Starikov turned towards the open hatch. Tokorev was surprised he was ready to climb back into the submarine so soon after finally escaping it. They still had ten minutes before they were due to dive again.

‘Heading down?’ he asked.

‘There’s work to be done,’ Starikov said, pausing briefly at the top of the ladder.

Tokorev watched him disappear into the hull, wondering what exactly the lieutenant thought they should be doing. Had he received some coded instructions in the ZEVS message, or was he just being eager?

Tokorev had also lectured Starikov about the value of patience over their glasses of vodka, but now his was wearing thin. He was confident that his crew, small though it was, could handle whatever might be thrown at them over the next three hours. But as he turned back towards the far-off shore, he found himself quietly asking why they should, or, more honestly, why he should.

His eyes landed on a small cluster of lights he guessed were raised up on a hill above the coast and his mind unfolded a whole new life in front of him in a split second. The lights belonged to a farm, his farm, that he lived on with a few chickens and cows. He was suddenly the quiet man who walked into the nearby village a couple of times a week to buy bread and exchange mumbled pleasantries with the locals, who didn’t know where he’d come from, didn’t ask, and didn’t care. And the rest of the time, he was left to himself with his animals and his view of the sea to keep him company.

It was a peaceful fantasy, but it was also shocking and overwhelming, and Tokorev stumbled back from the rail he’d un­consciously been gripping. He knew of old sailors who one day found themselves craving the feel of dry land beneath their feet, but he’d never thought he’d be one of them. He was sure he’d be at sea until the day he keeled over or found himself on the receiving end of a torpedo. And yet he felt like he was moments away from hurling himself overboard, swimming to shore and finding a small, weather-beaten hut somewhere to call his.