma. We need time. The hopes of the living shouldn't be sacrificed to the dead.'

Anawak watched the sun hover on the horizon. 'You're right,' he said.

And then, impulsively, he told Akesuk everything that they'd been told at the Chateau, about what they were working on and what they suspected about the intelligent beings in the sea. He knew he was breaking Li's instructions, but he didn't care. He'd been silent all his life. Akesuk was all the family he had left.

His uncle listened. 'Would you like to hear the advice of a shaman?' he asked finally.

'I don't believe in shamans.'

'Who does? But this isn't a problem you can solve with science. A shaman would tell you that you're dealing with spirits, the spirits of the once-living that now inhabit the Earth's creatures. The qalhinaat started destroying life. They angered the spirits, the spirit of the sea, Sedna. No matter who these beings are, you won't achieve anything by trying to fight them.'

'So what do we do?'

'See them as a part of yourselves. The world is such a small place, or so they're always telling us, but the truth is, we're still aliens to each other. Make contact with them, just as you're making contact with the alien world of the Inuit. Wouldn't it be a good thing if the divisions were healed?'

'They're not people, Iji.'

'That's not the point. They're part of our world, just as your hands and feet are part of your body. No one can ever win the struggle for mastery. Battles only ever end in death. Who cares how many species there are on the planet and which is more intelligent than the rest? Learn to understand them instead of fighting them.'

'Sounds fairly Christian to me. Turn the other cheek and all that.'

'Oh, no,' chuckled Akesuk. 'It's the advice of a shaman. There are still plenty of shamans around. We just don't make a big deal of it.'

'Which shaman would…' Anawak raised his eyebrows. 'You're not saying that… ?'

Akesuk grinned. 'Well, someone has to provide spiritual counsel.' He paused. 'Look!'

A short distance away an enormous polar bear was tucking into the narwhal carcass, scaring away the birds, which scattered into the air or scuttled over the ice at a respectful distance. A petrel launched an airborne assault, but the bear scarcely noticed. It wasn't close enough to the camp for the sentry to sound the alarm, but the man had cocked his gun, his eyes trained on the site.

'Nanuq,' said Akesuk. 'The polar bear smells everything, including us.'

Anawak watched the bear. He wasn't afraid. After a while the enormous creature lost interest and moved away majestically. It turned its head and cast an inquisitive look at the camp, then disappeared behind a wall of pack ice.

'See how sedately it moves,' his uncle whispered. 'But that bear can run, my boy. You bet it can run.' He chuckled, then reached into his anorak and pulled out a little sculpture that he placed on Anawak's lap. 'I've been waiting to give this to you. There's a right time for every present and maybe this is the right moment for you to have this.'

Anawak picked up the carving. A human face with feathers for hair, mounted on the body of a bird. 'A bird spirit?'

'Yes.' Akesuk nodded. 'Toonoo Sharky, one of our neighbours, made it. He's famous now. The Museum of Modern Art has bought his work. Take it. There are challenges ahead of you. You're going to need it. It will guide your thoughts in the right direction when it's time.'

'Time for what?'

'Your consciousness will soar.' Akesuk's hands became wings 'But you've been away for a long time. You're out of practice. Maybe you need someone to tell you what the bird spirit sees.'

'You're talking in riddles.'

'That's the privilege of the shaman.'

A bird crossed the sky above them.

'A Ross's gull,' said Akesuk. 'Now you're really lucky, Leon. Did you know that thousands of birdwatchers come here every year to see a gull like that? That's how rare they are. Well, you've got nothing to worry about. The spirits have sent you a sign.'

Later, in his sleeping-bag, Anawak lay awake for a while. The midnight sun shone through the fabric of the tent. He heard the sentry shout, 'Nanuq, nanuq!' He thought of the Arctic Ocean and imagined the unknown world below. He drifted until he came to the top of an iceberg that had been formed by a glacier in Greenland before the current had swept it towards the east coast of Bylot Island, where it had frozen into position. Eventually the wind and waves had freed it from the ice and sent it further south. In his dream Anawak climbed a narrow snow-covered path to the summit of the iceberg. A lake of emerald-green meltwater had formed there. Everywhere he looked, he saw the smooth, blue sea. In time the iceberg would melt, sending him to the bottom of the calm water and the source of all life, where a puzzle waited to be solved.

Perhaps a shaman would be there to help him.

24 May

Frost

Dr Stanley Frost had his own take on the situation. Surveys carried out by the energy industry located the main marine deposits of methane hydrate in the Pacific, along the west coast of North America and near Japan. More reserves had been found in the Sea of Okhotsk, the Bering Sea and further north in the Beaufort Sea. In the Atlantic, America had the bulk of the deposits right on her doorstep. Sizeable areas were known to exist in the Caribbean and off the coast of Venezuela, while the seabed around Drake Passage, stretching between South America and the Antarctic, was also rich in hydrates. Before the collapse of the slope, the deposits off the coast of Norway had been charted, as had the hydrates in the eastern Mediterranean and the Black Sea.

But methane deposits seemed thin on the ground off the northwestern coast of Africa, particularly in the vicinity of the Canary Islands.

And, in Frost's view, that didn't make sense.

The Canary Islands were in an up-welling zone, where cold, nutrient-rich water rose from the depths, stimulating the growth of plankton, which in turn encouraged fish stocks. On that basis, the seabed surrounding the Canary Islands should have been covered with hydrates since methane collected in the depths wherever organic life filled the sea.

The difference in the Canaries was that the decaying matter had nowhere to settle. The islands had formed millions of years ago as a result of volcanic eruptions, and they rose steeply from the seabed like towers. Tenerife, Gran Canaria, La Palma, Gomera, El Hierro – the pinnacles of volcanic rock loomed up from the ocean floor from depths of 3000-3500 metres. Sediment and organic matter swirled down their sheer sides without settling. That was why conventional charts didn't indicate the presence of methane deposits in the Canaries, and that – in Frost's estimation – was the first miscalculation.

He suspected that the seamounts, of which the Canary Islands formed the visible peaks, weren't as sheer as had generally been supposed. There was no denying that they were steep, but they were by no means smooth and vertical. Frost had studied the formation of volcanoes for long enough to know that even the most precipitous strato-volcanoes were scarred with ridges and terraces. It was his firm opinion that large quantities of hydrates were present in the Canaries, and that people hadn't found them because they hadn't looked properly. In this instance, the hydrates wouldn't be lying in chunks on the seabed: they'd be running through the rock in thin veins. And Frost was in no doubt that they'd be found on the terraces too, wherever sediment had settled.

Since Frost was a volcanologist and not a hydrates expert, he'd called on Bohrmann for help. Frost had drawn up a list of islands that were potentially at risk: La Palma, then Hawaii and Cape Verde, followed by Tristan da Cunha further south, and Reunion in the Indian Ocean. They were all potential time-bombs, but La Palma posed by far the biggest threat. If Frost's fears turned out to be justified then the Cumbre Vieja ridge on La Palma was a Sword of Damocles, hanging over the lives of millions of people, from a height of two thousand metres.

Thanks to Bohrmann's efforts, Frost and his team had been loaned the illustrious Polarstern for an expedition to the area. Like the Sonne, the research vessel came equipped with a Victor 6000. The Polarstern was sufficiently large to deter the whales from attacking, and had been rigged with underwater cameras to ensure that any swarms of mussels, jellyfish or other invading organisms were detected in good time. Frost had no idea whether he'd see Victor again once it had been lowered into the water. All manner of equipment was disappearing into the depths. He could only give it a shot and hope for the best. No one opposed the suggestion.

Victor was released from the Polarstern off the west coast of La Palma. Splashdown occurred within sight of the shore. The robot made its way downwards, systematically searching the steep face of the volcano. Then, at four hundred metres, an array of overlapping terraces came into view, jutting out of the rock like a series of balconies. They were covered with sediment.

Victor had found the hydrate deposits that Frost had predicted.

A mass of pink bodies writhed on top: bristly worms with pincer-like jaws.

8 June

La Palma, Canary Islands, North-west African Coast

'So why all this activity in the waters of a holiday resort, when the worms could do so much more damage in Japan or back home?' asked Frost. 'The North Sea was densely populated. The American coast is chock-a-block with people and so is Honshu, but the worm colonies in those areas aren't nearly big enough to make a splash. And now we've found worms here, on a holiday island off the north-west coast of Africa. So we ask ourselves why.'

Dressed as usual in a baseball cap and industrial overalls, he was standing high on the western side of the volcanic ridge that stretched across the island. In the north, the famous Caldera de Taburiente, an enormous crater caused by erosion, was ringed with sheer walls of rock, then the mountain ridge continued southwards, the line of volcanic cones extending to its tip.

Frost was accompanied by Bohrmann and two representatives from the De Beers Corporation, a business executive and a technology specialist called Jan van Maarten. They were gathered on a sandy slope with the helicopter parked to one side. From there they looked down on a verdant crater-pocked landscape of awe-inspiring beauty. A long line of peaks towered into the sky. Black trails of lava led down to the shore, dotted with tender green shoots. There were lengthy intervals between the eruptions on La Palma, but the next volcano could erupt at any time. In geological terms, the Canary Islands were still relatively young. As recently as 1971 a new volcano, Teneguia, had made its presence known, erupting near the southern tip of the island, and extending the land mass by several hectares. Technically, the ridge was a single volcano with numerous vents, which was why people tended to refer to the Cumbre ridge as a whole whenever they discussed the volcanism of the island.

'You see, the real question,' said Bohrmann, 'is which areas should be colonised to maximise the damage.'

'You don't really think it could be planned in that detail?' asked the executive. She gave a puzzled frown.

'It's all hypothetical at present,' said Frost, 'but assuming there's an intelligent mind at work here, it's incredibly strategic. In the aftermath of the North Sea catastrophe everyone reasoned that the next disaster would happen in another densely populated industrial area. And, sure enough, worms were present on such sites, but only in small numbers. The obvious explanation would be that the troops, so to speak, were depleted, or that it takes time to create new armies of worms. Our attention is continually being nudged in the wrong direction. Gerhard and I are fairly certain now that the half-hearted invasions near North America and Japan are just a diversionary tactic.'

'But what's the point of attacking the hydrates in La Palmar' the woman asked. 'No one could claim that it's a hub of activity.'

The De Beers Corporation had entered the picture when Frost and Bohrmann had gone in search of existing technology to vacuum up the methane-eating worms. For decades the seabed off the coast of Namibia and South Africa had been scoured for diamonds. Various companies were involved, but the biggest player was the international diamond corporation De Beers, which used ships and offshore platforms to launch its mining operations 180 metres below. A few years previously De Beers had started to develop new ways of mining the seabed at even greater depths, using remote-controlled submersible crawlers that vacuumed up the sand and minerals, transferring them via suction pipes to surface support vessels. The most recent project focused on developing a more flexible system that could operate without the need for horizontal ground. The new technology, a remote-controlled suction pipe, would be capable of scouring vertical surfaces. Theoretically the system would be operational at depths of several thousand metres, but first it would be necessary to build a pipe of that length.

The committee had decided to collaborate directly with the team assigned to the project by De Beers. So far the corporation's two representatives had only been told that their system was of potential use in helping to prevent a worldwide disaster, to which end a suction pipe measuring several hundred metres in length was needed as soon as possible. Frost had proposed a visit to Cumbre Vieja to explain what would happen to humanity, should their mission fail.

'Oh, don't let appearances deceive you,' he said. 'There's plenty of activity here.'

The strands of hair protruding from his cap quivered in the cool sea breeze. The blue sky appeared in the lenses of his shades. He looked like a cross between Fred Flintstone and the Terminator, as his voice carried over the peaceful pine forests.

'We wouldn't be standing here in the first place if volcanic activity two million years ago hadn't blasted the Canaries out of the sea. It may look idyllic, but you shouldn't let it fool you. There's a farming village down there, Tijarafe – a lovely place, sells wonderful quesos dealemmdras. On the eighth of September each year they celebrate the Fiesta del Diablo. A devil runs across the market square, spitting fire and setting off explosions. Why? Because the islanders know the nature of their Cumbre. Fire and explosions are part of natural life here. They know that, and so, too, does the force behind those worms. It knows how the island was created. And if you know how things are made, more often than not you can identify their weak spots.'

Frost took a few steps towards the edge. The friable volcanic rock crunched beneath his Doc Martens. In the distance below, glittering waves broke against the shore.

'In 1949 the sleepy old dog Cumbre Vieja sprang into action with a bang. The eruption came from one of its craters, at the top of the San Juan volcano. It opened up a fault. It's hard to spot with the naked eye, but it runs for kilometres along the western flank of the island, just below where we're standing. It's possible that the rock at the heart of La Palma has been fissured. At the time, a section of the Cumbre Vieja ridge slipped four metres downwards into the ocean. I've been monitoring the area for the past few years. It's highly likely that the next eruption will cause the western flank to break off entirely, owing to the unusually large amount of groundwater trapped within the rock. As soon as a new burst of hot magma enters the volcanic vent, the water will expand and evaporate in an instant. The resulting pressure could easily blast the western flank into the water. It's already been destabilised, and the eastern and southern flanks are pushing against it. Five hundred or so cubic kilometres of rock would collapse into the ocean.'

'I read about that,' said van Maarten. 'The Canary Islands authorities say the theory is dubious.'

'Dubious?' Frost thundered, like the trumpets of Jericho. 'If anything's dubious, it's their failure to address the problem in any of their statements. All they care about is not worrying the tourists. But this problem isn't going to go away. The world's already experienced similar disasters, albeit on a smaller scale. In 1741 Oshima-Oshima erupted in Japan, triggering thirty-metre-high waves. More waves were generated by the collapse of Ritter Island in 1888 in New Guinea, but the amount of falling rock was barely one per cent of the landslide that could take place here. A GPS network has been continuously monitoring Kilauea volcano in Hawaii, looking for any sign of movement, and it sure as hell is moving. The south-eastern flank is slipping seaward at an annual rate often centimetres, and God help us if it starts to gain momentum. The consequences are too dire to imagine. Volcanic islands have a tendency to get steeper with age. Eventually a section breaks off. The authorities on La Palma don't want to face the truth. It's not a question of if it will happen, it's a question of when. In a hundred years? A thousand? The only thing we can't be sure of is the timing. The volcanoes here don't give much warning.'

'So what would happen if half of the island fell into the sea?' asked the executive.

'The mass of rock would displace vast quantities of water,' said Bohrmann. 'A dome would form on the surface of the ocean. According to our estimates, we'd be looking at a speed of impact of three hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. The fallen debris would extend sixty kilometres over the seabed, stopping water flowing back over the landslide, and creating an air cavity that would displace far more water than the volume of the rock. There's some debate about what happens next, but none of the scenarios are especially comforting. The landslide would create a mega-wave off the coast of La Palma, with a probable height of six to nine hundred metres. The wave would set off across the Atlantic at a thousand kilometres per hour. Unlike earthquakes, landslides and slope failures are point events, which means the wave's energy dissipates as it radiates across the ocean. The further it travels from its source, the flatter it becomes.'

'At least that's something,' said the technology specialist.

'Not really. The Canary Islands would be wiped out in a flash, then an hour later, a hundred-metre-high tsunami would wash over the northwest African coast. Think of it this way: the European tsunami reached a height of forty metres in the fjords, and we all know what happened there. Six to eight hours after the eruption, a fifty-metre wave would sweep over the Caribbean, laying waste to the Antilles and flooding the east coast of America from New York to Miami. Soon afterwards the wave would hit Brazil with similar force. Smaller waves would travel as far as Spain, Portugal and the British Isles. The consequences would he devastating, even in central Europe. The European economy would collapse.'

The representatives from De Beers paled. Frost grinned at them. 'I don't suppose you've seen Deep Impact?'

You mean the movie? That wave was a lot higher,' said the executive. 'It measured hundreds of metres.'

'Fifty would be enough to flatten New York. The impact of the wave would release more energy than the United States uses in a year. It doesn't matter how tall a building is – it's the base that takes the force of the tsunami. The rest of the building collapses, regardless of how many storeys there are. And we won't have Bruce Willis to save us.' He gestured towards the edge of the ridge. 'There are two ways of destabilising the western flank of the island: either Cumbre Vieja erupts, or there's an underwater avalanche. The worms are working on a landslide – a kind of miniature version of what they did in Europe, although the force will be enough to detach a segment of volcano. The rock will sink into the depths, and that in turn will prompt a minor earthquake and destabilise the Cumbre ridge. The earthquake might even trigger an eruption, but in any event the western flank will detach. It's going to happen either way – and we'll have a disaster on our hands. The worms off the coast of Norway took a few weeks to finish the job. Things could move even faster here.'

'How long have we got?'

'It's almost too late already. Those worms are pretty cunning, and they've gone to work in spots that are hard for us to reach. The whole scheme depends on the power of mega-waves to propagate on open water. They've already scored one hit in the North Sea, but that was relatively minor by comparison. If this harmless-looking little island collapses into the ocean, human civilisation is going to see just how tough things can get.'

Van Maarten rubbed his chin. 'We've already produced a prototype for the suction pipe. It's operational at depths of up to three hundred metres. We haven't tried it any deeper yet, but…'

'We could extend the pipe,' suggested the executive.

'We'd have to figure something out pretty quick, but if we stopped work on everything else… What worries me is the support vessel.'

'A vessel won't be large enough,' said Bohrmann. 'A colony of a billion or so worms – that's a huge biomass. You'd have to find somewhere to pump it.'

'That's not the real problem – we can always set up some kind of relay. No, I was thinking about a command ship with the control desk for the pipe. If we extend the length to four or five hundred metres, we'll need a vessel big enough to transport it. That's half a kilometre of pipe! It'll weigh God knows how much, and it's a damn sight thicker than deep-sea cable. We won't be able to coil it up and stick it in the hold. Besides, we need the boat to stay stable while we're steering the pipe. I don't think we need to worry about an attack, but the hydrostatics is going to be tricky. A pipe of that length can't be left dangling from the side of the vessel without affecting its balance in the water.'

'How about a dredge?'

'Wouldn't be big enough.' The man thought for a moment. 'A drillship, maybe. No… We'd be better off with a floating platform. We're familiar with those already. We need a kind of pontoon system, ideally a semi-submersible construction like the type they use in the offshore industry – except we wouldn't want to anchor it in position. We'll have it travelling across the water like a normal boat. It has to be manoeuvrable.' He moved away from the others, muttering something about resonant frequencies and swell variations. Then he rejoined them. 'A semi-submersible should do the trick. It's stable, mobile, and provides an ideal base for the boom, which, let's not forget, will have to take a lot of weight. There's a semi-submersible in Namibia that would adapt quite easily. It's got two propellers, each with a six-thousand-horsepower engine. We can get it fitted up with some additional thrusters, if we think we might need them.'

'The Heerema?' asked the executive.

'Right.'

'I thought we wanted to get rid of her.'

'She's not ready for the scrapyard yet. She has two main rudders, and the deck's supported by six huge columns – it's just what we need. OK, it was built in 1978, but it'll do the job. It's the simplest solution. We won't need a derrick, we'll have two cranes instead. We can use one to lower the pipe. Pumping up the worms won't be a problem. And we'll be able to moor the vessels before we fill them with worms.'

'Sounds good,' said Frost. 'When will she be ready?'

'Under normal circumstances it would take six months.'

'And in these circumstances?'

'I can't promise anything. Six to eight weeks, if we start right away.' The man looked at him. 'We'll do everything in our power to have it ready as soon as we can. We're pretty good at that kind of thing. But if we get it done in time, you should see it as a miracle.'

Frost nodded. He looked out over the Atlantic. The blue surface shimmered beneath them. He tried to imagine the water rising up in a six-hundred-metre dome.

'No problem,' he said. 'We could do with one.'