Kane filed out through a few meters of blinding sun, past a sign that welcomed them to Ascension Island Base. The terminal was a boxlike structure with a handful of seats inside. An official sat sweating at a desk with a line of yellow tape on the floor to signify the border. A few meters beyond him was a small cluster of islanders waiting to greet friends and relatives, fanning themselves, all deeply tanned: men in cargo shorts, one woman in a dress and sun hat, one teenage boy cradling a Doberman. Kane looked out for a hotel rep but couldn’t see one.

The immigration official wore a hi-vis vest over khaki fatigues. He checked Kane’s passport and permit.

“Mr. Pearce. Professor Pearce?”

“Dr. Pearce.” Kane saw he had the details of Pearce’s visa application already beside him. The man flicked through the passport, looking at the other stamps that the ops team had included, checked the photo again, and looked up at Kane’s face.

“Here for research?”

“Yes.”

“How long are you planning to stay?”

“Four weeks. Until the next flight back.”

“What are you going to research in four weeks?”

“As much as possible. I’ve been very interested in the history of this island for a long time. I wanted to see it for myself, how people live here.”

The man raised an eyebrow.

“No doubt you’ll find out.”

He brought the stamp down hard, leaving the image of a seabird, its outlines smudged by sweat.

Kane removed his suitcase from the pile. He dragged it outside, shielding his eyes against the low sun. No sign of his hotel transfer. A donkey wandered onto the runway, standing on the barren tarmac like a protest. Peaks rose up on the north side of the airfield in varying shades of red and brown and gray. A man in an old windproof red jacket with the Royal Mail logo on the back untied the mailbag and the islanders diverted their attention from the human arrivals to the post as various letters and parcels were distributed. A Mercedes minibus loaded up with the Americans and drove off in the direction of the US base. Kane helped lift the motorbike onto the back of a transit van. He watched the plane refuel, ready to leave again.

Six became six thirty p.m. The sun melted on the horizon. A hard silence descended. No buzz of nature or rustle of trees. Kane waited for the night hum of insects, but nothing came. His phone had no signal. There was one pay phone at the back of the terminal. As he was hunting for a number to call, the sun disappeared with a last, malevolent throb of red, like a jailer walking away with the key. Kane thought of the vast expanse of ocean around him and felt a rush of claustrophobia.