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‘And what would that be?’ asked Tim.

‘Priming the bomb.’ She looked at him. ‘What else?’

‘He needs to prime it?’

‘Possibly.’ Wachowski nodded. ‘How else would you ignite the thing?’

‘Remote control.’

‘In order to ignite it via remote control you’d need a very large antenna, which you would have seen when you were searching the Gaia. Otherwise, he’ll need to do the ignition himself.’

‘Which explains why we’re still alive,’ said Ögi. ‘Carl didn’t have a chance to set up a timed fuse. His plans were turned upside down.’

‘Do we care about that?’ O’Keefe looked around at them all. ‘I wouldn’t waste a minute looking for him. Let’s concentrate on the Ganymede.’

‘I totally agree with you,’ said Dana. ‘But it could come down to the same thing. If we find the Ganymede, we may stumble upon Hanna.’

‘That’s fine by me,’ growled O’Keefe. ‘More than fine.’

Nina came into the lounge.

‘We’re ready!’

‘Good.’ Dana and Palmer had agreed to send two search teams off right away. Nina was to fly the Callisto to the Plato crater, follow the Montes Jura along the mining zones and then head for Aristarchus. The Io, a shuttle belonging to the Peary Base, would set off fifteen minutes later, keep a southerly course by Plato, and then, 500 kilometres on, swing over the plain of the Mare Imbrium towards Callisto. Dana got up. ‘Let’s put the teams together.’

‘You can fly with me.’

‘Thank you, but I think my presence is more needed here. Someone has to look after the others. How many people can you spare, Leland?’

Palmer rubbed his chin. ‘Kyra Gore is our head pilot. She can fly the Io with Annie Jagellovsk, our astronomer—’

‘My apologies,’ Dana cut him off mid-sentence. ‘I didn’t express myself correctly. How many people have to stay in the base in order to ensure everything can function?’

‘One. Well, let’s say two.’

‘I want you to be clear about how dangerous this man is. It’s possible that the search teams will be forced to attack Hanna. They may have to free the group from under his control. Each shuttle should be occupied by four, or preferably five people.’

‘But there’re only eight of us.’

‘I’ll come too,’ said O’Keefe.

‘Me too,’ said Tim.

‘Heidrun and I—’ Ögi started to say.

‘I’m sorry, Walo, but you’re not the ideal person.’ Dana made the effort to smile. ‘You’re certainly courageous enough, but we need younger, fitter people. So, Tim and Finn will fly with Nina, plus two more people from the base. The Io will fly with five men from the base—’

‘Just a minute.’ Palmer was trying to rein in the galloping horse. ‘That would be an extraordinary mission.’

‘Well, we have an extraordinary problem,’ replied Dana ungraciously. ‘In case you haven’t noticed.’

‘Six out of eight people. I’d need to consult—’

‘Consult who?’

‘Well—’

‘You won’t reach anyone.’

‘Okay, but – it’s not that simple, Dana. That’s three-quarters of my team. And the shuttles will have no contact to base for most of the time.’

‘View
me
as a reinforcement here,’ said Dana. ‘My responsibility is the safety of Julian Orley and his guests. And, to be honest, Leland, I would be less than understanding if the rescue mission were to fail due to lack of—’

‘Fine.’ Palmer exchanged a look with Wachowski. ‘I think it’s doable. Tommy, you stay here and – hmm, Minnie DeLucas.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Dana.

‘Our specialist for life-support systems.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better if Jan stayed?’ wondered Wachowski.

‘And who’s
that
?’

‘Jan Crippen. Our technical director.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Palmer. ‘Minnie can take on his duties, and besides, we won’t be gone for all that long.’

‘I don’t care how long you’re gone,’ said Dana. ‘As long as you find Julian Orley.’

More importantly, as long as you’re all out of the picture for the next few hours, she thought. Carl and I can handle Wachowski and this woman DeLucas.

If Hanna was still coming, that was.

* * *

At around 02.40 that morning, the shuttle bus finally took the search teams over to the landing field.

O’Keefe sat on the bench of the open vehicle and let his gaze wander. On their second evening on the Moon, in an effort not to expose himself to too much conversation, he had retreated to the Gaia’s multimedia centre before the meal was over, and had watched a film about the Peary Base. So he knew that it covered over ten square kilometres and that the landing field alone took up three times the space of a football field. The silo-like towers on the western wall were spaceships left behind by the teams who had first ventured to the North Pole. Originally converted into living quarters, they now served as emergency accommodation, themselves dwarfed by a telescope currently under construction, while the domes in the centre, Igloos 1 and 2, formed the heart of the base. Both had been brought to the Pole as collapsible structures, and had then been blown up to house size and coated with a layer of regolith several metres thick, in order to protect the inhabitants from solar storms and meteorites. Airlocks had been cut into the walls, the ground levelled off all around them, and vehicles and equipment had been stored in hangars, those halved tubes which Momoka had referred to in her usual defeatist manner as junk, and which were actually burnt-out fuel tanks from the Space Shuttle era.

Over the years, the station had grown, expanding to include streets, annexe buildings and a vast open-cast mine. In the distance, against a backdrop of automated factories in which the regolith was processed into building components, the framework of huge, open assembly facilities towered up. Manipulators ran on rails along the bodies of mining machines in the making: welding, riveting and adjusting parts, while humanoid robots carried out precise mechanical work. Cable cars and railway trucks were carrying material from the factories to the building yards. Wherever you looked, machines were hard at work. Lifelessness in its most vivid form.

O’Keefe looked towards the east as the bus made its way towards the landing field, two kilometres away from the main site. Fields of solar collectors, their panels directed at the wandering, never-setting sun, covered low, undulating hills. The craters were interspersed with canals of lava. Thanks to them, the Peary Base had a widely ramified system of natural catacombs, the majority of which hadn’t yet been explored. Just one feature betrayed what the ground was concealing: a crack, or rather a chasm. It gaped at its full width in the high plateau, spread out to the west and opened into a steeply descending valley, the bottom of which wasn’t touched
by a single ray of sunlight. Bridges crossed over what seemed like the remains of a severe earthquake, although it was actually a caved-in lava canal, through which liquid stone had flowed billions of years ago. As O’Keefe knew from the documentary, some of the cave branches led into the chasm, which made him wonder whether the underground of the base was accessible from there.

They drove through the gate in the screens surrounding the landing field. There was moderate activity taking place all around them. One of the grasshopper-like forklifts was corresponding soundlessly with a manipulator, whose segmented arm rose in their direction like a final greeting, then froze. So far as could be seen, the tracks on the rail station gallery lay there abandoned. Beneath the harsh, uneven light, the lonely route wound off into the valley. The activity of the machines had a ritualistic quality to it; one could even say post-apocalyptic mindlessness, an image of strange self-contentment.

What would they find at Aristarchus? Suddenly, he was overcome by the desire to go to sleep and wake up in the timelessness of a Dublin pub of somewhat ill repute, where the customers were more concerned with the accurate proportion of foam to black stout than all the wonders of the Milky Way put together, and often sighed in remembrance of allegedly better times as they raised the glasses to their lips.

The night crawled by.

Yoyo was off somewhere on the phone to Chen Hongbing, Tu was discussing the possibility of a joint venture with Dao IT, his still-furious, abhorrent competitor, and Jericho was struggling to keep his eyes open. Three hundred metres above London, his brain had turned into a swamp, gurgling and mumbling with decaying theories, all paths either reaching a dead end or getting lost in the unknown. He was finding it harder and harder to concentrate. Vic Thorn on his journey into eternity. Kenny Xin, slinking towards Palstein’s planned assassination. The nine heads of Hydra. Carl Hanna, on whom Norrington hadn’t yet managed to find even the smallest blemish. Diane with her ever increasing messages about Calgary and the massacre in Vancouver. Sinister representatives of the CIA, living up to the cliché. From a great height, he could see himself running around in a circle so big it felt like he was going in a straight line, but he always ended up back in the same place.

He was absolutely shattered.

Yoyo came back from her phone conversation just as he was about to stretch out on the floor and close his eyes for a moment. But then he might have gone to sleep, and his overtaxed brain would have conjured up dreams of hunting and being hunted. He was actually pleased that Yoyo was keeping him awake, even though her mercurial vitality was increasingly getting on his nerves. Since their arrival in the Big O, she had single-handedly polished off a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino, had the ruby-red tones of Sangiovese Grosso in her cheeks and the never-tiring look of youth, and all without showing any sign of drunkenness. For every cigarette she smoked, two new ones seemed to grow out of her fingers. She was even more unpredictable than the Welsh weather: gloomy and glowering one moment, bright the next.

‘How’s your father doing?’ he yawned.

‘As can be expected.’ Yoyo sank down into a swivel chair then jumped right up again. ‘Really well actually. I didn’t tell him everything, of course. Like what happened at the Pergamon Museum, he doesn’t need to know that, right? Just so you know, in case you speak to him.’

‘I can’t see any reason why I should.’

‘Hongbing is your client.’ She went over to the coffee machine. ‘Have you forgotten that already?’

Jericho blinked. He suspected that, if he looked in the mirror, he would find his eyes had been replaced by computer monitors. He forced himself to look up from the screen.

‘I brought you back to him,’ he said. ‘So the honourable Chen is no longer my client.’

‘Oh great.’ Yoyo studied the selection on the machine. ‘There’s a thousand varieties of coffee, but no tea.’

‘Look more closely. The English are tea-drinkers.’

‘Where is it then?’

‘Bottom right. Hot water. The box of teabags is next to it. So what did you tell him?’

‘Hongbing?’ Yoyo rummaged through the box. ‘I told him that we had a heartfelt conversation with Vogelaar and that he filled us in on what was going on, and that Donner turned out to be a cover.’ She put her cup under the nozzle, dropped in a bag of Oolong and ran boiling water over it.

‘So in other words you said we were having a lovely holiday,’ mocked Jericho. ‘And have we been to Madame Tussaud’s and shopping on the King’s Road?’

‘So should I have told him about the experience of pressing the eyeballs out of a dead man?’

‘Fine, enough said. A mocha, please.’

‘A what?’

‘Coffee with chocolate. Left row, third button from the top. So how far did you get with Thorn?’

They had divided up their tasks, which meant that Yoyo was evaluating the data relayed by Edda Hoff and completing it with information she found online.

‘I’ll be finished in a few minutes,’ she said, watching as the machine spat out a mixture of cappuccino and chocolate. ‘Would I be correct in assuming that you’re tired?’

Jericho was just about to answer when he realised that Diane was simultaneously uploading 112 new reports about Calgary and Vancouver. He sank into a depressed silence. Yoyo put the steaming cup in front of him and began to slurp down her tea in front of her monitor. He listlessly decided to have one final look at the message that had set everything off, then to go and sleep.

Just as the text appeared on his screen, Yoyo whistled lightly through her teeth.

‘Do you want to know who was project leader for the Peary Missions from 2020 to the end of 2024?’

‘From the way you say it I take it that I do want to know.’

‘Andrew Norrington.’

‘Norrington?’ Jericho’s slumped shoulders tightened up. ‘Shaw’s deputy?’

‘Wait.’ She wrinkled her brow. ‘There were a number of project leaders, but Norrington was definitely in the team. It doesn’t say to what extent or how direct his contact with Thorn was.’

‘And you’re sure it’s the same Norrington?’

‘Andrew Norrington,’ she read. ‘Responsible for personnel and security, transferred in November 2024 to Orley Enterprises as deputy head of security.’

‘Strange.’ Jericho wrinkled his forehead. ‘So it should have rung a bell with Hoff when I spoke to her about Thorn.’

‘She’s Norrington’s subordinate. Why would she be concerned with the details of his past career?’

‘But Norrington didn’t say anything either.’

‘Did you speak to him about Thorn?’

‘Not directly. Shaw and he were in a meeting. I came over and said that some unexpected event must have stopped the mini-nuke being ignited the year before.’

‘Mind you, Shaw already knew about your Vic Thorn theory.’

‘That’s true, probably from Hoff. Hmm. She must have clocked that Norrington was with NASA at the same time as Thorn. Sure, she had a hell of a lot on her plate – but Norrington—’

‘You mean, he should have thought of Thorn himself?’

‘Maybe that’s asking too much.’ Jericho rested his chin in his hands. ‘But do you know what? I’m going to go and ask him.’

* * *

‘Victor Thorn—’

Norrington was sitting in his surprisingly small office, one of the few rooms that weren’t open-plan. Jericho had turned up unannounced, as if he were just passing.