The first thing that Andrea felt was the cold water knifing through her extremities. She thrashed her arms around, trying to get back to the surface. It took her two seconds to realise that she didn't know which way was up. The little air that she had in her lungs was running out. She let her breath out slowly to see which direction the bubbles travelled in, but in the total darkness it was useless. She was losing strength and her lungs were desperate for air. She knew that if she inhaled water she was dead. She gritted her teeth, swore not to open her mouth and tried to think.

f.u.c.k. It can't be, not like this. It can't end like this.

She moved her arms again, trusting that she was swimming towards the surface, when she felt something powerful pulling at her.

Suddenly her face was in the air again and she gasped. Someone was holding her up by the shoulder. Andrea tried to turn.

'Easy does it! Breathe slowly!' Father Fowler was yelling in her ear, trying to make himself heard above the roar of the ship's propellers. Andrea was shocked to see how the force of the water was dragging them closer to the back of the ship. 'Listen to me! Don't turn yet or we'll both die. Relax. Take off your shoes. Move your legs slowly. In fifteen seconds we'll be in dead water from the ship's wake. Then I'll let you go. Swim away as hard as you can!'

Andrea used her feet to slip off her shoes, all the while staring at the churning grey foam that could suck them to their deaths. They were barely forty feet from the propellers. She suppressed the impulse to break loose from Fowler and move in the opposite direction. Her ear-drums were ringing, and the fifteen seconds seemed like forever.

'Now!' Fowler screamed.

Andrea felt the suction stop. She swam in the opposite direction to the propellers, away from their infernal drone. It was almost two minutes later when the priest, who had followed her closely, grabbed her arm.

'We made it.'

The young reporter turned her eyes towards the ship. It was now quite far away and she could only see one of its sides, which was illuminated by several searchlights aimed at the water. They had started hunting for them.

'f.u.c.k,' Andrea said, as she struggled to stay afloat. Fowler grabbed her before she went completely under.

'Relax. Let me hold you up like I did before.'

'f.u.c.k,' Andrea repeated, spitting out salt.w.a.ter while the priest supported her from behind in the standard rescue position.

Suddenly a bright light blinded her. The powerful searchlights from the Behemoth Behemoth had found them. The frigate came towards them then maintained its position close by as sailors shouted directions and pointed from the railings. Two of them tossed a couple of lifebelts in their direction. Andrea was exhausted and chilled to the bone now that her adrenalin and fear had subsided. The sailors threw them a line and Fowler pulled it around her under her arms, then knotted it. had found them. The frigate came towards them then maintained its position close by as sailors shouted directions and pointed from the railings. Two of them tossed a couple of lifebelts in their direction. Andrea was exhausted and chilled to the bone now that her adrenalin and fear had subsided. The sailors threw them a line and Fowler pulled it around her under her arms, then knotted it.

'How the devil did you manage to fall overboard?' said the priest while they were being hauled up.

'I didn't fall, Father. I was pushed.'

19.

ANDREA AND FOWLER.

'Thank you. I didn't think I was going to make it.'

Wrapped in a blanket and back on board, Andrea was still shivering. Fowler was sitting next to her, watching her with a preoccupied expression. The sailors left the deck, mindful of the prohibition against speaking to members of the expedition.

'You have no idea how lucky we were. The propellers were turning very slowly. The Anderson turn, if I'm not mistaken.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I came out of my cabin to get some air and heard you taking your evening plunge, so I grabbed the nearest ship phone, yelled man overboard to port man overboard to port, and dove in after you. The ship had to make a complete circle, which is called the Anderson turn, but it should have been to port, not starboard.'

'Because . . .?'

'Because if the turn is made towards the side opposite where the person fell in, then they'll be chopped into mincemeat by the propellers. That's what almost happened to us.'

'Somehow being turned into fish food wasn't in my plans.'

'Are you sure about what you told me before?'

'As sure as I know my mother's name.'

'Did you see who pushed you?'

'I only saw a dark shadow.'

'Then if what you're saying is true, the ship's turning to starboard instead of port was no accident either . . .'

'They might have misheard you, Father.'

Fowler paused for a minute before answering.

'Ms Otero, please don't tell anyone about your suspicions. When you're asked, just say you fell. If it's true that someone on board is trying to kill you, to reveal it now . . .'

'. . . would warn the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.'

'Exactly,' Fowler said.

'Don't worry, Father. Those Armani shoes cost me two hundred euros,' Andrea said, her lips still quivering slightly. 'I want to catch the son of a b.i.t.c.h who sent them to the bottom of the Red Sea.'

20.

TAHIR IBN FARIS'S APARTMENT AMMAN, JORDAN.

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 1:32 a.m.

Tahir entered his home in the dark, shaking with fear. An unfamiliar voice called to him from the living room.

'Come in, Tahir.'

It took the bureaucrat all of his courage to cross the hallway towards the small living room. He searched for the light switch, but it didn't work. He then felt a hand grab his arm and twist it, forcing him to his knees. The voice came from the shadows somewhere in front of him.

'You've sinned, Tahir.'

'No. No, please, sir. I have always lived my life according to taqwa taqwa, to honesty. The westerners tempted me many times and I never gave in. This has been my only mistake, sir.'

'So you say you are honest, then?'

'Yes, sir. I swear to Allah.'

'And yet you allowed the kafirun kafirun, the infidels, to own a piece of our land.'

The one who was twisting his arm increased the pressure and Tahir gave a m.u.f.fled scream.

'Don't scream, Tahir. If you love your family, do not scream.'

Tahir brought his other arm up to his mouth and bit down hard on the sleeve of his jacket. The pressure continued to increase.

There was a terrible dry crack.

Tahir fell, crying in silence. His right arm hung from his body like a stuffed sock.

'Bravo, Tahir. Congratulations.'

'Please, sir. I followed your instructions. No one will go near the excavation zone for the next few weeks.'

'Are you certain of that?'

'Yes, sir. Anyway, n.o.body ever goes there.'

'And the desert police?'

'The nearest road is just a track around four miles away. The police only visit the area two or three times a year. When the Americans set up camp, they'll be yours, I swear.'

'Good, Tahir. You've done a good job.'

At that point someone switched back the electricity and the lights came on in the living room. Tahir looked up from the floor and what he saw made his blood run cold.

His daughter Myesha and his wife Zayna were tied up and gagged on the sofa. But that wasn't what shocked Tahir. His family had been in the same condition when he'd left five hours before to carry out the hooded men's demands.

What filled him with terror is that the men no longer wore hoods.

'Please, sir,' Tahir said.

The bureaucrat had returned in the hope that everything would be all right. That the bribe from his American friends wouldn't be revealed, and that the hooded men would leave him and his family in peace. That hope had now evaporated like a drop of water on a red-hot frying pan.

Tahir avoided the gaze of the man sitting between his wife and his daughter, their eyes red from crying.

'Please, sir,' he repeated.

The man had something in his hand. A gun. At the end of it was an empty plastic Coca-Cola bottle. Tahir knew exactly what it was: a primitive but effective silencer.

The bureaucrat couldn't control his shaking.

'You have nothing to worry about, Tahir,' said the man, leaning down to whisper in his ear. 'Hasn't Allah prepared a place in Paradise for honest men?'

There was a light report, like a whiplash. The other two shots followed a few minutes apart. Putting on a new bottle and securing it with duct tape takes a little time.

21.

ABOARD THE BEHEMOTH BEHEMOTH.

GULF OF AQABA, RED SEA.

Wednesday, 12 July 2006. 9:47 p.m.

Andrea woke up in the ship's infirmary, a large room containing a pair of beds, a few gla.s.s cabinets and a desk. A worried Dr Harel had made Andrea spend the night there. She probably hadn't slept much, because when Andrea opened her eyes she was already seated at the desk, reading a book as she sipped some coffee. Andrea yawned loudly.

'Good morning, Andrea. You're missing my beautiful country.'

Andrea got out of bed rubbing her eyes. The only thing she could distinguish clearly was the coffee maker on the table. The doctor watched her, amused as the caffeine began working its magic on the reporter.

'Your beautiful country?' Andrea said when she was able to speak. 'Are we in Israel?'

'Technically we're in Jordanian waters. Let's go out on deck and I'll show you.'

When they came out of the infirmary, Andrea lifted her face to the morning sun. It was going to be a hot day. She breathed deeply and stretched in her pyjamas. The doctor leaned on the ship's rail.

'Be careful you don't fall overboard again,' she teased.