Canal Dreams

5: Concentration

They had gone to the Nakodo first. The men in the first boat were wearing National Guard uniforms, but anyway weren't spotted until they were on board; nobody had heard the muffled outboards on their Gemini. They went straight to the bridge and radio room, taking both over without a fight; they had silenced pistols and boxy-looking Uzi sub-machine-guns, and nobody had been foolish enough to argue with them. Another Gemini had whispered out of the darkness and unloaded more — and more heavily armed men, while the first boat made for the Nadia, taking Endo with them to further reassure the Nadia's crew if they were challenged. They were seen approaching, and met when they came on deck. Endo asked to see Bleveans. The captain was having dinner with the other officers and his wife; they put a gun to Mrs. Bleveans's head, and told her husband to summon the radio operator. Officer Janney was on the bridge when the venceristas went to take it over. He tried to fight, and was pistol-whipped. That was the end of any resistance on the Nadia. The second inflatable off-loaded venceristas on to the ship while the Gemini of fake National Guards took Endo over to Le Cercle. By the time Philippe had made his radio calls to the other two ships, they had already been taken over, guns pointing at the heads of the radio operators as they told Philippe everything was just fine.

'I am Comrade Major Sucre, the man who'd caught her arm said; he waved her to a seat. 'We have taken over your ships for a little while. Please be patient. You do not try to hurt us, we won't hurt you. OK? He looked round the mess at the silent people. The officers and Hisako sat at one end of the table, the crew — some French, most Moroccan and Algerian either sat at the other end, or on the floor.

'OK? the Comrade Major repeated sharply.

Finally, Philippe said, 'Yes. He looked at some of the Moroccan seamen sitting near by. 'Can I say what you just said in French? These men do not understand English.

Sucre smiled. 'OK. He hefted his assault rifle. 'But you remember we have the guns.

Philippe spoke to the others. The men nodded; a few grinned at the venceristas, gave a thumbs-up sign.

'Good, said Sucre. 'You sit here now; I come back soon. He put one finger to his lips. Y, silencio, huh? Sucre left the mess, taking two of the other armed men with him. The two venceristas who were left stood at either side of the door. They had come off the second Gemini; they wore black fatigues and black berets with red-star badges like the one Sucre had worn. They cradled nightsighted assault rifles with long, curved magazines; they had automatic pistols stuffed into their belts, extra assault-rifle magazines webbed to their belts, and two small round grenades attached to their combat jackets near their shoulders. One of them slowly wiped his forehead and cheeks with a cloth, rubbing off most of the black night-camouflage.

Hisako looked at Philippe, sitting expressionless at the head of the table, hands flat on the surface. He looked at her after a moment. She smiled. He gave a small twitch of his lips, seemed as though he was about to nod, then looked up at their two guards, and fixed his eyes on the area of table between his hands.

Sucre came back in, alone, clipping what looked like a small radio to his belt. He put his hands on his hips, looked round at them all. 'You behave yourself? Good. Gonna take you on a boat trip; you're going to the other ship, OK? The Nadia. He turned to one of the other venceristas to say something, then saw Philippe standing up slowly at the far end of the room.

Sucre turned back. 'Yes, Captain?

'You mean, we all go?

'Yeah; everybody.

'I cannot; I have to stay. This ship is my… He seemed to be searching for the right word. Sucre took the automatic pistol from his belt and aimed it at Philippe. Philippe swallowed, went silent. Hisako tensed; Sucre was a metre away. She looked from Sucre to Philippe, who glanced at her. When she looked back at Sucre, he was still looking at Philippe, but the gun was pointing straight at her. She felt her eyes widen. The automatic's muzzle looked very big and dark. She could see the rifling at the end of the barrel, producing a hole that reminded her of a gearwheel from an old-fashioned watch. A thin film of oil glistened on the gun's steel.

'Yes? grinned Sucre. 'You come too, Captain?

'I'm not the captain, she heard Philippe say. 'Yes, I come too.

Sucre stayed just as he was for a moment, then turned to look at Hisako, smiled broadly, and turned the gun round so it was in profile for her. 'Safety on, see? he said. She nodded. He stuffed it back into his belt.

'Captain; how many people your launch hold?

'Twelve, Philippe sighed. Hisako took her eyes off the gun sticking out of the comrade major's belt. How dry her mouth had gone, she thought.

Sucre nodded, looked slowly round the room, lips moving soundlessly. 'OK; we take you over… ten each. He pointed at her. Uno, dos, tres… he pointed at nine of the crewmen. … diez. You go now. Captain, you tell them.

Philippe told the men what was happening. Hisako stood with the rest. They were taken down to the Gemini, and with one vencerista sitting watching them from the bows, and a second operating the outboard with one hand while pointing his gun at them with the other, they were taken over the calm black waters of the lake to the brightly lit shape of the Nadia.

He was her bow; so she thought of him. The English pun amused her, though it was too obscure to try and explain. Nevertheless, it felt true; she could hold him to her, one hand at his neck and the other on the small of his back, and she was the instrument he played upon, she was the shape he pressed against and made sound, the four-folded string he touched.

She had not had very many lovers. She was sure she had not had enough to estimate the general range of male sexuality, to know how many emotional and physical octaves they could encompass, so she could not tell if she had just been a little unlucky in the past, or exceptionally fortunate now. Her bow; as matched. And sometimes as close, as complete and as one as if she was the case and he the cello, fitted and nested and secure and embraced at every point and part. They spent days and nights in her cabin, forever touching and looking at each other, and being amazed that each touch and sensation still felt so new and good, that each gaze was returned, and that each succulent act seemed only to increase the desire for more, sating and kindling at once.

It was an open secret, and she thought no one wished them ill, but they kept up the appearance of friendship only, and she didn't come to Le Cercle to lie with him there. That was where he had to go to work, always leaving looking regretful and tired, and so big but vulnerable she wanted to hug him for ever. And so their partings, like their couplings, were always full of touches and small caresses… before he was borne off by the launch that she watched all the way across, and she was left to curl up and sleep in the narrow empty bed, exhausted and slightly sore, but almost immediately aroused by just smelling his dark male scent off the sheets and pillows, already wanting him again.

Still, they found time to dive, which she enjoyed, and enjoyed even more knowing that he loved it so much and that it meant more to him having somebody else to dive with, someone with whom he could share the joy he obviously felt, and to whom he could teach the skills he was so proud of. He kept on with his cello lessons though she suspected he was somehow humouring her — and did indeed school her in the basics of operating an oil tanker. That she found interesting too, appreciating the ship — as he'd said — as a kind of instrument, and one which had to be maintained and kept in tune if it was to deliver all it was capable of.

Only the immobility of it all frustrated her; she could play with the satellite location system and mess around with the. radar set, but the satellite read-out always displayed the same numbers, and the view on the radar only altered according to which direction the wind had swung the ship in. Still, it was fun to discover the vessel's many systems; how you could pump oil from tank to tank to keep the load as even as possible; how, from the bridge, you could monitor even something as obscure as the amount and type of metallic fragments suspended in a gearbox's oil, and so determine how each gear was wearing. Keeping the terms of their trade equal, she tried to improve his English in return.

Then Captain Herval left to return to France. The shipping line had decided they would run the ship down to a skeleton crew.

She was terrified Philippe would be the next to go. The embassies and consulates advised staying put because the venceristas had begun a new campaign of urban terrorism which included kidnapping foreigners, but everyone thought the diplomats were being excessively cautious. A few of the Nadia's crew, and Captain Yashiro of the Nakodo, also left for home or new ships. Captain Herval travelled to Colón to pick up another ship, but never made it; he disappeared, pulled out of his taxi by gunmen half a kilometre from the docks. The shipping line decided the crew should stay on the ship. Hisako tried not to feel glad Herval had been taken.

Philippe was in command of the Le Cercle now; he changed with the responsibility, but not very much. And now at least she felt comfortable with the idea of sometimes staying overnight on his ship, in his double bed.

The war went on around them, the parties did the rounds from ship to ship, the Fantasia del Mer made occasional trips from Gatún with supplies and mail, and some of the nearer islands in the lake were visited on picnics. On a couple of nights they saw distant flashes in the sky, and heard the dull, thudding noise of bombs and shells exploding. One afternoon a flight of PAF jets blasted overhead, a trio of glittering arrowheads trailing a brown wake of shattered air and an airport scent of used kerosene.

The Nadia had a large lounge; that was where they were taken. It was strange to see everybody together and yet so quiet and powerless, she thought; a little like seeing actors out of costume and away from the theatre. The people from the three ships — even those from the Nadia — looked just as naked and placeless, wrenched from their customary setting.

They were herded into the lounge by the venceristas. There were two outside the door and another inside the room, sitting on a high stool behind the bar, heavy machinegun resting on a beer pump. The man behind the bar had told them — in broken English — that they had to keep the blinds and curtains drawn, and no, they couldn't get a drink from the bar. They were free to talk and walk about, as long as they didn't try to cross the semi-circle of small stools set a couple of metres out from the bar itself. There were two toilets at that same end of the room; they could use them so long as they went one at a time and didn't stay long.

Hisako saw the people from the Nakodo and went over to them, hugging Mandamus (a slobbery kiss on the cheek), Broekman (an encouraging pat on the back) and even Endo (rigid fluttering surprise).

'Dear lady, are you all right? Mandamus enquired.

'Fine, she told him. She felt a little foolish in her light kimono, like the one person at the party wearing fancy dress. 'What's happening? she asked Broekman, still wearing his engineer's overalls. 'Do you know? Why are they here?

They all sat down together on the carpet. 'Could be part of a general push, Broekman said. 'More likely it's an ambush of some sort; I bet they're expecting the National Guard out here; something like that. Broekman hesitated, looked around. 'Have you seen the Americans?

'What? She looked around, peering over the tops of chairs and couches.

'Captain and Mrs Bleveans, Broekman said softly. 'We know they clobbered Janney, but where are the Bleveans? And Orrick?

'I think Orrick was up in the bow, smoking, when they came aboard, Mandamus said. He wore his usual baggy, creamy white suit.

'You didn't say that, Broekman said, obviously surprised.

Mandamus shrugged massively. 'I just remembered. He goes there to smoke the kif. I have smelled it. I never wanted before to mention it.

'Well, either they've got him but haven't brought him here like everybody else, or he's hiding… or escaped, Broekman said. 'Whatever. It did occur to me the Americans might be singled out; shot, maybe. Hostages perhaps.

'They've kept the radio operators separate, too, Mandamus pointed out.

'I think Bleveans help Mr Janney, Endo said. He was obviously letting himself go; Hisako spotted his loosened tie and an undone top button.

'Could be, Broekman agreed.

'But what should we do? This is the question. Mandamus looked laden with the responsibility of it all.

'You mean, Broekman said, 'should we try to escape?

'Dig a tunnel? Hisako couldn't resist it. They looked at her. 'Sorry.

'Well, that isn't one of our options, Broekman grinned. 'But ought we to think about trying to get away?

'Depends on their intentions, Mandamus said, glancing at the man behind the bar.

'They no kill us yet, Endo said, smiling.

'… with us split up, Mandamus was saying. 'They haven't said they will kill others if one tries to escape, but I think one has to assume this is implied. We live in an age where the etiquette of sieges and hostage-taking has become — as one might say — public domain. They assume that we know the rules. I think we have to test these assumptions before we make any hasty moves.

'The etiquette of hostage-taking? Broekman almost choked. 'What are you talking about, some avant-garde theatre show or something? These bastards are threatening to turn us into hamburger meat and you're talking about etiquette?

'A turn of phrase, Mr Broekman.

She stopped listening to them talk. She stood up and looked to the door as it opened. More of Le Cercle's crew; Marie Boulard came to her and they embraced. The small trenchwoman's hair smelled of roses; her skin of… some allotrope of normal human sweat; fear perhaps. Hisako looked anxiously at the door, but it closed again. Marie kissed her cheek, then sat beside Mandamus, who patted her hand. Le Cercle's chief engineer, Viglain, stood before Hisako, tall and vaguely cadaverous and smelling of Gitanes. He took her solemnly by the shoulders and announced, Il viendra, in his surprisingly deep voice.

She nodded. Je comprends. (But thought, How does he know he will come?)

Viglain sat down with Marie Boulard.

She watched Broekman share a cigarette with one of the Nakodo's Korean crew, and wished that she smoked.

It was another twenty minutes by her watch before they brought Philippe and the rest of the crew in. She ran to him, threw her arms round him. They were hustled further into the lounge by the armed men.

They reassured each other they were both all right, and sat with the others. Philippe and Broekman started talking about what might be going on. She half-listened, but really only wanted to sit there, holding Philippe's hand, or with her head on his shoulder. His deep voice lulled her.

She was shaken awake gently. Philippe's face looked very large and warm. He was holding her left wrist oddly. 'Hisako-chan, they want our watches. He stroked her wrist with his thumb. She had to ask him to repeat what he'd said. It was still night, the lounge was warm. Comrade Major Sucre stood in front of her, assault rifle strapped over one shoulder. He was holding a black plastic bag. Philippe took off his big diver's watch and dropped it into the throat of the bag as Sucre held it out to him. She looked at her watch; she'd snoozed for less than fifteen minutes. She fumbled with the strap on the little Casio, wondering fuzzily where she'd left her own diver's watch. Probably in Philippe's cabin.

'Don't worry, lady, Sucre said. 'You get it back when we're finished here.

'Why do you want our watches? she said, feeling her mouth stumble over the words. The strap resisted her. She tutted, leant forward, then Philippe held her hand, helped her.

'Hey, Sucre said. 'You that violinist?

She looked up, blinking, as the watch came free. 'Cellist, she said, dropping the watch into the bag with the others. 'I play the cello. She only realised then that she hadn't thought of the instrument; of course, it might be at risk. She formed a question to enquire after its safety, then thought the better of it.

'I heard of you, Sucre said. 'I bet I heard your discs.

She smiled. Sucre had wiped most of the blacking off his face. He looked young beneath it; a lean Hispanic face.

'Comrade Major, Broekman said, putting his watch into the bag. 'I don't suppose you're going to tell us what you're doing, are you?

'Huh?

'Why are you doing this? Why are you occupying the ships?

'Is Free Panamanian Navy, Sucre laughed. He moved off to take watches from other people. He stopped, looked back at Broekman. 'Where you from?

'South Africa, Broekman said.

Sucre sauntered back. 'You fascist? he asked. Hisako felt her palms start to sweat.

Broekman shook his head. 'When I was there they called me a communist.

'You like blacks?

Broekman hesitated. Hisako could see him composing his reply. 'I don't like anyone automatically, Comrade Major; black or white.

Sucre thought about this, nodding absently. 'OK, he said, and moved off again. Hisako breathed out.

She bought a new cello with one lot of prize money. She took her old cello back to Hokkaido for the winter holiday, leaving the new one in the Academy, not knowing quite why she did this. Hisako had a decision to make. She might stay on at the Academy, or she might go to Todai — Tokyo University — every Japanese kid's bright shining wept-for goal. She'd known people who had broken their hearts when they could not get into Tokyo. You heard all the time of people killing themselves because they didn't get good enough grades, or because they'd failed when they got there and found the work too hard.

Did she want to do this? English at Todai. It would have seemed absurd just a few years ago, but her grades had improved that much; she honestly had no idea why. She thought she probably could do it; she had become a good student, and she had the enthusiasm in the subject she thought necessary to carry her through.

But was she ready for the pressure? Did she really want to be a diplomat or civil servant, or a teacher or translator? Or somebody's highly qualified wife? None of those things attracted her. She didn't particularly want to travel, for one thing, which closed off diplomacy, or marriage to a diplomat; she always felt slightly queasy at the thought of getting on a plane. And she wanted to read and speak English because she enjoyed it, not because it was her job.

But she didn't know if she wanted to play the cello for a living either. She loved that too, and thought she might be good enough to join an orchestra, but the same problem applied; anything she loved that much might be spoiled if it became her work.

As though to take her mind off it, she had become very athletic, spending more time in the Academy's gym than her cello tutors thought proper. She lost herself in the developing abilities of her body.

The ferry journey north that winter was a wild, rough affair, but she sat outside part of the time, hugging her old cello case to her, her teeth chattering, her hands raw and red in her mittens, the salt spray a taste on her lips and a cold and grainy sweat on her face, while the ship pitched and rolled and the white waves tumbled and slid, battering the ferry like one sumo wrestler slapping another out of the ring.

Her mother looked suddenly aged. Hisako sat with old friends in Sapporo cafes, and found she had little to say to them. She went to the ice festival, but found it preposterous. She did some skiing but sprained her ankle early on in the holiday and spent the rest of it either in bed or hobbling around.

She went to see Mr Kawamitsu. It was too long since she'd visited him, always finding excuses. She had called once before and, finding him out, realised she was relieved he wasn't there. But now she went in hope, and he answered the door.

Mr Kawamitsu was pleased to see her. His apartment smelled of yuzu and new tatami mats. Mrs Kawamitsu made tea for them.

They talked about Jacqueline du Pré. Mr Kawamitsu thought Hisako could be an oriental du Pré. Hisako laughed nervously, hand over her mouth.

'Oh… judo, karate, kendo… you have become ninja, Hisako, Mr Kawamitsu said when she told him of her newfound interests.

She bowed her head, smiling.

'But this is not very feminine for a young woman, he told her. 'So… aggressive. Won't you frighten off all the boys?

'Perhaps, she agreed, still staring at the floor. She fiddled with the cotton edging of the tatami mat.

'But perhaps that is not so bad, if you want to be a great cellist?

She bit her lip.

'Do you want to be a great cellist, Hisako? Mr Kawamitsu asked, in a formal manner, as though it were part of a temple ceremony.

'I don't know, she said, looking up at him, and suddenly feeling very young and somehow clear, and seeing how Mr Kawamitsu too had aged. She felt glowing and pure.

Mr Kawamitsu nodded slowly, and poured more tea.

On the ferry back she sat outside again, watching the pitching, ragged sea, and the dark veils of distant squalls. Once more, she clutched the old cello case to her, looking across the empty deck and out over the cold turbulence of sea, resting her chin on the shoulder of the cheap but — to her — precious old case, and shivering every few seconds. After a while she stood up, crossed unsteadily to the rail on the shifting deck, lifted the cello and its case up over her head and threw it into the water. It fell flat to the waves and hit with a thud she thought she heard. It floated off, falling astern, tossed and blown across the cold grey sea like some strange up-ended boat.

She got into trouble; somebody saw the case in the water and was sure it was a body. The ferry slowed and turned, heeling over alarmingly as it turned broadside to the storm, and headed back. She hardly noticed at the time, locked in a toilet, sobbing.

The ferry was way behind schedule anyway, but lost another couple of hours retracing its course to look for the 'body'. Incredibly in that furious sea, they found the old case, bobbing mostly underwater, just the head showing. They got a rope round it and hauled it aboard. Hisako's name was inside the case. The Academy was informed. She was punished with extra duties in the hostel, and additional lessons on a Sunday.

The old cello was ruined, of course, but she kept it, and then one Sunday in the spring, after her punishment had ceased, and while the cherry blossom painted the Tokyo parks pink, she took the water-warped cello and its salt-stained case on the train to Kofu, climbed to the bald summit of a hill to the north of the Fuji Five Lakes, and in a clearing using several cans of lighter fluid cremated the instrument in its battered, twisted coffin.

The cello groaned and creaked and popped as it died, and the strings snapped like whips. The flames and smoke looked pale and insubstantial against the budding trees and the bright sky, but the heated fumes, rising through the clear fresh air of spring, made Fuji itself tremble.

The warriors moved amongst the people trapped in the great room. She sat with Philippe. The room was like a vast ballroom, with a complicated ceiling. Metal beams soared overhead, painted yellow and grey but when she looked harder — she was not sure if they supported panes of glass or not. In the huge room there were pools of water and clumps of trees and little hills covered in shrubs and flowers, and naked women moved slowly in the distance, carrying towels. Mists rose from the warm waters of the pools, curling around red ceremonial arches, which stood in the choppy waves like letters in a foreign alphabet. On a black shore, by the side of a gently steaming pool, smiling people all lying in a line were being slowly covered with dark sand.

Out in the pool, its surface half-obscured by the rising folds of vapour, a woman surfaced, wearing a black bathing cap on her head, a pair of rubber goggles over her eyes, and nose-clips on her nose. She bobbed in the water, making a sad whistling noise. In her hand, between thumb and forefinger, she held something small and lustrous and white.

She looked away from the woman. On the beach they were still being covered by the black sand; yellow-uniformed attendants with plastic shovels heaped the dark stuff over the smiling, chatting people, slowly burying them. She looked up at the clock, high up in the dome, but it was half-melted, like. a painting, and stuck at 8:15. She looked at her own watch, but it showed the same time.

The warriors came closer, collecting bits of people.

On a hill outside the great glass room she could see the castle. It was warm in the ballroom, but outside there was snow. The massive dark stones of the castle were edged in white, and on each level of soaring roofs — like the wings of some great black crow, frozen in flight — snow lay, blending the castle's tall shape into the milky sky.

The warriors came to her and Philippe. They wore long stiff skirts of brown and grey, and their faces were obscured by long mesh masks; they held long cane rods in both hands. They brought the rods down on people, turning the parts they hit to gold. They touched them on the hand or the foot or the leg or the arm, or touched their torso, or their head. Wherever they touched somebody, they would name the part they touched. That part would turn to gold, leaving the rest unharmed. The unharmed bits lay inert and dry on the tiles, or only twitched slightly. Warriors following behind the caneswordsmen collected the golden body-pieces in a big sack, apologising.

The swimming boy had a leg removed, the fat pharaoh his head (he sat, headless, a smooth pink stump where his neck had been, impatiently tapping his fingers on the tiles at the side of the pool), the little brother his arms, the black man his torso (his limbs kept trying to reassemble themselves in the right pattern, as though his body was still there, but each time it seemed they were about to succeed, one arm or leg would twitch a little and spoil the whole effect, and an expression of annoyance would pass across the face on the be-torsoed head).

The warriors bowed to them, touched Philippe's feet, and then her hands. Her hands glinted gold in the light, and fell into her lap. One of the men with the sack lifted them and dropped them into its dark depths with a dull clunk. She looked down at her wrists, all rosy and new-looking; the stumps smelled like a baby's skin. Her watch had fallen off and now lay on the tiled floor. It still said 8:15. She kicked it into the steaming pool, over the monkeys crowding round its rim. The watch flew a long way and disappeared into the mists. She heard a plop.

The line of smiling people on the black sand had been covered from toes to neck. They chattered like birds, though she could not hear what they were saying. The yellow-uniformed attendants looked tired and glum. Philippe stroked her back, making her arch it a little.

Through the clouds of steam on the far side of the room, she saw a golden, bearded Buddha standing on a small hill, surrounded by trees. One of the diving women rose up out of the water, covered in a black suit and holding a face mask and a wooden bucket. The woman came up to her and picked something out of the bucket; it was her watch. The woman made a soft hooting noise. She thanked the woman and tried to put the watch on, but couldn't. It was still stuck at 8:15, though she could hear it ticking. She needed hands to adjust it.

She ran after the warriors, took the sack from one of them, and started rummaging around inside it, looking for her hands. There were so many it was difficult, but she found them eventually; they were the slightly melted ones. They fitted perfectly. A warrior came up to hit her, but she took the stick from him and struck him over the head. He fell into the water. All the warriors fell into the water, taking the sack with them; it sank quickly.

A terrible screaming noise came from behind her, and she turned, still holding the bloody sword. All the people she had left behind were writhing on the floor, their blood smearing the yellow tiles as it gushed from their mutilated limbs.

The line of people on the beach was completely buried; just a long line in the black sand.

The sky beyond the grey metal beams of the dome had gone black.

When she turned back, the water in the pools had turned red and thick, and she couldn't feel her hands, or her arms. The sword dropped from her and clanged on the tiles. A great red fountain burst suddenly out of the turgid surface of the pool. A terrible wailing noise filled the air. She smelled iron.

Philippe stroked her back, speaking her name, and she woke on a couch in the lounge of the ship. It was darker than it had been, and quiet; nobody talking. The brightest light was at the bar, where it reflected off the bottles and glasses and the barrel of the guard's machine-gun. She didn't remember going to sleep on the couch. She must have twisted while she slept; her arms were trapped beneath her, cutting off the blood. She struggled to turn round again, while Philippe asked her if she was all right; she'd been making strange noises. Her useless arms tingled and pulsed as the blood returned, burning in the veins as though it was acid.

6: Sal Si Puedes

The aguacero came in the middle of the day; a rapid darkening of the lightly clouded sky, the sound of the wind around the ship, quickly increasing. Then the storm itself, spattering rain against the windows, howling around the superstructure, and the ship starting to roll a little; heeling one way then the other, without rhythm, as the wind swirled and switched direction and gusts pushed the vessel across the lake, swinging it around its mooring, stem to its buoy and tied there like a nose-ringed bull to a post.

They had all slept during the night; most, fitfully. It was warm and stuffy and uncomfortable. The ship's air-conditioning was working, but struggling with the heat produced by the sheer density of bodies crammed into the lounge. The atmosphere was kept constantly smoky by the cigarettes of the Moroccans and Algerians; the smokers had gravitated together in what looked like a form of racial segregation, sitting furthest from the bar. Still, their smoke drifted throughout the lounge. Broekman went down to sit with them a few times, at first to smoke the two cigars he happened to have on him when he was taken off the Nakodo, and later to bum cigarettes.

Hisako had the privilege of sleeping on a couch, as did Marie Boulard. Some of the others had cushions from seats and couches. The venceristas had brought a few blankets and sheets and pillows down from the cabins, so that most people had something to cover themselves with if they wanted to. In the heat of the lounge most people went without.

Late in the night, the gunmen took one of the larger Algerians away. The people still awake waited to see if he'd come back. He did, holding the rear end of Gordon Janney's stretcher; Captain Bleveans carried the front. Mrs Bleveans led the party in, followed by two venceristas. Janney waved from the stretcher and told people he was OK really. His head was bandaged; the right side of his face was bruised from chin to eyebrow. They suspended the stretcher between two seats, and made up a bed on a couch for Mrs Bleveans.

The Nadia's captain made sure his wife was settled, then joined Philippe and Endo. Hisako sat beside Philippe; she hadn't been able to get back to sleep after her nightmare. Broekman was curled up under a sheet near by, looking oddly childlike. Mr Mandamus lay on his back under another sheet, for all the world like a thin man pinned to the floor by a large sack. Philippe and Endo — with Hisako's help — told Bleveans what had happened on their ships.

'So, no other casualties? Bleveans asked.

'No, Captain, Philippe said. They sat under a window. near one corner of the lounge, level with and about five metres from the bar, where one of the venceristas sat, machinegun resting on the polished surface, drinking a Coke.

Endo sat forward, a little closer to Bleveans. 'Mr Orrick… not with us. He rocked back again.

Bleveans looked at Philippe and Hisako. 'They took him away?

'They didn't get him at all, we think, Hisako said.

'Hmm. Bleveans rubbed the back of his neck tiredly, looking down at the carpet. Hisako hadn't noticed he was going bald before.

'And the radio operators, Philippe said. 'They are not here.

'Yeah, they've got all three of them together, in our radio room, Bleveans said. 'Pretending everything's normal, you know; like they're all on their own ships.

'How is Mr Janney? Hisako whispered.

Bleveans shrugged. 'I think he's concussed. I'd get him to hospital, normally.

'Men tell you, Endo said, 'why this?

'No, Bleveans frowned. 'But… they seemed, ah… annoyed… unsettled over something they heard on the news. He rubbed the back of his neck again. 'We were in my cabin with the door open… and we could hear they had CNN… maybe Channel 8, on in the bridge; that's their command centre, far as I can make out. Logical, I guess. Anyway; sounded like the news, and about halfway through… it was like being in a bar and the local team gets shut out, you know? Endo looked blank; Philippe frowned. Hisako translated for Endo while Bleveans rephrased for Philippe. 'Like they got some bad news, Bleveans went on. 'And something else… He stretched back, flexing his shoulders but at the same time getting to glance back at the guard behind the bar. 'They're talking to somebody else. They're using their own radios to talk to each other… there's some of them on the Nakodo, I guess, but… you reckon they all came off Le Cercle? Bleveans looked at Philippe, who nodded.

'I count them when they were together; and also two of my crew see them in the boat, and there were six. All the six come over with us to the Nadia.

'So that's two groups… and their high command, or next military level; on shore, I guess. They seem to talk different to them.

'In what way different? Philippe said.

'I don't know; slower, I guess.

'Perhaps the venceristas have suffered a defeat, Hisako said, not looking at them.

'What's that, ma'am'? Bleveans said.

'Oh. When they sounded upset hearing the news. Maybe the venceristas lost a battle, or somebody high up was captured or killed.

'Could be, Bleveans agreed.

'What of… congressmen'? Endo said, struggling with the word a little.

'How's tha- Bleveans had sat forward to hear Endo better, then stopped, and just nodded. 'Hmm.

'Yes, Hisako said, looking at Philippe. 'They were to fly over tomorrow. She looked at her watch, to see if it was past midnight, but of course they'd taken her watch. At least that had not been a dream. 'Today, if it's past midnight. She looked round the others. 'Is it?

'Yes, Philippe nodded. 'Near four and a half in the morning; I think they change guards on four-hour watches, and the last change was not long ago.

'So it's today, Bleveans said, tapping the carpet with one finger. 'The plane's meant to fly over today. He looked at Philippe and Endo. 'What d'you think, guys; SAMs?

'Pardon?

'Wakarimasen.

Hisako translated Surface to Air Missiles for Endo; Bleveans used the words rather than their acronym for Philippe. Both nodded and looked worried.

'I no see any… samus, Endo told Bleveans.

'No, Philippe agreed. 'Their weapons I see are… guns; grenades.

'Same here, Bleveans said. He glanced at Hisako. 'Just a thought. But if that is what they're up to I guess they would keep the heavy weaponry away, out of our sight.

'On the Nakodo? Hisako ventured.

'Mm-hmm, Bleveans yawned, nodding. 'Yeah, the Nakodo rather than the Le Cercle. Safer loosing off rockets from that than a tanker full of fuel.

'You think they shoot plane? Endo said quietly.

'Maybe, Bleveans said.

'Is very dangerous, I think, Philippe said, frowning.

'Might just start World War Three, Mr Ligny, Bleveans said, nodding in agreement. 'Yeah, I'd call that dangerous. If that's what they intend doing. He rubbed his eyes, sniffed. 'Anybody thought of any escape plans yet?

'No, Philippe said.

'Hmm. I guess they got this bit thought out fairly well. He stretched again, looking back for a moment. 'Leaving us free is a kindness; gives us something to lose. Keeping those stools in front of the bar is gonna make rushing the guy next to impossible… unless we want to take serious casualties. We could try a diversion, but… I have a feeling that's always looked a lot more easy in the movies than it really is.

'Doesn't everything? Hisako blurted, then put her hand to her mouth.

'I guess so, ma'am. He started to get up. 'They letting us use the heads?

'Yes, Hisako said, when the two men looked blank. Philippe understood. He shook his head. 'I check in there Captain; I do not think is way out there.

Bleveans smiled as he got to his feet. 'I guessed that much, Philippe; I just want to take a leak before I crash, you know? Excuse me. He nodded to them and walked off, swinging his arms slowly, holding each shoulder alternately. He gave a sort of half-salute to the vencerista behind the bar, who waved the Coke bottle in return.

Todai is not to be taken lightly; it is The Place, the Harvard, the Ox bridge of Japan; virtual guarantor of a job in the diplomatic service, the government or the fast track of a zaibatsu. In a country more obsessed with education than any other in history, Tokyo University is the very summit. Still, she sailed through it. She had grown; shot up in height at the last moment, becoming briefly gangly, her aboriginal, Ainu heritage catching up with her again. Still smaller than most gaijin, she became used to looking down on the average Japanese man. She swam, she hiked, she went gliding a few times and sailing occasionally. She kept up her Japanese sports too; the way of gentleness; the open hand; archery; kendo. These activities were financed with the money she got from the string quartet she helped form; they were popular, always raising their fees to keep demand down. She knew she didn't practise enough, and she scraped through numerous exams, because no matter how smart and how energetic you were there was still only so much time in each day. She still thought of it as sailing through, then and afterwards, and never lost a night's or even an hour's sleep over an exam, while her friends and the other people around her got far better grades and worried themselves sick.

She knew she didn't have to worry; she would float through everything, she'd be found regardless, and at her finale mountains would tremble. So she thought of it sometimes, in her wildest moments, when she'd had too much beer with her friends. She would survive; she would always survive. She was smart and strong after all, and with gaijin words or a gaijin music box, she'd get by.

For a while she had just three problems. Two were solved in one night. After a great deal of thought, having decided she didn't need love the way everybody else said they did, or thought they did, at least not the sort that you couldn't get from a mother or a few close friends, or feel towards a piece of music, or your homeland, she decided to be seduced, and to let a gaijin do the seducing.

He was called Bertil and he was from Malmo in Sweden; two years older than her, spending a year at a language college in Tokyo. He was blond which she loved and oddly funny, once you got past a layer of half-hearted Scandinavian gloom. She was still plucking her eyebrows and shaving her legs and arms, thinking them hairy and horrible, but when they got to the Love Hotel in Senzoku, and he undressed her — she'd told him she was a virgin, she hoped he wouldn't be put off by the way she trembled — he stroked her pubic hair (so that suddenly she thought, Oh no! The one place I didn't shave! — and it's a forest down there!) and said… well, she was too flustered to remember the exact words, but they were delighted, admiring words… and the one word she didn't forget, the one that a quarter of a century later she still could not hear without shivering; the word which had become almost synonymous with that feeling of a soft, sensual stroking, was the English word — how pleased he had sounded to think of it — luxuriant…

Bertil had to go back to Sweden a week later; the parting was excitingly bitter-sweet. She threw her razor away.

Which left just one problem; she hated the idea of flying. She traipsed out to Narita sometimes, to watch the jets take off and land. She enjoyed that, it was no ordeal. But the idea of actually getting on to a plane filled her with horror.

She auditioned for the NHK, the same orchestra she'd heard in Sapporo when she'd been a little girl and decided she wanted a cello. That she was nervous about.

But her fate was unstoppable now. She scraped through her last exams at Todai just as she'd scraped through the rest, but it was still a pass, and she'd hardly finished celebrating when the letter came from the NHK.

The day before her mother was due to arrive from Sapporo, she went back to the bald summit of the hill north of the Fuji Five Lakes, and sat there cross-legged in her kagool, listening to the rain drip off the trees and spatter on her hood, and watched the clouds trail like skirts round the base of Fuji. She took the letter out a couple of times and reread it. It still said yes; she had the place; it was hers. She kept thinking something was going to go wrong, and prayed her mother didn't change her mind at the last moment and in a fit of extravagance fly down to Tokyo.

'In the Caribbean, Mr Mandamus said in the midst of the storm, pronouncing the name of the sea in the British manner, with the emphasis on the third syllable, 'if you are on a low-lying island or part of the coast, you must beware of the slow-timed waves. The normal timing of waves hitting a shore is seven or eight per minute, but if the frequency becomes four or five beats a minute, you must flee, or be prepared to meet your maker. First of all, the sky will be cloudless and brassy, and the wind dies, leaving a leaden heat. The sea goes strangely greasy-looking, becoming uniform and undisturbed except for the long, ponderous waves; all lesser movements are smothered. The breakers hit the beach with a slow monotony, regular and machine-like and mindless.

'Then, in the sky; streamers of high cloud like ragged rays of dark sunlight, seeming to imanate from one place over the horizon. They spread over the head, while in the distance, beneath them, clouds form, and the sun looks milky, and a halo the colour of ashes surrounds it, so that it begins to look like an eye.

'In time, the sun is put out by the clouds, and it begins to go gloomy; quick dark clouds fill the middle air while on the horizon a wall of cloud starts to engulf the sky. It is the colour of copper at first. As it comes closer and grows higher, it darkens, through brown to black, and half the sky is covered by it. It is like an impossibly tall wave of darkness, tall like the night; the winds around you are still slight and uncertain, but the surf is hammering the beach like thunder, slow and heavy, like the beat of a cruel god's mighty heart.

'The dark wave falls, the winds land like hammer blows; rain like an ocean falling from the sky; waves like walls.

'When you think — if you are still alive to think — it can grow no worse, the sea retreats, sucked back into the darkness, leaving the coast far below the lowest low tidemark draining away into a violent night. Then the ocean returns, in a wave that dwarfs all previous waves; a cliff; a black mountain spilling over the land like the end of the world.

'Perhaps you have seen satellite photographs of a hurricane; from space, the eye looks tiny and black in the centre of the white featheriness of the storm. It looks too small and too perfectly round and black to be natural; you think it is something lying on the film. The hurricanes look very like galaxies, which I hear also have black holes in their centres. The eye is maybe thirty kilometres across. The air pressure can be so low sailors have said blood comes to the mouth and the eardrums ache. The water at the bottom of the eye is sucked up three metres above the rest of the ocean. Seen from a ship which has survived the winds, it is like being in a cauldron; the walls of blackness swirl round about, but in the eye the air is calm, humid, and appallingly hot. The circling storm moans from all around. The waves on the water froth and jostle and leap up, coming crashing in from every direction, colliding and bursting their spray into the boiling calm air. More often than not, raggedy, exhausted birds fly aimlessly inside the eye, those not killed by it; confused and beaten, they fill up the moaning air with their cries. A circle of clear sky overhead looks like Earth seen from space; blue and far away and unreal; sun and stars shine as though through gauze, removed and unreal. Then the screaming winds and the blackness and the drowning rain starts again.

'You ever been in a hurricane, Mandamus? Broekman asked.

'Merciful heavens, no, Mandamus shook his big head heavily. 'But I have read about it.

Hisako listened to the sound of the aguacero howling outside, and thought Mr Mandamus was very likely the sort of person who talked about air crashes during a bumpy flight, attempting to reassure nervous passengers with the thought that they wouldn't feel a thing, possibly. She decided not to correct him on 'imanate'.

The storm passed quickly, as aguaceros always did. Behind the drawn curtains of the stuffy lounge, it looked like a pleasant day.

Gordon Janney had slept badly, and his speech was slurred. Mrs Bleveans was changing the dressing on his head. Her husband was still sound asleep on the floor. There were two and sometimes three venceristas behind the bar at any particular moment. One was reading a Spanish-language Superman comic.

Then the venceristas took one of the cooks away; some time later he returned with a trolley of burgers, potatoes and salad. The gunmen watched them eat and passed out bottles of water and Coke.

Mrs Bleveans persuaded Sucre she should be allowed to collect some toothpaste, a few toothbrushes and a bottle of antiseptic. Before she went she checked with Marie and Hisako, to find out if either of them needed any sanitary protection; neither did.

'Christ, I suppose that could be it, Broekman said, rubbing his lips with one hand. Philippe, Endo and Hisako had told him of the theory that the venceristas had come to shoot down the plane. The noise of Mr Mandamus snoring as he slept off his meal covered any sounds short of a shout they were likely to make.

'Is just a thought, Philippe said.

'Flight today, Endo confirmed.

'Crazy bastards; what're they trying to do?

'Maybe we're being paranoid, Hisako said. 'We'll know soon anyway.

'If the flight is today, Broekman said. 'On the news yesterday there was talk of some last-minute hitch; might be a delay.

'There was? Hisako looked at Philippe and Endo. Nobody else had heard this.

'On the World Service, just before our friends arrived.

Philippe looked worried. 'Captain Bleveans; he said the venceristas became… upset? Upset, when they hear something on the radio. Last evening.

'Shit, Broekman said. 'Sounds uncomfortably neat, doesn't it? He rubbed one bristly cheek. 'I didn't think the venceristas were that crazy.

'I think we must get to the radio, Philippe said.

'How do we do that? Broekman said, patting his overalls pockets for cigars that weren't there. 'Rushing the guy at the bar would be suicide, and all we get's a gun or two and a couple of grenades, plus we alert the others. If we had the time and a screwdriver maybe we could unscrew the windows, he nodded slightly towards the curtains, 'if they aren't rusted up. But we'd have to distract them for ten minutes or more. There's no outside access from the toilets; no access anywhere. The alternative is, one of us can try to get out on some sort of excuse and aim to overpower whoever they send with us. That's probably our best bet. And they probably know that.

Philippe shrugged. 'What excuse, you think?

'Try pretending we have to do something to one of the ships; tell them we have to turn on the bilge pumps or we'll sink, or transfer fuel to the generator or we'll lose power; something like that.

'You think they believe us?

'No. Broekman shook his head.

'So is not much hope?

Broekman shook his head. 'Doesn't mean it isn't worth a try. Perhaps we'll be lucky. They've been very casual so far; maybe they're not as confident and professional as they look; maybe they're just sloppy. Broekman ran one hand through his hair, looked round at where the Nadia's captain lay, one arm raised over his head to keep the light out of his eyes. 'We'd better get Bleveans in on this; it's his ship we might break if it goes wrong. Do we wake him now or leave him to get up in his own time?

Hisako confirmed Endo had understood. 'Leave him, Endo said.

Philippe pursed his lips. 'I don't know… if this plane-

The lounge door opened. Sucre stood there, pointing the gun at Hisako with one hand. Señora Onoda, he called. Bleveans stirred a little at the noise. Mandamus snored loudly and muttered something under his breath in Arabic. Hisako stood up into a layer of smoke, smelling Gitanes.

'Yes? She was aware that everybody was looking at her.

Sucre waved the gun. 'You come with me. He stood away from the door. There was another armed man in the corridor behind him.

Philippe started to get up too; she put a hand on his shoulder. 'Philippe-chan; it's all right.

He squeezed her hand. 'Hisako, don't- he began, but she was moving quickly away.

'Is just a phone call, Señora Onoda, Sucre told her on the way up to the radio room. He was about the same height as she, though much more muscled. His skin was coppery-olive and his face held no trace of the blacking; it looked freshly shaved. He smelled of cologne. She suspected his black curly hair was trimmed and perhaps even curled to make him look Guevara-ish.

'Mr Moriya?

'Sounds like, Sucre agreed, shepherding her up a companionway.

She wondered if she could escape; perhaps kick down, disabling Sucre, taking his gun. But it was better to wait until she was in the radio room. Her mouth was dry again, but at the same time it was as though there was some strange electric charge running through her teeth and gums, leaving a sharp, metallic taste. Her legs wobbled a little as they walked along the central corridor that led to the ship's bridge, senior officers' quarters, and radio room. A vencerista rested against the wall outside, between her and the bridge. She smelled more tobacco smoke; cigars or cigarillos.

Sucre took her elbow and stopped her, swung her round so that she bumped into the metal corridor wall. He pressed against her, the automatic pistol he'd pointed at her the evening before in his hand again. He put the gun up under her chin. She tipped her head back, looked into his dark eyes.

'Señora — he began.

'Señorita, she told him, then wished she hadn't.

'Hey, you're cool, Sucre grinned. He moved his thumb. There was a click which she both heard and felt through her neck and jaw. 'Hear that, Señorita?

She nodded slowly.

'Now no safety catch. Safety catch off. You say anything on the radio, I blow your brains out. Then I give the other two women to my men; we been in the jungles long time, yeah? And then after that I take the cojones off your francés-man. He put his free hand between her legs, patting her through the light material of the yukata. He smiled broadly. Her heart thudded. She felt as if she might lose control of her bowels. The gun was hard under her chin, half-choking her, making her want to gag. 'Understand? Sucre said.

'Yes.

'Yes; good. And you make it short.

'He will want to speak Japanese, she told him. Moriya would have used English to ask for her, but of course would expect to talk to her in Japanese.

Sucre looked surprised, then briefly angry. Finally he grinned. 'Tell him your francés-man want to listen too.

She nodded carefully. 'All right.

He took his hand away, backed off, waved her to the radio room.

The Nadia's radio operator let her into the seat. Sucre sat to her right, facing her, the automatic against her right ear. 'OK, he said quietly, not taking his eyes off her.

She picked up the handset, put it to her left ear. It was the wrong side; it felt strange. 'Hello, she said, swallowing.

'Hisako, what takes these people so long? And where did you get to anyway? Never mind. Look, it's getting ridiculous —

'Mr Moriya; Mr Moriya…

'Yes?

'Talk in English, please. I have a friend here who does not understand Japanese.

'What…? Moriya said in Japanese, then switched to English. 'Oh… Hisako… have I to?

'Please. For me.

'Very well. Very well. Let me see… Perhaps we have cancellings altogether. They still… they still… ah, want you appear some time, but — oh, I am sorry. I am impolite. How are you?

'Fine. You?

'Oh dear; you are being short with me. Always I know I say wrong thing when you are short with me. I am sorry.

'I'm all right, Moriya-san, she told him. 'I am well. How are you?

'Are you well really? You sound different.

Sucre rammed the gun into her ear, forcing her head over to the left. She closed her eyes. 'Mr Moriya, she said, trying to sound calm. 'Please believe me; I'm all right. What did you call for? Please; I have to get back… Hot tears came to her eyes.

'I just want know if anything… anything, umm happen out there. Umm; what gives? CNN say venceristas maybe to attack Panama city. This is true? You must to get out. Must to go away.

The pressure on her ear had relaxed a little; she brought her head up, pushing against the gun, stealing one angry glance at Sucre, who was staring intently at her, unsmiling. She blinked and sniffed the tears away, ashamed at having cried. 'Well, no, she told Moriya. 'Not right now. Maybe later. Perhaps later. I can't get out now. Sorry.

She had decided; she would say something. Not to warn, but to find out. She would say something about them waiting for the congressmen's plane to fly over. Her heart pounded in her chest, worse than when Sucre had had his gun at her throat. She started to phrase the sentence, to try to say something that would get Mr Moriya to respond and tell her if the plane was delayed or not. Something which would not get her brains blown out would be a good idea, too.

'You look, Mr Moriya said, 'I call back when we talk together alone. Is too uneasy so, OK?

'I… uh, yes, she said, suddenly shaking, unable to think straight. The hand round the handset was aching; she realised she was gripping the receiver as though she was hanging from it over a cliff.

'Goodbye, Hisako, Mr Moriya said.

'Ye — yes; goodbye… Sayonara… She could not control her trembling. Her eyes were closed. The line made clicking noises. Somebody took the handset from her, prising her fingers off; she loosened them as soon as she felt the other hand on hers. She opened her eyes as Sucre put the handset back on its hook.

'You did all right, he told her. 'That was OK. Now we go back.

Afterwards, her ears still ringing, she found it all a little difficult to piece together. It seemed as if things had happened in some strange, disordered, disjointed manner, as though such violent action happened in its own micro-climate of reality.

She was walking down the corridor, still a little shaky, with Sucre behind her. There was a hint of movement at the far, aft end of the corridor, where it led out of the superstructure to an outside deck. She took no notice, still thinking about what she might have said to Moriya, and feeling guilty at her relief that she hadn't had the chance to say anything and so endanger herself.

They were almost at the companionway leading back down to the lower decks. There was a muffled shout from that end of the corridor. She looked up. Then a shot; percussive and clanging. She froze. Sucre said something she didn't catch. Another shot. She was pushed from behind. The stairs were at her right.

Steve Orrick appeared, dressed in swimming trunks, holding a hand gun and an Uzi, from a cabin doorway right in front of her. She felt her jaw drop. His eyes went wide. He brought the gun up, pointing it over her shoulder. She was struck from behind, pushed against the rail at the top of the companionway, almost sending her over into the stairwell. She swung round and caught a glimpse of Orrick grimacing, clicking the trigger of the boxy-looking Uzi futilely. Sucre raised his own gun.

She kicked out with one foot, hitting Sucre's rifle. It blasted into the ceiling, filling the metal corridor with stunning noise. She had her balance back by then; she chopped Sucre across the neck, open handed, but he had started to move away. It was only the second time she'd ever hit somebody in anger. Sucre staggered, looking more surprised than anything else and stumbled against the far wall. Orrick was fiddling with the small gun. Then he ducked, and fired between her and Sucre, down towards the bridge. Her ears were ringing. The Uzi made a noise like heavy cloth ripping, magnified a hundred times. Fire sounded down the corridor; Orrick leapt back, into the doorway he'd appeared from. Something tugged suddenly at the hem of the yukata. She turned, glanced down into the stairwell, to see one of the venceristas pointing a gun at her. She dived across the corridor, into the cabin where Orrick was.

It was dark, blinds closed. The acrid smell of powder smoke filled the place. There was a dead man in the bed. Firing sounded behind her, making her flinch; Orrick knelt at the door, peeping out and firing.

She recognised the dead man. It was one of the men who'd guarded them during the night. The one who'd waved the Coke bottle at Bleveans. He was missing most of the left side of his head, and there was a huge patch of glistening darkness staining the white sheets around his midriff. The noise of gunfire resounded through the cabin, filling her. She felt bad, and had to sit down on the floor between Orrick and the bed. Orrick's broad, water-spotted back filled most of the doorway. The trunks had a little belt on them; attached to it was a big sheathed knife. She recognised his trunks, remembered them from a day they'd all gone picnicking on -

She shook her head. Orrick was firing with the pistol, the Uzi lying at his knee. She looked around the cabin. The Uzi magazines lay on the small table, in a pile beside an open copy of Hustler. She grabbed them, clattered them down on the floor beside Orrick and nudged him. She stood up. The Uzi's ripping noise started again.

The side of the superstructure at this level was flush with the deck beneath, but she leant over the bed and opened the blinds and looked out of the porthole to make sure. She wondered if she might squeeze through, and started unscrewing the wing nut securing the glass.

'Grenade! Orrick screamed, and fell back into the cabin. He tried to kick the door shut; half-succeeded. It burst open again in a cloud of smoke and a blast that seemed to reverberate through every atom of Hisako's body.

She'd fallen; she was lying on the warm stickiness of the dead man, blood soaking into the yukata. She struggled away from him, the cabin ringing like a bell about her. More firing behind as Orrick squatted once again at the door. She looked around, wild-eyed, saw the dead man's combat jacket. She took it, felt its heaviness and turned it round, searching. The grenades were there. She tore them from their velcro fastenings. Orrick was back at the door, apparently unharmed. She collapsed to her knees beside him, nudging him again and offering the grenades. He saw them, grabbed one, dropped the other, still firing with his other hand. He shouted something at her.

'- Out! — she heard. She felt as if she had road drills lodged in each ear. She shook her head. - go first! — Orrick screamed at her. He looked at the grenade he held, took the ring in his teeth and pulled; it worked. He threw it down the corridor towards the bridge, picked up the other grenade from the deck, and a magazine. He emptied the Uzi down the corridor after the first grenade, then leapt out, disappearing aft, astonishing her; a sudden increase in light from that direction, then dark again and a metal door slamming. Instantly the grenade detonated, a blast and clattering screech from forward.

A noise like a waterfall filled her ears. She found herself sitting on the floor. Her head buzzed; everything was going grey and watery, reality dissolving in the reeking smoke and the obliterating noise.

She felt herself start to tip back and to the side, but her arm moved in slow motion, as though it moved through treacle, while the rest of her body moved through air. She hit the floor.

Blinked.

She knew she was going to die. Perhaps they all were. At least Sucre had probably been the first. The others might not know she'd hit him.

She could see Sucre's face; so smooth and shining; the neat black fatigues — not as though they'd been in the jungle (jungle?) for weeks at all — the pert little beret with its chic little red badge; those black curls… His face seemed to swim in and out of focus above her. No beret, this time. Curls in disarray. He was looking down at her, mouth twisted.

He reached down, dragged her up. He was real, and alive.

That's it. I'm dead.

She was thrown out into the corridor, hit the far wall. Then she was pushed out into the sunlight. She stood blinking in the glare, blinded. The aft hatches of the Nadia lay below her; water sparkled beyond, holding the green shadow of an island. Sucre pushed her to the rail. Men were running along the aft deck, to the stern of the ship. They held guns.

At the rail, she looked down along the hull of the ship. A couple of men were leaning over the decks below, flying down into the water towards the stern. At the Nadia's landing stage, midships, a black Gemini looked limp and low and crumpled in the water, stern down. She remembered the hunting knife on Orrick's trunks.

The men running to the stern stopped and looked over the rail every now and again, pointing their guns down, sometimes firing them.

Sucre held her arm painfully far up her back, forcing her on tip-toes, grunting with the pain. He shouted to the men at the stern of the ship. They shouldered their guns and reached for their grenades.

She bent over the rail, easing the pressure on her arm a little. Yes, she could still see the ripples. Orrick must have jumped. Swam — probably underwater as much as possible to the stern, where the overhang would protect him from the guns. But not from the grenades.

She watched them splash into the waves around the rear of the ship. She looked up into the blue, lightly clouded sky. No sign of any plane. What a nice day to die on, she thought. Sucre was still shouting behind her. Men and their noise. Suddenly, in a dozen places around the stern of the ship, the water bulged and went white, like a series of giant watery bruises. The bruises burst; fluting and climbing, white stems exploding in the sunlight and falling back. There was hardly any noise. The ship rail under Hisako's sternum vibrated with each shock.

Sucre shouted again. Then there was silence. She felt the sunlight on her neck and forearms, could smell the distant land. An insect buzzed distantly, through the continual ringing in her ears.

Orrick's body floated out after a minute; pale and face down, spread like a parachutist in free fall. The venceristas cheered, and emptied their guns into the man's body, making it disappear in a tiny forest of white and red splashes, until Sucre's shouting made them stop.

He twisted her back round to face him. He looked uninjured, but shaken and dishevelled. He took the pistol out of its holster.

She ought to do something, but she couldn't. There was no fight left. I won't close my eyes. I won't close my eyes.

Sucre brought the pistol up to her face, up to her eye, pressed it forward. She closed her eyes. The gun's muzzle pressed on to her eyelid, forcing her head back. She could see a halo of light against the brown-black, like an image of the gun barrel and the twisted hole the bullet would travel.

The gun was taken away. A slap jerked her head one way, then another. Her head sang; another instrument in the orchestra of internal noise that was crowding into her skull.

She opened her eyes. Sucre was standing grinning in front of her.

'Yeah, you're pretty cool, Señorita, he told her. He flourished the pistol; it glinted in the sunlight. 'You a man, I'd kill you. He re-holstered the gun, glanced to the stern of the ship, took a deep breath and whistled. 'Woo; that was something, huh?

She swallowed a little blood, and nodded.

Then the sound of rapid, automatic gunfire came through the open door behind them, from down inside the ship.

7: Salvages

She stood, confronting her fear at last. Everything had led up to this. It had been forever coming closer, like a distant storm, and now it had arrived and she was powerless and weak, wallowing without way in the face of the dread she'd tried and tried to confront but with which she had never been able to connect.

In school once, in a physics class, she'd tried to push two very strong magnets together, north against north and south against south, and sweated and gritted her teeth and braced her arms against the bench and watched her straining, quivering hands push the big U-shaped lumps of metal together, constantly trying to stop them glancing away, sliding to one side, struggling to twist out of her grasp, and felt her strength going and so finally putting everything into one last explosive burst of effort, and shouted out as she did so as if screaming the targeted part of the body in a kendo thrust. The magnets slid across each other, writhing in her hands like something alive, clunking one south pole against one north, the other ends of each U sticking out, so that she was left holding a solid, S-shaped piece of metal. It took an even greater effort than that she'd just made to stop herself throwing the magnet down to the floor, or just slamming it into the wooden bench top. But she put the gunmetal lump down quietly, and dropped her head a little, as though saluting a victorious opponent.

It had been the same with her fear. She had tried to force it to a confrontation, to pin it down, to wrestle with it… but it had always twisted away, wriggled mightily even as she tried to grapple with it, and sunk back into the usual shape of her life.

So now she stood in Narita airport, waiting with the rest of the NHK orchestra to board the JAL 747 bound for Los Angeles. She'd sat in the departure lounge with some of the others, chatting nervously and drinking tea and watching the clock on the wall and glancing all the time at her wristwatch, stroking the new leather bag she'd bought for the trip, trying to make the cold tangle of cramp in her belly go away.

The others knew she hadn't flown before, and that she was afraid. They joked with her, tried to take her mind off it, but she could not stop thinking about the plane; the fragile aluminium tube of its body; the screaming engines, encasing fire; the wings that flexed, heavy with fuel; the wheels that… it was that moment, the visual instant when the spinning wheels left the ground and the aircraft tilted its nose to the sky and rose, that sank her. She could think no further. She had watched that moment on television and in movies many times, and could see that there was indeed a slow-motion grace about it, and could quite happily admire the plane maker's and the pilot's skill, and know that the same manoeuvre was completed thousands of times each hour throughout the world… but the thought of being on one of those delicately huge contraptions as it lifted itself into the air still saturated her with terror. It made her bones ache.

The others talked to her. One of the younger men in the orchestra told her he'd been scared of flying at first, but then had looked into the statistics. Did she know, he said, that you were far more likely to die in a car crash than in a plane?

But not when you're in a plane! She wanted to scream at him.

Chizu and Yayoi, her flatmates, who were also in the orchestra string section, talked of a previous trip to the States, when they'd been students. How vast it was, and how beautiful; Yosemite, the Mohave, the Redwoods… a single state like a whole country, sprawling and empty and unmissable, even before the Rockies and the Grand Canyon, the fertile wasteland of the wheatfields from flat horizon to flat horizon, like an ocean of grain; the colours of a New England fall, and the dizzy verticals of Manhattan. Unmissable. Not to be missed. She must not miss it.

The hands of the clock swept on, impossibly thin wings.

The time came. She stood with the rest, clutching her new leather bag. They went to the tunnel. She lifted the bag up, cradling it tightly in her arms. It smelled luxurious and sweet and comforting. She saw the plane outside in the sunlight; massive, secure, anchored-looking. It was linked to the terminal at nose and tail by the fitted collars of the access jetties, and fuel hoses looped under its wings from tanker trucks. At one side, a catering vehicle's raised body stood perched on an X of struts over the braced chassis, its platform extended to an open door in the aircraft's side; tall thin trolleys were being wheeled from truck to plane by two men in bright red overalls. A squat, flat truck sat under the 747's bulbous nose, fixed there with a thick yellow towbar. Various other vehicles scurried like toys about the poised bulk of the big plane, squires and armourers to the impassive warrior-king above them being readied to join battle with the oceanic air.

She moved towards the tunnel. Her legs felt as if somebody else was operating them. The leather bag smelled of animal death. She wished she'd taken the pills the doctor had prescribed. She wished she'd got drunk. She wished she'd told them at the start she wouldn't be able to go abroad with the orchestra. She wished she'd turned down the job. She wished she was somebody else, or somewhere else. She wished for a broken leg or a ruptured appendix; anything to stop her having to board the plane.

The tunnel finished her. The smell of fuel, the sound of an engine, the quiet flow of people in the windowless corridor, tipping towards the corner that led to the plane itself. She stopped, letting people go past her, staring ahead; Chizu and Yayoi stopped too, in front of her, talking to her (but she couldn't hear what they were saying). They touched her, guided her to the side of the corridor, where she stood shivering in a cold sweat, smelling that fuel smell and hearing the increasing whine of the engines and feeling the list in the floor tipping her towards the craft the people were filing into, and she could not think and could not believe this was happening to her.

So well. It had all gone so well. She'd fitted in, she'd made friends, she'd enjoyed the concerts and hadn't been very nervous apart from the very first one, and recording could be boring but you could switch off to some extent; nobody expected to do their most inspired work after thirty takes… She had money, and a new cello, and her mother was proud of her; her life looked set and certain, and her future bright and exciting, and she'd wondered what could go wrong, because she was used to things balancing out, and this was it.

What was ironic was that the balancing disaster came from inside, where she was most vulnerable. She'd never needed to develop the spurious justifications and excuses, or the fragile ego-props and unlikely hopes so many other people had to construct to cope with their lives.

She'd lived with some inner certainty that they hadn't had; safe inside, defences turned outwards, weapons trained beyond her immediate space… and now she was suffering for her hubris.

They did get her on to the plane eventually; Mr Yano, the orchestra's tour manager, and Mr Okamoto, the leader of the orchestra, came to talk to her, and gently guided her down the rubber slope, between the metal corrugations of the white walls, to the open door of the plane, where stewardesses waited and the plane was big and full of bright seats inside, and the thick door sat, a curved slab, against the bulge of the plane's skin. She was shaking. They took her inside.

She wanted to scream. Instead she moaned, went down on her haunches and curled up around her bag, as though trying to press herself inside it and hide, and crying into her folded elbows, her hands gripping the top of her head. She was being stupid. She had to act sensibly. She had to think of the others in the orchestra. What would her mother say? Her cello was already on board. There were three hundred passengers waiting on her; an entire plane. America; think of that! All those great cities, the thousands of people, waiting. Her ticket had been paid for, all her tickets paid for, hotel rooms reserved, programmes printed. It was unheard of to be so selfish, so self-obsessed.

She knew all this. All these things had convinced her over the months since the tour had been announced and the various arrangements made — that when it came to it, she would find it simply unthinkable that she could turn round and not go. Of course it would be appalling, disgraceful, unutterably contemptuous of everybody else in the orchestra, irredeemably self-centred. She was grown up now and some things just had to be done; fears had to be conquered. Everybody was relying on her, expecting her to behave like everybody else, like any normal person; that wasn't much to ask.

She knew all that; it didn't help. It meant nothing — a set of irrelevant symbols in a language that was not the reverberating note of her fear. Mere scrawls on a page pitched against the resonating physical chord of terror.

They tried to lift her, but she thought they were going to drag her to a seat and belt her in, join her to this hollow machine which smelled of jet fuel and hot food, and she cried then, dropping the leather bag and clutching at somebody and pleading with them. Please no. She was letting everybody down. Please don't. She was behaving like a child. I'm sorry I'm sorry I can't. A spoiled child, a spoiled foreign child. Please don't do this to me. A gaijin brat tantrumming for cookies. Please don't. She would be in disgrace. Please.

She was led out eventually, up the welcoming slope of the jetty, back to the lounge again, then to the restroom. A JAL ground staff lady comforted her.

The plane was delayed by half an hour. She would not leave the restroom until it had taken off.

Alternate feelings of relief and guilty dread flowed through her in the taxi back to the tiny apartment she shared with Chizu and Yayoi. It was over. The ordeal had finally ended.

But at such a cost. What shame she had brought upon. herself and the others in the orchestra! She would be sacked. She ought to resign now. She would. Could she ever look any of them in the face again? She thought not.

She went home that night, setting off for the station and Hokkaido with the bag she'd bought for the trip and had almost left on the plane and then almost left in the restroom; a beautiful bag in soft, natural glove leather, still containing her virginal passport and a guide to the United States, and as she sat, red-eyed and miserable on the train heading north through the night (her friends, her workmates, would be somewhere over the North Pacific just then, she thought, crossing the date line, defying the sun and gaining a day while she lost her career), she looked down at the glowing, pale brown skin of the bag, and noticed the deep, dark dots marring its silky surface, and could not brush them off, and realised, with another twist in the deepening spiral of her self-inflicted dejection, that the marks were her own, produced by her tears.

Sucre looked wide-eyed at her for a second. She stared back. The firing deep inside the ship went on. Sucre grabbed her hand, spun her round in front of him and threw her through the door, back into the corridor he'd bundled her out of minutes earlier. 'Down! he shouted, ramming the rifle into her back, making her run. She half-fell down the stairs, Sucre clattering behind her. The firing stopped beneath them as they went down the next companionway.

Grey smoke drifted from the doorway of the Nadia's saloon into the corridor. She could hear crying and shouts. Sucre screamed at her to keep going; the gun hit her in the lower back again.

The saloon was thick with acrid, stinging smoke. Bodies lay amongst the plush chairs and couches like obscene scatter cushions. She was standing behind one of the venceristas; he was shouting, waving his gun around. Another vencerista stood behind the bar, heavy machine-gun poised, smoke curling from it.

She looked at the bodies. The ringing in her ears made it difficult to hear things, but she thought somebody was calling her name. The bodies covered much of the floor, almost from end to end of the room. A few of the dark-skinned men were still at the far end, standing there with their hands behind their heads, looking cowed and terrified.

'Hisako! She heard her name, and raised her head. It was Philippe. She was shoved towards him anyway, pushed in the back so that she had no choice but to move, and so ran across the bloody carpet, stumbled over bodies to him. He hugged her, mumbled in French into her hair, but the ringing noise smothered all his words.

Sucre was shouting at the other two venceristas. Then he ran down the length of the saloon and screamed at the Moroccan and Algerian men standing there. He slapped one, punched another in the belly, and clubbed a third with his rifle, sending the man crumpling to the deck. More venceristas piled in through the door, waving their guns. Sucre kicked one of the Algerians in the leg, making the man hop about, trying to keep his balance while not moving his hands from the back of his head; Sucre kicked him in the other leg, making him fall over.

'Hisako, Hisako, Philippe said. She leant her head on his shoulder, and looked through the room; at Sucre kicking the curled up Algerian lying on the floor near the far wall; at Mandamus, squatting beneath an up-ended chair, bulging out from under it like a snail too big for its shell; at Broekman, lying on the floor, looking up now; at Janney and the Bleveans, Captain Bleveans holding his wife's head down near the floor at the side of the couch the motionless Janney lay upon; at Endo, sitting back against the wall, cross-legged, like a slim-line buddha.

'Hisako —

'These men were very stupid! Sucre shrieked at them, waving his gun at the Moroccans and Algerians. 'They died, see! He kicked one of the bodies on the floor. They weren't all dead; Hisako could hear moans. 'This what you want? Sucre shouted. 'This what you want? They died like that stupid gringo kid out there! Hisako wondered if anyone of the people Sucre was shouting at would realise he meant Orrick. 'You want this, do you? You want to die? Is that what you want, huh? Is it?

He seemed really to want an answer. Bleveans said, 'No, sir, in a calm, measured voice.

Sucre looked at him, took a deep breath. He nodded. 'Yeah, well. We been kind too long. You get tied up now.

Bleveans and Philippe tried to argue, but it did no good. They were all made to sit down. Three venceristas covered them while Sucre disappeared for five minutes. He came back with a box full of plastic restrainers; loops of toothed nylon which fitted over their wrists and were pulled tight. Sucre and one of the other venceristas started with the remaining Algerians and Moroccans. Hisako watched; they had to put their hands behind their backs first before the restrainers were put on. Philippe tried to talk to her, but one of the venceristas hissed at him when he spoke, and shook his head. Philippe held Hisako's hand.

A third guerrilla was dragging the bodies away, taking them by feet or hands and hauling them out through the door. She was sure that even over the ringing in her ears she could hear moans as the Algerians and Moroccans were pulled out. The vencerista was away for few minutes each time. She wondered if they were just dumping the bodies over the side, but doubted it.

She sat on the lounge carpet, trying to assess how she felt. Jangly; as though her body was some assemblage of delicately balanced, highly stressed components which had been roughly shaken and left ringing with the after-effects of shock. Her face stung a little on both cheeks, where Sucre had slapped her. She tasted blood in her mouth, but not very much, and she couldn't find where it was coming from. The atmosphere in the saloon seemed thicker now; the air tasted of smoke and blood, and the place looked old and worn-out, already grubby after just one night. She felt herself shiver in the yukata, though she wasn't cold.

'Comrade Major, Bleveans said to Sucre, after the vencerista had tied up the Koreans in the middle of the room and approached the others. 'Leave the woman, huh?

Sucre looked down at Bleveans, who gazed as calmly back. Sucre smiled faintly. Mrs Bleveans sat curled up between her husband and the couch where Janney lay, eyes open again and blinking confusedly up at the ceiling. Sucre had one of the nylon restrainers in his hand. He played with it, twisting it around his hand as though he was tossing a coin.

Bleveans put his hands out towards Sucre, wrists together. 'Will you?

Sucre took hold of both Bleveans's hands in one of his, and pulled the American round, as though pirouetting a dance partner. When Sucre let go, Bleveans brought first one hand then the other round behind him; Sucre slipped a restrainer over his wrists and pulled it tight. He put his mouth near Bleveans's ear and said, 'Say please, Captain.

'Please, Comrade Major, Bleveans said evenly. Sucre turned away, expressionless. He looked down at Gordon Janney, lying with his eyes half-open under the bulky bandages, but moving and his lips working like somebody having a bad dream. Sucre used two of the restrainers to secure one of the man's ankles to the arm of the couch. He ignored Mrs Bleveans.

Philippe let himself be tied. Sucre looked at Hisako for a moment, rubbing the side of his neck where she'd hit him earlier. She wondered what he was going to do. Maybe he would tie her up after all.

Sucre grabbed her right ankle, pulled her towards him a half-metre or so across the carpet. 'Su — Comrade Major — Philippe began. Sucre took hold of his ankle too. He put one nylon loop round Philippe's leg and put a fully opened restrainer round Hisako's, then passed one through the other and tightened them, leaving her and Philippe hobbled to each other.

Broekman let himself be tied up without comment. 'Comrade Major, this really is unnecessary, Mandamus said. He was sweating heavily, and a tic jigged at the side of his face. 'I am no threat to you. I am not of a shape or size to crawl through portholes or engage in other acts of derring-do, and while I may not agree with all the venceristas's methods, I am broadly on your side. Please, let me ask you to —

'Shut up or I tape your mouth too, Sucre said. He secured Mandamus, then Endo, who was already sitting quietly with his hands behind his back. He left Marie Boulard with her hands free, too.

'This was stupid, Sucre told them, when he'd finished. He put his boot under the last body left on the floor and turned it over. The vencerista taking the bodies out came back into the saloon; Sucre nodded to him, and he dragged that corpse away as well, adding another smear of blood to the patterned carpet.

Sucre looked at Hisako. 'I want to know who the blond kid was. He glanced at Bleveans, but his gaze settled back on her.

She looked down at the 8-shaped nylon bands shackling her to Philippe. 'Steve Orrick, she said.

She had to repeat the name. She explained who he'd been; the others confirmed what she said when Sucre asked. He seemed to believe them.

'OK, he told them. 'This time we good to you, OK? He looked round them, as though wanting to be contradicted. 'OK. You stay like that till we go.

'Uh, what about using the heads, Comrade Major? Bleveans asked.

Sucre looked amused. 'You just have to get help, Captain.

'We weren't being allowed into the heads with anybody else, Bleveans reminded him.

Sucre shrugged. 'Too bad.

'How much longer you going to keep us here, Comrade Major? Bleveans asked.

Sucre just smiled.

The vencerista behind the bar was counting used cartridges into a series of beer glasses. The chink chink noise formed a background like the sound of coins being dropped into a till. They were allowed to talk quietly. They'd been split into more distinct groups; the officers and passengers formed one, the remaining Moroccans and Algerians the smallest, and the Koreans the largest; the rest were lumped together into another. They could talk with people in their own group, but weren't allowed to communicate with another.

'As soon as they heard the shooting, they were talking, and some started to… rise, get up, Philippe told her, when she asked what had happened. 'They must have planned for a time before, I think. It was as if they would go then, but they did not, and the man with the machine-gun shouted at them; at all of us, but then, when the firing stopped, that was when they jump up… and run towards the gun. Philippe took a long breath, closed his eyes. She put her hand to his neck, stroked him. His eyes opened and he took her hand, smiling ruefully. 'Was not very nice. They fell. He shook his head. 'Fall everywhere. Is big machine-gun, he looked towards the bar. 'Big bullets, on… a chain. So he just shoots and shoots and shoots.

His hand clenched, almost crushing hers. She tensed her own hand.

The saloon was quiet. It was late afternoon, the heat just waning. The thick atmosphere in the lounge sat like a weight on them all. The blood-matted carpet gave off a rich, iron smell. Some people were trying to sleep, propped up against seats and couches, or lying on the floor, shifting uncomfortably, trying to move their trapped arms and ease the ache in their shoulders. Mandamus's snores sounded vaguely plaintive.

'Maybe, Philippe said, looking over at the bar, 'if we all had run en masse… Maybe we take the gun. But we did not… we did not run… together. He turned to her, and Hisako had never seen him look like he did then; younger than he was; almost boyish, and somehow lost, adrift.

She had told him more details of what had happened after the call from Mr Moriya; the rest had been given only a brief account of Orrick's vain attempt to help them. Philippe had been admiring and chiding, impressed that she had dared lash out at Sucre, but concerned for her safety; they were at the mercy of these people, after all.

She'd listened to the men talk. The feeling now was that there was nothing they could do; they would just have to wait and hope that whatever the venceristas had come here to do would soon be over with. The guerrillas had shown themselves quite able to deal with both the lone commando and the mass attack; to attempt anything now, when they were keyed up after these two incidents, would be suicidal. So they had convinced themselves, breathing the air of the Nadia's lounge, with its scent of smoke and blood. Nobody talked about the planeload of congressmen, except to say that there was probably some other reason for the venceristas to want to take over the ships.

The disturbed siestas went on into the late afternoon; sunlight made bar-shapes through the blinds behind the curtains. Gordon Janney mumbled something in what might have been his sleep; it was becoming difficult to determine when he was awake and when not, as though his brain — confused into accepting any sort of stability — was trying to average out his awareness over the whole day and night, leaving the man aground on the same dozy level of semi-consciousness all the time.

The cartridges went chink chink chink.

Philippe was talking quietly to Bleveans and Broekman. Hisako sat against a chair, trying to recall each second between the time she'd first seen Orrick that morning, and her last view of him, floating face down, body jerked by bullets, the water white around him. They had heard the grenades in here, Philippe said.

'You OK? Mrs Bleveans knelt in front of Hisako. Her face looked haggard, the last traces of make-up producing an effect worse than none at all.

Hisako nodded. 'Yes. She thought more was expected of her, but she couldn't think what else to say. Her ears still weren't right.

'You sure? The American woman said, frowning a little. Hisako thought Mrs Bleveans had never looked more human. She wanted to say that, but she couldn't.

Hisako nodded again. 'Really, yes.

Mrs Bleveans patted her leg. 'You get some rest. She moved back to her husband, then went over to Marie Boulard.

Hisako listened to the ringing in her ears and the chink chink chink noise coming from the bar, like a currency of death.

Her head nodded, jerked back up. The noises around her sounded far away and somehow hollow. She wanted to move her leg but she couldn't.

There was a stairway underneath the ship; they were led down through the vessel, past holds full of plants and gardens and huge rooms full of furniture, through another hold where hundreds of cars sat, engines droning, horns sounding, drivers leaning out of the windows and doors with big red faces, shouting and cursing and waving their fists in the air. Beneath that came a dark space full of rods and levers and strange, sickly smells. She couldn't make out who she was with, or who was leading them, but that was probably because the light was bad. She thought she was probably dreaming, but dreams were real too, and sometimes what wasn't a dream was too real; too much for reality to support, too much for her to cope with. A dream could actually be more real, and that was good enough for her.

Under the ship the air was stifling and humid; it was like walking into a thick blanket soaked in something thick and warm. The surface of the lake was red glass, and supported above the undulating dark floor of the lake by enormous, grotesquely gnarled red pillars; they looked like immense wax-smothered bottles, holders of a thousand gigantic candles each of which had burned down and left its solidified flow behind. One of the pillars supported the ship they were. descending from.

The steps ended on the dark ash of the lake floor. It was difficult to walk in, and they were all struggling. She looked up through the glass — there was a hole there, burned as though the glass was plastic and saw Steven Orrick painting the bows of the Le Cercle, standing on a little wooden plank. He was working very slowly, as though in a trance, and didn't notice the people underneath him. Some of the people with her let little fluttering balloons go, releasing them like doves; they beat nervously up through the air, past the great red pillars, through the melted hole in the glass, and up towards the young man painting the hull around the Nakodo's name.

The balloons got bigger as they rose, and when they got to Orrick they were larger than he was; they spread their wings and wrapped themselves round him; he dropped the brush, dropped the paint tin, and was held there on the little wooden plank, gripped by first one, then two, then many of the expanded balloons, which nestled tighter and tighter in with their wings, and then soundlessly burst apart, blowing out in a scattering of white feathers that rained slowly down while Orrick's shrivelled body fell, cartwheeling lazily, from the bows, and crashed through the red lake surface. He fell in a hail of quick red glass and slow white feathers. Where the paint tin had fallen against the bow of the ship, it had left a long streak of red lead over one of the letters of the ship's name, so that the letters now spelled out NADA.

She didn't see where Orrick landed. The air was full of white feathers. The lake surface healed up where he'd fallen through.

At the end of the lake, where the dam had been, the surface ended abruptly above them, while the lake floor continued out into the open air, down the course of a long dry river. She felt glad to be back, and to have left the other people behind. Above her, the milky clouds let through a diffuse glow of sunlight.

The clouds had a grid written on them; dark lines stretching north-south and east-west. She walked the dry, black dust, passing shattered and deserted buildings in the distance to each side, and watched the grid of the sky gradually fill up with huge circular shapes; they occupied the interstices of the grid; some were dark, like the ash beneath her feet, and some were milky, like the clouds themselves, and hardly visible; just giant halos of light in the sky. It became darker as more of the huge shapes floated down into place. DNA, said the shapes.

This must be going on everywhere, she thought. Like a giant game of go. Light and dark; everywhere. She wondered who would win. She wanted the light-coloured ones to win. They appeared to be winning. She walked on, noticing that the city around her seemed to be growing. The buildings were less wrecked and not as far apart as they had been. The sky was lightening again, as the milky shapes above surrounded and took over the dark ones. The city was crowding in now, buildings creaking upwards into the sky as she watched. There were people as well. They were small and still far away, but they moved about the grid of the city, beneath the towering, stretching buildings.

The sky was milky, the sky was clear. The sky-wide circles had taken over the sky. A terrific wind started up, and howled round the buildings as the sky became brighter and the sunlight slammed down. She kept walking but saw everybody else swept away and whirled into the air, fluttering whitely. The sun glinted through one of the great lenses in the sky, dimmed briefly, then flared, exploded, blinding her and wrapping a cloak of heat across her face.

When she opened her eyes the buildings had melted and stood as pillars over the grey ash beneath her feet, supporting a sky of cracked red glass, like something old and fused and smeared with blood.

The grey ash shuddered, sending a tremor up through her feet, shaking her. The sky called her name.

She woke to find Philippe shaking her shoulder. Sucre stood at her feet, kicking them, looking bored. In one hand he held a large knife, in the other her cello case. Her eyes widened; she sat up. Sucre put the knife in its sheath and hefted his assault rifle. The plastic restrainer joining Hisako to Philippe had been cut; she was free.

Sucre jerked his head towards the door. 'You come with me; we go to a concert.

8: Conquistadores

They took her across to the Nakodo in Le Cercle's Gemini; the one she and Philippe used on their dives. The sunlight was bright on the water through the patchy cloud, and she hugged her cello case to her, gaining some distant comfort from its leather smell. Sucre sat in the bows, facing her, mirror shades showing the cello case, her, and the vencerista at the outboard. There was a small thin smile on his face; he hadn't answered any of her questions about why they were heading for the Nakodo with the cello. He kept the Kalashnikov pointed at her the whole way across. She wondered what would happen if she threw the cello case at him. Would it stop the bullets? She didn't think so. He would probably puncture the Gemini if the gun went off on automatic; maybe he would even hit the vencerista at the stern, but her own chances of surviving would be small.

She imagined, nevertheless, throwing it at him, leaping after it; Sucre somehow missing it and her, her grabbing his gun, perhaps knocking him overboard (though how to do that without losing the gun, strapped round his shoulders?), or just knocking him unconscious, still getting the gun from him in time to turn and fire before the man in the stern could reach for and fire his own machine-gun… yes, and she could swim away from the probably sinking Gemini, using the cello case as a life raft, and rescue all the others or get word to the outside world, and everything would be just fine. She swallowed heavily, as though consuming the wildness of the idea. Her heart beat hard, thudding against the cello case.

She wondered how often people had been in such a situation; not knowing what was going to happen to them, but so full of fearful hope and hopeless fear they went along with whatever their captors were arranging, praying it would end without bloodshed, lost in some pathetic human trust that no terrible harm was being prepared for them.

How many people had been woken by the hammering at the door in the small hours, and had gone — perhaps protesting, but otherwise meekly — to their deaths? Perhaps they went quietly to protect their family; perhaps because they could not believe that what was happening to them was anything — could be anything — other than a terrible mistake. Had they known their family too was doomed, had they known they were themselves already utterly condemned and without hope, destined inevitably for a bullet in the neck within hours, or for years — even decades — of toil and suffering in the camps before a cold and disregarded death, they might have resisted then, at the start, when they still had a chance, however futile their resistance might finally be. But few resisted, from what she knew. Hope was endemic, and sometimes reality implied despair.

How could you believe, even in the cattle trucks, that what had been the most civilised nation on earth was preparing to take you — all of you; the entire trainload and strip you, remove and sort artificial limbs, glasses, clothes and wigs and jewellery, gas you by the hundreds in a production line of death, and then pull the gold teeth from your skull? How? It was the stuff of nightmares, not reality. It was too terrible to be true; even a people inured over the centuries to prejudice and persecution must have found it hard to believe it could really be happening in the West in the twentieth century.

And the doctor or engineer or politician or worker in Moscow or Kiev or Leningrad, roused from sleep by the fists on the door; without knowing he was already dead as far as the state was concerned, who could blame him for going quietly, hoping to impress with his co-operation, to save his wife and children (which, maybe, he did)? Nervously confident in his knowledge that he'd done nothing wrong and had always supported the party and the great leader, was it any surprise he quietly packed a small case and kissed his wife's tears away, promising to be back soon?

The Kampucheans had quit the city, seeing some warped logic in it at first, thinking it best to humour the men from the jungle. How could they have known — how could they have taken seriously the idea — the glasses on their noses would bring the iron rods down on them, smashing them to bits, consigning them to mud?

Even knowing what was going to happen, perhaps you still hoped, or just could not believe it was really going to happen to you, in (in their times) Chile, Argentina, Nicaragua, El Salvador… Panama.

She looked away from her reflections on Sucre's smiling face. The distant land was green and squashed. Perhaps help would come from there. Maybe Orrick had succeeded in a way; somebody ashore might have heard the shots and explosions as they killed him. The National Guard would come and the venceristas would flee, leaving their hostages alive; it would be absurd to kill any more, wouldn't it? International opinion; outcry; condemnation, retaliation.

She hugged the case closer, felt herself shiver. The rectangular bulk of the Nukodo filled the sky in front of her, blocking off the sun.

She followed Sucre up the steps from the landing pontoon, still holding the cello in its case in front of her. Another vencerista met them on the deck and led them into the ship. She was ushered into the officers' mess. The curtains were drawn; two lights shone from the far end of the mess-room table. She could just make out a figure sitting there. A chair was drawn up a metre or so from the end of the table nearest her. Sucre motioned her to sit there, then went to the vaguely seen figure sitting behind the lights. She screwed her eyes up, peering forward. The lights were Anglepoise lamps, sitting on the table, shining straight at her. The air-conditioned room made her shiver again, making her wish she wore something more substantial than just the yukata.

'Ms Onoda, Sucre said, from behind the lights. She shielded her eyes. 'The jefe wants you to play for him.

She stayed as she was. There was silence until she said, 'What does he want me to play?

She saw Sucre bend to the other man, come upright again. 'Anything; what you want.

She thought about it. Even asking whether she had a choice seemed pointless. She could ask for her music and so delay things but she could see no good reason for doing so. She would rather do this and get back as soon as she could to Philippe and the others. Wondering who the man behind the lights was, and why he wanted to keep his identity secret, seemed just as useless. She sighed, opened the case and took out the cello and bow, laying down the case.

'It will take a little while to tune it, she said, adjusting the spike to the right height for the small seat, then drawing the cello to her, feeling it between her thighs and against her breasts and neck.

'Is OK, Sucre told her, as she drew the bow across the strings. The A string was a little flat; she brought it into line with the others, closing her eyes and listening. She had always visualised tuning. In her mind the sound was a single vibrant line of colour; a column in the air, changing like oil on water but always coherent and somehow solid. If one shade jarred from an edge, like a badly printed colour photograph, it had to be refocused, brought back into line. The cello sang, hummed against her; the column of colour behind her eyes was bright and definite.

She checked, fingering through a few exercises, finding her knuckles and joints were less stiff than she'd feared.

She opened her eyes again. 'This is… Tung Loi's "Song of Leaving", she told the lights.

No reaction. It wasn't a classical piece, and she wondered if perhaps her shy captor would object to a modern work, but the jefe behind the lights said nothing. Perhaps he didn't know enough to comment, or perhaps he knew the piece and approved; it was what had come to be known as New Classical, part of the melodic fin de siècle reaction against mathematical atonality.

She bent to the instrument, closing her eyes slowly with the first broad sweep of the bow that was the awakening of the. woman and the dawning of the day the piece would sing about.

Technically it was a fairly undemanding piece, but the emotion it called for, to wring all that could be wrung from the music, made it difficult to perform without sounding either off-hand or pretentious. She wasn't sure herself why she'd chosen it; she'd practised it over the months since leaving Japan, and it sounded full and good in its solo form, but the same went for other pieces, and this was one she had never been convinced she had done justice to in the past. She ceased to wonder about it, and forgot about the lights and the man behind them, and the gun at Sucre's waist and the people trapped and trussed on the Nadia, and simply played, submerging herself in the silky depths of the music's hope and sorrow.

When it was over, and the last notes died, finally giving themselves up to the air, to the flesh of her fingertips and to the ancient wood of the instrument, she kept her eyes closed for a time, still in her deep red cave of heartache and loss. There were strange patterns behind her eyelids, swimming and pulsing to the strong beat of her blood. The music seemed to have set them into a theme of movement of its own, and they were only now unravelling into their natural semi-chaos. She watched them.

Clap clap clap. The sudden sound of applause shook her. She opened her eyes quickly. A glimpse of white hands clapping in the light, before they pulled back. The figure moved to one side, towards Sucre, and he started clapping too, matching the other man. Sucre nodded vigorously, glancing from her to the man in the seat beside him.

Clap clap. Clap. The applause subsided, stopped.

Hisako sat blinking in the light.

Sucre le ant towards the man. 'Beautiful, Sucre said, straightening.

'Thank you. She relaxed, let the bow tip touch the carpet. Would he want more?

Sucre bent again, then said, Señorita, please turn round; face the other way.

She stared. Then turned, awkwardly with the cello, shifting the seat, looked back at the door to the corridor outside.

Why? she thought. Surely not to shoot me? Do I play for him, then obediently perform this last gesture which will make the killing of me easier for them? Light flared behind her. She stiffened.

'OK, Sucre said easily. 'Turn back now.

She pivoted on the seat, taking the cello round in front of her. The red glowing end of a cigar glowed dimly behind the lights. A cloud of smoke drifted in front of the beams, further obscuring the view behind. She smelled sulphur.

'The jefe wants to know what you were thinking of when you play this piece, Sucre said.

She thought, conscious of her frown and of looking away from the lights into the darkness, seeking her answer there. 'I thought of… leaving. Of leaving Japan. Of leaving… she hesitated, then knew there was no point in pretending. 'I thought of leaving… the people on the ship; the Nadia. She had meant to say 'one person' or 'someone' on the ship, but something had deflected her even as she'd spoken, though she knew that Sucre already knew about Philippe. Even in these tiny, hopeless increments do we try to protect those we love, she thought, and looked up into the lights. 'I thought of leaving life; of this being my last chance to play. She drew herself up straight in the seat. 'That's what I thought of.

She heard the man behind the lights draw in his breath. Perhaps he nodded. Sucre drew up a seat and sat down by the other man. 'The jefe wants to know what you think of us. It was as though one of the lights was talking.

'Of the venceristas?

'Si.

She wondered what was the right thing to say. But they would know she'd try to say the right thing, so what was the point of it? She shrugged, looked down at the cello, fingered the strings. 'I don't know. I don't know everything that you stand for.

After a pause; 'Freedom for the people of Panama. Eventually, a greater Columbia. Cutting the puppet strings of the yanquis.

'Well, that might be good, she said, not looking up. Silence from the far end of the table. The coal of the cigar glowed brightly for a moment. 'I am not a politician, she said. 'I am a musician. Anyway, this is not my fight. I'm sorry. She looked up. 'We all just want to get out alive.

The cigar coal dipped towards Sucre. She heard a deep voice, smoky, as though it had taken on some of the character of the pungent blue fumes it passed through on its way to her. 'But the yanquis forced you to open up your country, yes? 1854; the American Navy made you trade. She sensed Sucre lean close to the other man again, heard the rumble of his voice once more. 'And then, less than a century later, they nuke you. The cigar coal was out to one side; she could just see it, under the glare of the left-hand light, and she could imagine the seated figure, arm on an arm of the chair. 'Huh'? Sucre said.

'That has all happened, she said. 'We… she struggled to find the words to describe a century and a half of the most radical change any country had ever undergone. 'We had strengths in our isolation, but it could not persist for ever. When we were… forced to change, we changed and found new strengths… or new expressions of the old ones. We tried too much; we tried to fit ourselves to the peoples outside; behave the way they did. We defeated China and Russia, and the world was amazed, and amazed too that we treated our prisoners so well… then we became… arrogant, perhaps, and thought we could take on America, and treat the… foreign devils as less than human. So we were treated the same way. It was wrong, but we were too. Since then we have flourished. We have sadnesses but, she sighed again, looking down at the strings, resting her fingers on them, imagining the chord she was producing, 'we can have few complaints. The lights still blazed. The cigar was centred again, and bright.

'You think the people on the other ship support us? Sucre said, after a pause.

'They want to live, she said. 'Maybe some want you to succeed, maybe some don't. They all want to live. That is stronger.

A noise that might have been a 'hmm'. Smoke billowed like a sail into the twin cones of light and flowed across the table in a slowly fluid tumble.

'Will you play in America? Sucre said.

'After Europe, I said I would think about it. I may. She wondered how much the man behind the lights was taking in. She wasn't choosing her words to make them easy.

'You play for the yanquis? Sucre said, sounding amused.

'I'd swear I wouldn't, if it would make any difference to you.

Definite amusement from the far end of the table. The rumbling voice again. 'We don't ask that, Señorita, Sucre said, laughing.

'What do you ask?

Sucre waited for the low voice, then said, 'We ask that you should play another — ?

The lights flickered and went out; some tone in the ship, never noticed because always there, altered, whined down. The lights came on dimly for a moment, then faded slowly, filaments passing through yellow to orange to red; the same colour as the cigar. They went out.

The emergency lights came on from the corners of the room, filling the mess with a flat neon glow.

She was looking at a man in olive fatigues; square shoulders, square face. For a second she thought he was bald, then saw he had blond hair, crew cut. His eyes were glittering blue. She saw Sucre stand quickly. There was noise from behind her, and the door opened. A voice behind her said, Jefe… then trailed off.

Frozen, the scene seemed cardboard and drained of colour; almost monochromatic. Sucre moved uncertainly towards her. The man holding the cigar raised it to thin lips under a thin blond moustache; the red glow brought colour to his face.

The voice behind her made a throat-clearing noise. Jefe?

The jefe looked steadily at Hisako. The deep voice rumbled, 'Sucre; check out the engine room. If somebody's… made a mistake with that generator… I want to see him.

Sucre nodded and left quickly. The man at the door must still have been there; she saw the jefe look above and behind her, raising his eyebrows fractionally and giving just the slightest inclination of his head. Si, said the voice. The door closed, and she felt alone; alone with the jefe.

The blond man sighed, looked at the end of his cigar. He tapped a couple of centimetres of ash into an ashtray on the table directly in front of him.

'Havana, he said, holding the cigar up for a moment. He studied the end again. 'You can tell the quality of the cigar… well, by the leaf… but also by how much ash it'll support. He rolled the cigar round in his fingers for a few seconds. 'Rolled between the thighs of señoritas. He smiled at her, and smoked.

He reached down to his waist, pulled out an automatic pistol and laid it gently on the table beside the ashtray. He looked at her. 'Don't be alarmed, ma'am. He put one hand on the gun, running his fingers over the barrel and stock, looking at it. His hands were broad, large-fingered, yet he touched the gun with a sort of delicacy. 'Colt nineteen-eleven A-one, he said, his voice filling the room, bassy and full. She imagined cigar tar in his lungs; vocal cords scarred by smoke. The cello seemed to feel his voice, responding.

The large hands stroked the pistol again. 'Still a damn fine gun, after all these years. This is a seventy-three model. He raised his eyes to her. 'Not as old as your cello though, I guess.

She swallowed. 'No. Not by… two and a half centuries.

'Yeah? He seemed amused, leant back in the chair. 'That much, huh? He sat, nodding. The cigar smoke made a ragged rising line in the air.

She wanted to ask if she was dead now, if seeing him was her sentence, and the light her executioner, but she could not. She bit her lips, looked down at the cello strings again. She tried to finger a silent chord, but her hand was shaking too much.

'You played real good, Miss Onoda. The deep voice shook her, a sympathetic frequency to her trembling hands.

'Thank you, she whispered.

'Ma'am, he said quietly. She didn't look up, but had the feeling he'd leant closer. 'I don't want you to worry. It wasn't my intention you should see me, but now you have, all it means is you can't go back to the others until our job here is finished.

His elbows were on the table, between the lamps, straddling the ashtray and gun. His eyes disappeared behind a veil of smoke. 'I don't want you to worry none, see?

'Oh, she said, looking straight at him. 'Fine. I won't.

He gave a throaty laugh. 'Damn, Sucre said you were cool, Miss Onoda. I see what the man meant now. He laughed again. The seat creaked as he sat back in it. 'I'd just love to know what you thought was going on here, you know that? Strikes me you might have all sorts of ideas.

'None worth repeating. The trembling in her hands was subsiding. She could finger a chord.

'No; I'd really like to know.

She shrugged. One chord to another; the change made just so.

'What if I said nothing you say to me makes any difference? The voice seemed to rise a little, as though stretching. 'My job is to out-think people, ma'am, and I seriously suspect I out-thought you some time ago, so why not — she heard the indrawn breath, could see the cigar glow reflected - just tell me what you think? The hand waved the cigar around, never far from the lying gun. 'Can't be worse than what I already think you think.

All the people who'd gone meekly; all the people who'd gone weakly. Now I am dead, she thought. Well, it had to happen.

She looked into the blue eyes, put the bow down to one side, let the cello down to the carpet on the other and put her hands together on her lap. She said, 'You are American.

No reaction. The man like a still photograph, caught in the light.

'You are here because of the plane and the congressmen. I couldn't see why the venceristas wanted to shoot down the plane; it would be madness; the whole world would despise them. It would be an opportunity for the US fleet to retaliate, the Marines to come in. There would be no sense to it. But for you?… For the CIA?… It might be a worthwhile sacrifice. It was said. The words seemed to dry her mouth as they were spoken, but they came out, blossomed like flowers in the cold smoky air of the room. 'You had us all fooled, she added, still trying to save the others. 'Nobody imagined you'd shoot down your own plane. Steve Orrick was fooled; the young man your men grenaded to death.

'Oh yeah; shame about that. The blond man looked concerned. 'Boy showed promise; he thought he was doing the right thing for America. Can't blame him for that. The jefe shrugged, his shoulders moving like a great wave gathering, falling. 'There are always casualties. That's the way it is.

'And the people on the plane?

The man looked at her for a long time, then nodded slowly; 'Well, he said, putting the hand holding the cigar slowly through his cropped hair, massaging his scalp, 'there's a long and honourable tradition of shooting down commercial airliners, Miss Onoda. The Israelis did it back in… oh, early seventies, I believe; Egyptian plane, over Sinai. KAL 007 was chalked up to the Russians, and we downed an Airbus over the Persian Gulf, back in eighty-eight. An Italian plane probably took a NATO missile in an exercise, by mistake, back in the seventies too… not to mention terrorist bombs. He shrugged. 'These things have to happen sometimes.

Hisako looked down again. 'I saw a banner once, on television, she said, 'from England, many years ago, outside an American missile base. The banner said "Take the toys from the boys".

He laughed. 'That the way you see it, Miss Onoda? The men to blame? That simple?

She shrugged. Just a thought.

He laughed again. 'Hell, I hope we're here a while yet, Miss Onoda; I want to talk to you. He stroked the gun, tapped the cigar on the edge of the ashtray, but did not dislodge the grey cone. 'I hope you'll play for me again, too.

She thought for a moment, then bent down and took up the bow from where it lay on the carpet, and — holding an end in each hand (and thinking, This is stupid; why am I doing this?) — she snapped it in two. The wood gave, like a rifle shot. The horsehair held the pieces together.

She threw the broken bow down the table towards him. It skidded to a halt between the darkened lights, clunking against the ashtray and the gun, where his hand was already hovering.

He looked at the shattered wood for a moment, then took it slowly in the hand that had gone for the Colt, lifting the dark, splintered bow up, one end dangling by the length of horsehair. 'Hmm, he said.

The door behind her opened. One of the others came in, hurrying to the far end of the table, only glancing at her, then leaning to speak to the blond man. She caught enough; aeroplano and mañana.

He stood, taking up the Colt.

She watched the gun. I don't know, she told herself calmly. How do you prepare? How does anybody ever prepare? When it actually happens, you can never find out. Ask an ancestor.

The blond man — tall, close to two metres — whispered something to the soldier who'd given him the message. The background noise in the room altered, increased, humming. The lights flickered on, off, then on again, flooding the room with brilliance, outlining the two men. She was waiting to see what else the whisper was about; too late to take advantage of any surprise caused by the lights. Always too late.

The other man nodded, reached into a pocket. He came round behind her while the jefe smiled down, smoking his cigar. He took the cello case from where it leant against one bulkhead.

The soldier behind her took her wrists, put something small and hard round them, and pulled it tight.

The blond man took her cello and gently placed it in the case. 'Take Miss Onoda back to her ship, will you? he said.

The soldier pulled her to her feet. The jefe nodded his crew-cut head. 'Dandridge, he told her. 'Earl Dandridge. He handed the closed cello case to the soldier. 'Nice meeting you, Miss Onoda. Safe journey back.

It was at the airport she killed a man.(After the fiasco with the American tour, and after a few tearful days with her mother, unable to go out, unwilling to see any of her old friends, she went back to Tokyo, took out her savings and went on holiday, travelling by train and bus and ferry through the country, staying in ryokans whenever she could. The land steadied her with its masses and textures and simple scale; the distance from one place to the next. The quiet, relaxed formality of the old, traditional inns slowly soothed her.)

The body fell to the muddy, trampled grass, eyes still startled, while the feet pounded and the cries rang and the sound of a jet landing shattered the air above them. His legs kicked once.

(She took the Shinkonsen to Kyoto, watching the sea and the land whizz by as the bullet train sang down the steel rails, heading south and west. In that old city she was a tourist, walking quietly through the network of streets, visiting temples and shrines. In the hills, at Nanzenji temple, she sat watching the waterfall she'd discovered by following the red brick aqueduct through the grounds. At Kiyomizu, she looked down from its wooden veranda, down the gulf of space beyond the cliff and the wooden rails, for so long that a temple guide came up to ask her if she was all right. She was embarrassed, and left quickly. She went to Kinkakuji, as much to see the setting of Mishima's Golden Pavilion as to see the temple for its own sake. Ryoanji was too crowded and noisy for her; she left the famous gravel garden unseen. Todaiji intimidated her just by its size; she turned away outside it, feeling weak and foolish. Instead, she bought a postcard of the bronze Buddha inside, and sent it to her mother.)

She stabbed at his throat with her fingers, instantly furious, beyond all reason or normality, the pressure of all her frustration hammering her bones and flesh into his neck. He dropped the baton. His eyes went white.

(At Toba she watched the pearl divers. They still dived for pearls sometimes, though mostly it was for sea plants now; cultured pearls were cheaper and easier to harvest. She sat on the rocks for half a day, watching the dark-suited ladies swim out with their wooden buckets, then sound, disappearing for minutes at a time. When they surfaced, it was with a strange whistling noise she could never quite place on the conventional musical scale, no matter how many times she listened to it.)

He struggled, body armour making him hard and insectlike behind his gas mask. The orange smoke folded round them. The wet rag round her mouth kept the smoke out better than the tear gas. Ten metres in front of them, over the heads of the students, batons rose and fell like winnowing poles. A surge in the screaming, pressing crowd pushed them over; they staggered, each sinking to their knees. The ground was damp through her needlecords. The riot policeman put his hand out, down to the ground. She thought it was to steady himself, but he had found the baton. He swung it at her; her crash helmet took the blow, sending her down to the wet grass; one of her hands was trampled on, filling her with pain. The baton swung down at her again and she dodged; it struck the ground. The pain in her buzzing head and the burning, impaled hand took her, choked her, filled her. She steadied herself, and saw through her tears and the curling orange smoke the policeman's exposed throat as he brought the baton up again.

(So Hiroshima. The girder skullcap and empty eye windows of the ruined trade hall. She went through the museum, she read the English captions, and could not believe the cenotaph was so incompetent. The flensed stone and bleached concrete of the wrecked trade hall was much more eloquent.

She stood on the banks of the river with her back to the Peace Park, watching her shadow lengthen across the grey-brown waters while the sky turned red, and felt the tears roll down her cheeks.

Too much, turn away.

In the train again, she passed through Kitakyushu, where the second bomb would have been dropped if the visibility had been better that day. The cluttered hills of Nagasaki took it instead. The monument there — a giant human statue, epicentric — she found more fitting; what had happened to the two cities — both crowded, busy places again — was beyond abstraction.)

The line pressed forward; they chanted and yelled, voices muffled by the damp cloths many had over their mouths and noses to keep out the worst of the tear gas. She had forgotten to bring a pair of goggles, and the crash helmet had no visor. Her arms were held on either side; linked with the students. She felt good; frightened but purposeful, acting with the others, part of a team, greater than herself. They heard screams from ahead. Batons like a fence rose into the air in front of them. They stormed onwards, the line breaking and giving way; people tripped in front, something whacked her crash helmet as she stumbled over a pile of people and caught a glimpse of police riot gear, visors glinting in the remnant sunlight. Her arms were wrenched from those of the youths on either side, and the orange smoke wrapped itself around her like thick fog. The riot policeman came rocketing backwards through the orange haze, crashing into her. His right glove was off, and she saw the leather thong attaching him to his baton slip from his wrist as they both tried to regain their balance. He grabbed for the falling baton as he turned, then punched her in the face. She heard something click, and tasted blood. She rocked back, ducked to the right, expecting another blow but unable to see, then lunged forward, grappling with the man.

(She ate satsumas on the ferry ride across from Kagoshima City to Sakurajima, to see the volcano. Dust fell on the city that evening, and she realised — as her hair filled with the fine, gritty stuff, and her eyes smarted — that it was true; people in Kagoshima really did carry umbrellas all the time. She'd always thought it was a joke.

At Ibusuki she watched the sand bathers lie on the beach, smiling and chattering to each other while the hot black sand was piled over them. They lay like darkly swaddled infants near the waves, progeny of some strange human-turtle god, long-laboured on the black sands.)

Orange smoke and the sting of tear gas. The orange smoke was theirs, the tear gas belonged to the riot police. The air was a choking thick mixture and the sun shone through the braids of dark smoke twisting through the sky from piles of burning tyres on the perimeter of the demonstration. High cloud completed the set of filters. Marshals wearing bright. waistcoats and specially marked crash helmets shouted at them from megaphones, voices drowned by the sporadic screams of the planes. Between them and the airport perimeter fence, the riot police lines were advancing, dark waves over the long grass and reeds, like the wind made solid. Heavy water cannons lumbered over to one side, where the ground was solid enough to support the trucks. The signal came to advance, and the students cheered, strode forward, arms linked, chanting, their flags and banners and placards catching in the wind. The shadows of planes flickered over them.

(At Beppu Spa, on the side of the hill, in the great gaudy steamy aircraft hangar of the jungle bath-house, surrounded by blue water, trees, ferns, a standing golden Buddha, thousands of coloured globes like gaijin Christmas decorations and arching girders overhead, with the vague smell of sulphur coming and going in her nose, she bathed. She came back on the Sea of Japan coast; through Hagi and Tottori, and Tsuraga and Kanazawa. She went to see Crow Castle, sitting blackly on its compressed rock base. She worked up the courage, and visited the Suzuki school, near by in Matsumoto, talking to the teachers and watching the little children play the instruments. It depressed her; how much better she might have been if she'd started really early, and with this fascinating method. She was years behind, as well as years ahead of these children.

She held off returning to Tokyo, but stayed near by; returning to the Fuji Five Lakes as her money slowly ran out, then to Izu Peninsula, then across by ferry to Chiba. Finally, fretting, she realised she was only circling, in a holding pattern of her own, and so came back to the capital. She passed Narita on the way. There were demonstrations over the plans to expand the airport.

When she got back to the city the orchestra was still on tour. There were several messages and letters asking, then telling her to contact the orchestra's business manager, who'd stayed in Tokyo. Instead she went out, and found some of her old student friends in a bar near Akasaka Mitsuke station. They were demonstrating against the airport extension on Sunday. She asked if she could come along.)

I will pay for this, she thought, as the policeman's eyes closed and the orange mist rolled around her. I will pay for this.

Her hands ached. She sniffed the blood back into her nose.

Something was flapping on top of her, and she fought her way out from under a fallen banner. People streamed past her again, heading back. The tear gas was thicker; like a million tiny needles being worked into the nose and eyes and tingling in the mouth and throat. Her eyes flooded. The banner covering the policeman fluttered in the orange wind. She turned and ran, driven back with the rest.

Hisako sat midships in the Gemini, the cello case lying at her feet. The outboard puttered, idling. She could feel the small eyes of the soldier in the stern watching her as she stared out across the lake to the folded green hills on the western shore.

Sucre appeared at the top of the steps, and clattered down them. He got into the inflatable, grinning broadly. He reached forward and slapped her hard across the cheek, rattling her teeth and almost knocking her out of the boat, then sat back in the bows laughing, and told the soldier at the out board to head back to the Nadia.

Her head pounded, her ears rang. She tasted blood. The boat bucked and slapped across the glittering surface of the lake. She felt sick, and still felt so when they got to the ship. Sucre supported her by one elbow as she stepped shakily from the Gemini to the Nadia's pontoon. Her wrists felt numb where the restrainer bit into them. Sucre said something to the other soldier, then punched her in the belly, winding her. She collapsed to her knees on the wooden planking. Sucre gripped her from behind while the other man put a large piece of black masking tape across her mouth.

Then, dazed and bruised and terrified she would vomit and drown, she was pushed and pulled up the companionway to the deck. She caught a last glimpse of the cello case, lying in the bottom of the Gemini.

Sucre and the other man met a third soldier at the door to the Nadia's saloon. Sucre opened it. She saw Philippe and the others. He looked relieved. She closed her eyes, shook her head.

They took her into the room, then Sucre crossed to Mrs Bleveans, took her by the elbow, and with her in tow collected Marie Boulard. He made them stand at the bar, and put restrainers on them as well.

Nobody talked in the room. Sucre had the two women kneel in front of the semi-circle of low stools, facing the bar like worshippers. Down at the far end of the room, the Koreans, the North Africans and the remaining crewmen had been collected into three giant circles; they too were kneeling, facing outwards, their wrists apparently strapped to those of the men on each side of them. One of the fake venceristas was completing tying up the Koreans, who formed the largest of the three groups. The men looked out into the room with frightened eyes. Sucre had a word with the man behind the bar with the heavy machine-gun, then went down the room to the third of the circles, patting the shoulder of the soldier who'd just finished tying the men up. She was watching now, eyes bright with pain and terror, her bowels feeling loose, her stomach churning behind the bruise. She saw Sucre pretend to inspect the bonds of the men making up the far circle. She saw him take the grenade even though nobody else seemed to. She saw him wander away from the group, towards the second one. The soldier behind her tightened his grip on the restrainer.

One of the men in the first circle must have felt it. He shouted something in Korean, screamed, tried desperately to get up, almost dragging part of the circle with him while the others looked round bewildered. Sucre skipped to the second circle and dropped the grenade into the middle of it, repeated the action at the last circle of men, then ran for the door. The saloon filled with screams. Sucre ducked behind a couch with the soldier who'd tied up the men. The soldier holding Hisako stepped back so that he was shielded by the door; the man behind the bar disappeared behind it.

The noise was more muffled than it had been earlier, when Orrick had attacked. She watched. Her eyes closed for the instant of the detonation, but she saw the circle of men rise up, saw the red cloud burst from one part, on the far side. The second circle of men had almost managed to stand; some had been hit by shrapnel from the first blast, but somehow they were almost on their feet. She saw Lekkas then, yelling at the others and trying to kick behind him, where the grenade had to be. The ringing blast of the first grenade was just giving way to the screams and moans of the injured in the first group when the second detonated, throwing men across the room, flaying legs, smacking blood and flesh off the ceiling. Something whined past her left ear. The men in the third group were almost on their feet; the grenade blasted their legs out from under them.

The machine-gun opened up; Sucre and the soldier who'd tied the men up scrambled to the side of the room and started firing too. The man holding her shoved her forward and started firing with a small Uzi, making a cracking, drilling noise by her head.

Philippe, Broekman, Endo and Bleveans were struggling to their feet. Marie Boulard and Mrs Bleveans knelt, shivering as though the noise itself shook them. Mrs Bleveans was trying to look back, to where her husband was. Hisako couldn't see Mandamus. The saloon was filling with smoke like a thick sea fog.

Sucre saw the officers standing, and turned his fire on them. She saw Broekman whipped back as though pulled by a hawser fastened to his back, and Philippe hit in the belly, doubling up: she closed her eyes.

She opened them again when she heard Mrs Bleveans scream, over the noise of the firing. The woman crashed through the barrier of stools towards her husband, who lay on his side on the floor, shirt covered with blood. His wife fell towards him, over him. Sucre kept on firing; Mrs Bleveans's blouse kicked out in four or five places. Marie Boulard had risen at the same time, and threw herself at Sucre; the soldier holding Hisako flicked the Uzi to one side, bringing the woman down in a cloud of smoke and noise.

They finished all the men off. Mr Mandamus was, miraculously, uninjured, and protested to the last, before being silenced with a single shot from Sucre's pistol. The soldiers decided both the other women were indeed dead. They threw Hisako to the floor and tore the yukata off.

They were going to rape her there, but instead dragged her by the feet, out, across the corridor and into the ship's television lounge, because the air in the saloon was so thick with choking, acrid smoke.