The Korean shot a look at his colleagues. None of them moved. He barked an order. Three men scrambled to their feet and pushed and shoved their way to the door. The first one there retrieved the page. All the time, the leader of the group kept his hand on the boy, the gun at his throat, and his eyes on the window.
The page was thrust under his nose, blocking his view of the door. More words were hurled at the subordinate. Jake suspected they were not the sort that would be used in polite company. One of the men who had failed to retrieve the paper stood up, took the boy, and took the gun. He turned to face Jake. His face didn’t convey the same level of conviction as the leader. Jake suspected that if it came to it, he would hesitate — perhaps fatally — before pulling the trigger. None of that mattered though, because nobody was going to try anything on. At least, not in the sense the Koreans feared.
The leader, now freed of hostage duties, took the page in hand and examined the photograph. He shuffled sideways to be better positioned under the light.
Behind his back, Jake crossed his fingers. Miss Matsuo had done the best she could in the time available. He thought the picture looked convincing, but she insisted with another ten minutes she could have done better. They didn’t have another ten minutes. He didn’t tell her why, and he didn’t tell her the full reason for the picture. There was no point in burdening someone else with the massive responsibility.
“How long?”
The words took Jake by surprise.
“Sorry?”
“How long to get Lance?”
“My men tell me it will be two and a half to three hours. You can see the current has carried her some way out. When they reach her, they will have to work out how to start the engine. An unfamiliar ship, strong currents; this is a big job.”
“Current carry ship, current carry raft. You have one more hour.”
“Impossible.” Jake kept his voice flat. Calm. Showed he wasn’t afraid. Demonstrated that he wasn’t going to be pushed around. “We cannot get the Lance here in an hour. You might as well start shooting children now if you’re not prepared to give us enough time. That will give my chief of security here the justification he so desperately wants to come in and kill you all.” He looked sideways at Max, who moved to make sure the Koreans could see him, and more importantly, the large automatic rifle he was carrying. “Max really likes shooting people. He doesn’t need much of an excuse.”
The man holding the young boy looked worried. It wasn’t clear to Jake if he understood English, and he even chanced a glance at his leader, who shouted something at him, bringing him back to attention.
“One hour half. One hour half then I kill boy. No, I kill girl.” He mumbled some words at the other men. They scurried around like mice, until one of them emerged from the pack, dragging Erica by her ear. “This one, yes?”
“You’re hurting me!” Erica protested, but she didn’t cry, or scream.
Jake felt the bottom drop out of his stomach when he saw her. “Erica, be brave, darling. You’re going to be fine, okay? We’re going to get the ship for these men, and everything will be fine.”
“Don’t make me go with them!”
“It’ll be alright. Trust me. We’re going to help these men, just like we helped your father. We’ll look after them just like we looked after him. Do you understand me, Erica?”
She looked at him, the question written across her face.
“Like your father, like your mother. We’ll take care of them, okay?”
“But…” A moment of confusion, then comprehension dawned. “Okay,” she said, and Jake knew that she had understood the message.
“Clever girl. You clever, clever girl,” he said to himself as he turned away, leaving the security men to take up close positions at the door once more.
• • •
The situation on deck two was, as far as Max could see, under control for now. His men had the room covered. Any hint of action and he’d hear about it. The rescue plan, which as far as he was concerned was completely deranged and bound for certain failure, was out of his hands. He had an hour and a half to kill before the others realised it, kids started getting shot, and chaos would ensue. He wouldn’t miss that for the world — what was left of it — but in the meantime, he decided to make himself useful.
Deck ten wasn’t somewhere the security chief spent much time. His visits there were generally confined to the short walk from the lift to the bridge. Going in the other direction, there was nothing of interest to be found, just endless passageways filled with doors to staterooms. They weren’t even the nicest rooms.
Number 1084 wasn’t such a long walk. Max knocked once, more out of habit than anything else, then slid his master key card into the lock. A click, a tiny green light, and he was inside.
Grace’s uniform was laid out on the bed. It was the only item that was out of place. The rest of the room was immaculate. Spotlessly clean drawers held neatly folded clothes. He wondered how she managed that, with the access to the laundry so tightly rationed. When he checked the bathroom, he found the answer. She washed her own garments in the shower; a towel rail covered in drying underwear and a couple of blouses bore testament to that.
Her notebook was neatly stowed in the single cabinet by the bed, along with her ration card, her passport, and a photo of a man that Max took to be her fiancé. He was a clean-cut blond-haired guy, all muscles and uniform. “The all-American hero,” he said to himself.
Max eased himself into the one armchair in the room, opened up the book, flipped through the pages until he found the most recent entries, and began to read.
• • •
“Ready?” Martin’s voice trembled, just the tiniest bit.
Lucya pretended not to notice. She nodded.
“If it’s any consolation, I think you look amazing in that wetsuit.” He chuckled nervously.
“I think the shower cap and gym shoes might be ruining the effect,” she said, smirking.
“Not for me!”
Vardy was there too. “Remember. No cuts. No noise. Take a minute before you release the virus. The shallower your breathing, the longer you’ll be able to hold your breath.”
“Yes, I’ve got it. Don’t worry about me. Can we get on with it? We’re wasting time.”
Vardy nodded to Martin. “Do it,” he said.
Martin turned to the control panel on the side of the blue-and-yellow box that was the size of a small room. He twisted a key, already in the lock. An indicator light changed from green to yellow. After a second’s hesitation, he hit the round red stop button with the palm of his hand.
A klaxon sounded locally, and almost immediately the giant fans inside started to spin down, their droning noise dropping in both pitch and volume.
“Right. Um, good luck.” Martin stood awkwardly, waiting. “Listen… I’m sorry if, in the past, I’ve been…you know…”
“Shut up, Martin.” Lucya punched him playfully in the shoulder. “You make it sound like I’m not coming back. I’m coming back. Okay?”
Before he could say anything, a second klaxon sounded.
“Saved by the bell,” Vardy said. “Good luck, Lucya.”
Martin, relieved the moment had passed, gripped a long black handle and pulled it towards him. The whole side of the massive box swung open, revealing a stack of yellow fans, like a jet engine laid on its end. Around it, in the walls, row after row of round openings. He stepped inside, and counted the rows of holes.
“This is the one,” he said, stopping and sticking a bright marker on a dark circle halfway up the far wall.
“It would have to be one of the smallest ones,” Lucya said.
“I did warn you.”
She followed him in, then, using other openings as a ladder, she clambered up the wall, stuck her hands and head in the pipe, and pulled herself in. Her legs kicked in the air as she struggled for traction. “Er, a hand please, guys?”