Boerman crashed a massive fist on the table. ‘Damn it, Nash, I don’t need your fucking approval. I have over 200 dives on trimix.’

‘As a matter of fact, you do.’ Nash calmly took another bite. ‘As it states very clearly in my contract.’

‘Enough!’ Sura threw down her napkin and stood up. ‘Mr Nash, you are right. There is much to consider, and I promise to consult with you later today. Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and prepare.’

Nash watched her leave with an ugly feeling in his chest. Something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t right at all. The remaining men were silent, and he was instantly struck by the feeling they were hiding something. Perhaps they sensed this, because they immediately got up and left without further comment.

Nash was too worked up to eat any more. He wanted some answers.

The engineer was hunched over a valve on the left engine.

‘Saworno!’ yelled Nash fruitlessly over the din.

Hesitantly, he stepped inside. The thick oily atmosphere was hotter than a sauna and stuck to the back of his throat. Reaching out, he tapped Saworno on the shoulder. The little man flinched. On seeing Nash, he registered surprise, but his expression was guarded, and he took some persuading to leave the noisy compartment.

‘All good,’ was his reply when Nash asked him why he was no longer coming up to eat, pray and socialise. ‘Me look after engines. Mind business. Then go home. All OK.’

Nash’s eyes narrowed. ‘Did they tell you to stay down here?’

Saworno looked down at his oily hands.

‘Come on, Saworno. Has something happened? Why are they so unfriendly?’

‘Please, Mr Nash, I don’t know.’

The poor man looked so put upon that Nash felt guilty.

‘If you’re sure. But if you need any help . . . you come and find me, OK?’

Douglas was dismissive when Nash shared his reservations.

‘It’s just a cultural thing, Robbie. Javanese like Sura will try to out-polite you. They’ll smile and call you by your correct title even when they’re hating your guts. Whereas Goki’s from Makasar – I can tell by his accent. He’s much more rough and ready.’

‘That doesn’t explain bullying Saworno, does it?’

Douglas shrugged. ‘It’s a stratified society. Saworno’s lower class – they don’t like him hobnobbing with us when he’s supposed to be working. You’ll get used to it.’ He grinned. ‘They’re already treating us like the help.’

Nash stared at him doubtfully. ‘Frank, who first approached you about the expedition?’

‘A guy from Shangri-La productions. Arif, I think it was. I got a call and then he flew in to negotiate.’ Douglas frowned. ‘Hey, you’re not getting cold feet, are you?’

‘No. But they’re too sloppy, Frank. And I’m having a hard time believing it’s just cultural.’