“I think she was too slow. The Russian astronaut got her.”

“Russian?”

“The one we told stories about.” The boy checked Kane’s face, registering a new intensity of interest.

“You didn’t say they were Russian.”

“Sometimes the girls called him that.”

“Why?”

“They thought they heard someone talking Russian, maybe.”

“They heard Russian?”

“They thought it was. They were, like, eleven or something.”

“Know anyone on the island who speaks Russian?”

“I don’t think so.”

“So that night you were cycling away. You heard Petra scream.”

“Right.”

“And no idea what happened to Rory.”

“No.”

“Do you think maybe Rory was killed up here? Then someone could have taken his body down to English Bay, made it look like he killed himself.”

“I guess.”

Kane walked to the front of the tracking station and checked the visibility of the ledge where the teenagers had been hiding, then the door once again.

“Did you tell the police all this?”

“My father did.”

“What did the police say?”

“They said they’d investigate. But they haven’t. They know something—maybe about what’s in there.”

Kane studied the lock.

“Got a torch?” he said.

“No.”

Kane went back to the car and searched. No torch, but he found a disposable lighter in the glove compartment.

“Where are you going?” Connor said.

“Inside. Ever been inside?”

“No. How are you going inside?”

“Give me the gun.”

The boy hesitated, then handed over the gun. Kane checked the box magazine. It was fully loaded: fifteen bullets. He took his shirt off and wrapped it around the muzzle to suppress as much noise and flash as possible. The idea of shooting a metal lock to pieces was a Hollywood fantasy, but the door frame itself was wood: a lot more fragile, with a lot less chance of ricochet.

“Step away.”

It took two shots, and then the wood was shredded enough for him to pull the bolt through. The shots had echoed off the rocks, but the waves were also loud. Nearest likely responders were on the UK base, and it would take them at least twenty minutes to get here. Kane nudged the door open with his foot.

“Oh shit,” Connor muttered behind him. “We really shouldn’t go in.”

“I think we should take a look.”

Kane stepped inside, into a corridor. The air was musty. He tried to let his eyes adjust but the darkness was too thick. He clicked the lighter.

The corridor led through the building. Its walls were scabbed with peeling plaster. Kane walked slowly, the flame animating rooms on either side: offices with empty metal cabinets, dorms with rusted iron bed frames, blackened glassware and crockery beside a cobwebbed sink. On the wall of the canteen, a crooked picture showed a space shuttle in front of two flags, a Union Jack and Stars and Stripes: July 4, 1985, Ascension Island. “In Peace for all Mankind.”