Pandemic

of one hundred and twenty-four miles. Big Bird was a huge improvement, and provided resolution of slightly under twenty-four inches from an orbital height of one hundred miles, and the KH-12 brought this figure down to a whisker under six inches from a maximum orbital elevation of two hundred and fifty miles, close to the theoretical limiting resolution of just under four inches.

What all this means in practical terms is that if a man is sitting outdoors reading a newspaper anywhere on the surface of the earth for more than about an hour, an analyst sitting at a purpose-built computer console in Washington will be able to identify which newspaper he’s reading, while he’s still reading it.

Surveillance satellites follow standard and pre-determined polar orbits. They can be manoeuvred to some extent to provide additional pictures of particular areas of interest, but this costs fuel and reduces the life of the bird, so most agencies simply study the ‘take’ obtained when the satellite passes over a particular location during its normal operations.

Frequently, the bird’s sensors are deactivated when it crosses large stretches of water, simply because there’s generally nothing much to see, but there are exceptions. One such exception, originating from the Intelligence Directorate of the CIA at Langley, Virginia, was somewhat unusual, for three reasons.

First, it was old now, having been initiated in the winter of 1972. Most satellite imagery requests have immediate and obvious relevance to whatever troubles are currently being fomented in the world. Second, the area specified was simply a ten-mile square of the eastern Mediterranean, of no obvious strategic or any other importance. Third, it asked for the simplest possible report – the identity and type of any vessel remaining in the same location within that square for more than three hours, or any vessel which returned to the area twice or more in any thirty-day period. No follow-up, no further action.

Since 1972, N-PIC had forwarded some two hundred and eighty reports to the Intelligence Directorate, had received an acknowledgement each time, and had heard nothing further. The report that morning was almost identical to every other one they had sent, with one exception – they hadn’t been able to identify the Nicos, simply because the vessel had no identification marks visible from above, but they had been able to state exactly what the boat was, because they could see the purpose-built racks for the aqualungs.

This time, they got the usual acknowledgement from Langley, but also an instruction for additional material on the next and all subsequent passes by the bird, and a request for the hard-copy pictures to be forwarded immediately.

Aeroporto di Brindisi, Papola-Casale, Puglia, Italy

‘So just what the hell is all this about, Simpson?’ Richter said, putting down his flying helmet and life vest, and sitting opposite his superior. ‘I don’t appreciate being told to pull stunts like this. Scrambling safety services raises pulse rates and costs money, not to mention the fact that the ship’s now going to have to send a team of maintainers all the way out here by helicopter to spend a couple of days examining a perfectly serviceable Sea Harrier.’

Simpson waved one small pink hand dismissively. ‘Your comments are noted, but this seemed the easiest way to get you into Italy without anyone knowing you’ve been here.’

‘And that’s important, is it?’

‘Yes,’ Simpson said flatly, ‘or it could be.’ He gestured towards a small brown suitcase standing upright against the wall. ‘You might be here for a day or two, so I brought you a change of clothes. You can hardly,’ he added, with a glance at the flying overalls and anti-g trousers Richter was wearing, ‘wander around wearing that outfit.’

‘I thought you had a sudden change of heart about my doing a bit of continuation training,’ Richter said. ‘And I suppose it also explains why I had to fly down at such short notice to join the ship at Gib. So what am I supposed to be doing in Italy? Are we working for the Mafia now?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, Richter,’ Simpson replied. ‘We have a little business to take care of here in Italy. I suppose it is faintly possible that the Mafia might be a beneficiary, but our real client is the SISDE – the Italian Secret Service.’

‘And what exactly does the Servizio per le Informazione e la Sicurezza Democratica want with us?’ Richter asked, in perfect Italian construction yet badly mangling the pronunciation. Simpson even looked impressed. ‘I do know my business, Simpson,’ Richter added.

‘I’ve no doubt you do. We – or to be more accurate you – have been sort of lent to them for a while.’

‘There’s a quid pro quo lurking here somewhere, I presume?’

‘You presume correctly, but it’s none of your business. You just do your bit and then you can fly your pretty little grey fighter back to the ship, and finish off your pleasure cruise in the Med.’

‘And my “bit” is what, exactly?’

Simpson looked at him steadily for a few moments before he replied. ‘We think Andrew Lomas has resurfaced, and we need you to finger him for us,’ he said.

Between Gavdopoula and Gavdos, Eastern Mediterranean

In a sudden flurry of bubbles and foam, Spiros Aristides’s head broke the slightly choppy surface of the Mediterranean less than a metre from the stern of the Nicos. Immediately the Greek stretched out his hand and grabbed the diving ladder. He reached down, pulled off his fins and tossed them on board, and followed them with his mask. Then he climbed up the ladder and into the boat, shrugged off his scuba set and placed it carefully in a rack on the starboard side. The racks were covered with a tarpaulin whenever the boat was in harbour, but at sea Aristides didn’t bother.

There was a practised haste in his movements. Decompression stops had kept him below the surface for the better part of fifty minutes, and Aristides was eager to get himself and his prize back to his house in Kandira as soon as possible.

He pulled off the neoprene hood and unzipped and removed his wetsuit jacket – it was cold at the depths he had dived to, but very warm now he was back at the surface – and next his gloves, then rummaged in a locker until he found another pair of gloves of an entirely different type. These were tough workman’s gloves made of stiff canvas, and with leather strengthening patches sewn onto the palms.

Pulling on the gloves, Aristides stepped over to the port side of the Nicos and reached down. Securely attached to two cleats was a one-centimetre-diameter orange nylon rope, which descended vertically into the azure waters of the Mediterranean. Taking a firm grip, Aristides began hauling the rope inboard, hand over hand. The first scuba set appeared in seconds, and he paused only to detach it and place it carefully beside him before continuing to pull on the rope.

Within five minutes, Aristides had three scuba sets sitting on the bottom of the boat – he’d used them all during his decompression stops on the way up to the surface – and some eighty metres of orange rope coiled about him. But still he hauled on the rope. Finally he saw a glint of something metallic in the water below him, and pulled more gently, stopping when the object hung suspended just below the surface of the sea, and he then expertly secured the rope around the cleats. He walked back to the wheelhouse where he had an unobstructed view, and surveyed the sea around him carefully, in a complete circle, before walking back to resume hauling on the rope after he felt quite certain nobody could observe him.

Twenty seconds later, Aristides was crouching in the bottom of the Nicos to untie the rope from around the metal briefcase he’d pulled from the wrecked aircraft.

Five minutes after that, all the scuba sets were secured in their racks under the concealing tarpaulin, the orange rope was coiled and stowed in a seaman-like fashion, the lead weight he’d used to anchor the rope was back in its locker, and the briefcase was hidden below a set of foul-weather gear on the floor of the wheelhouse. The Nicos was under way, making directly for Kandira at about two knots faster than her usual cruising speed. Spiros Aristides was a methodical man, but today he was a methodical man in a hurry.

A little under three hours later, he unlatched the door of his small white-washed house, opened it and walked through the tiny hall into the main room. Light from the afternoon sun streamed through the closed slatted-wood shutters, creating Morse-code patterns across the rough tiled floor, as dust-motes danced in the air. Aristides switched on the overhead light and lowered his large canvas sack to the floor.

Then he walked back into the hall, opened the door and looked up and down the dusty street. Nobody in