A hand-painted sign had been stuck into a crack in the ground announcing KLINKA KLUB. The club was a tin-roof shelter built onto a ledge overlooking the sea. It had a large patio with a concrete barbecue pouring flames and smoke into the night, and steps down to the beach. A few men kicked a ball around on the sand. Rollers smashed the shore behind them, creating an epic backdrop. A crowd clustered around the barbecue, and a few queued up at the hatch that served as a bar. Thirty or forty people in total, with more cars arriving as Kane walked in.

“Welcome to the Klinka,” Nulty said.

The setup didn’t feel clandestine. Kane didn’t see anyone underage. Most looked like they’d come off the bases: a lot of sunburnt men in T-shirts and shorts. He recognized some from Georgetown, some from the flight over. There were older men who must have been GCHQ-NSA, technical specialists who’d found a comfortable niche in the intelligence world and hunkered down. The women were outnumbered but made up for it in noise and color. He saw Linda, the woman who had helped him the previous night, and the manager from Two Boats. Everyone seemed in party spirits. The air smelled of sun cream and sweat. A generator fed a sound system, and a space in the corner contained a small drum kit and a guitar on a stand.

The doctor and electrician went off in the direction of the barbecue. Kane ordered a beer. It turned out to be happy hour—two-for-one drinks—so he gave his second one to an RAF lad beside him at the bar.

“It will be warm by the time I get to it,” Kane said.

“Then you’re drinking too slow,” the officer replied with a grin. He was tall, with cropped blond hair and a broad Yorkshire accent.

“Over here long?” Kane asked.

“Been six months.”

They chatted about the facilities on the British base, which included the island’s only hairdressers for men, a mess bar, and what the man claimed was the best pool on the island, which doubled up as an emergency supply of fresh water: “So don’t piss in it.”

He introduced Kane to some of his fellow military personnel, all of whom looked well refreshed. Kane could feel the last couple of hours’ drinking being counteracted by a watchfulness born of the new environment. Pace yourself, he thought. Keep control, see where this goes. People around him were drunk. Rehydrating-with-tequila drunk; Friday night on a volcano drunk. He turned toward some laughter and saw a donkey with its head over the side wall being fed beer.