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      All the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents are pure invention.

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      Published in Great Britain 2009.

       MIRA Books, Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey, TW9 1SR

      © Terry Gerritsen 1995

      ISBN: 978-1-4089-2840-0

       Version: 2018-07-18

      In memory of Jum Heacock

      “In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.”

      —Henry VI, Part III

      William Shakespeare

       PROLOGUE

      SIMON TROTT stood on the rolling deck of the Cosima, and through the velvety blackness of night he saw the flames. They burned just offshore, not a steady fire, but a series of violent bursts of light that cast the distant swells in a hellish glow.

      “That’s her,” the Cosima’s captain said to Trott as both men peered across the bow. “The Max Havelaar. Judging by those fireworks, she’ll be going down fast.” He turned and yelled to the helmsman, “Full ahead!”

      “Not much chance of survivors,” said Trott.

      “They’re sending off a distress call. So someone’s alive.”

      “Or was alive.”

      As they neared the sinking vessel, the flames suddenly shot up like a fountain, sending out sparks that seemed to ignite the ocean in puddles of liquid fire.

      The captain shouted over the roar of the Cosima’s engines, “Slow up! There’s fuel in the water!”

      “Throttling down,” said the helmsman.

      “Ahead slowly. Watch for survivors.”

      Trott moved to the forward rail and stared across the watery inferno. Already the Max Havelaar was sliding backward, her stern nearly submerged, her bow tipping toward the moonless sky. A few minutes more and she’d sink forever into the swells. The water was deep, and salvage impractical. Here, two miles off the Spanish coast, was where the Havelaar would sink to her eternal rest.

      Another explosion spewed out a shower of embers, leafing the ripples with gold. In those few seconds before the sunlike brilliance faded, Trott spotted a hint of movement off in the darkness. A good two hundred yards away from the Havelaar, safely beyond the ring of fire, Trott saw a long, low silhouette bobbing in the water. Then he heard the sound of men’s voices, calling.

      “Here! We are here!”

      “It’s the lifeboat,” said the captain, aiming the searchlight toward the voices. “There, at two o’clock!”

      “I see it,” said the helmsman, at once adjusting course. He throttled up, guiding the bow through drifts of burning fuel. As they drew closer, Trott could hear the joyous shouts of the survivors, a confusing babble of Italian. How many in the boat? he wondered, straining to see through the murk. Five. Perhaps six. He could almost count them now, their arms waving in the searchlight’s beam, their heads bobbing in every direction. They were thrilled to be alive. To be in sight of rescue.

      “Looks like most of the Havelaar’s crew,” said the captain.

      “We’ll need all hands up here.”

      The captain turned and barked out the order. Seconds later the Cosima’s crew had assembled on deck. As the bow knifed across the remaining expanse of water, the men stood in silence near the bow rail, all eyes focused on the lifeboat just ahead.

      By the searchlight’s glare Trott could now make out the number of survivors: six. He knew the Max Havelaar had sailed from Naples with a crew of eight. Were there two still in the water?

      He turned and glanced toward the distant silhouette of shore. With luck and endurance, a man could swim that distance.

      The lifeboat was adrift off their starboard side.

      Trott shouted, “This is the Cosima! Identify yourselves!”

      “Max Havelaar!” shouted one of the men in the lifeboat.

      “Is this your entire crew?”

      “Two are dead!”

      “You’re certain?”

      “The engine, she explodes! One man, he is trapped below.”

      “And your eighth man?”

      “He falls in. Cannot swim!”

      Which made the eighth man as good as dead, thought Trott. He glanced at Cosima’s crew. They stood watching, waiting for the order.

      The lifeboat was gliding almost alongside now.

      “A little closer,” Trott called down, “and we’ll throw you a line.”

      One of the men in the lifeboat reached up to catch the rope.

      Trott turned and gave his men the signal.

      The first hail of bullets caught its victim in midreach, arms extended toward his would-be saviors. He had no chance to scream. As the bullets rained down from the Cosima, the men fell, helpless before the onslaught. Their cries, the splash of a falling body, were drowned out by the relentless spatter of automatic gunfire.

      When it was finished, when the bullets finally ceased, the bodies lay in a