‘He’s right,’ Malcolm mumbles, glancing at Roland. ‘You let us see the Titanic sailing out . . .’

‘What?’ Ben snaps as Roland groans. ‘You let them see the Titanic? Are you fucking stupid?’

‘Oh, we were at the back, Mr Ryder,’ Konrad says.

‘And we dressed in local clothes,’ Malcolm adds.

‘We didn’t let anyone take our picture either,’ Konrad says.

‘We were, like . . . five minutes?’ Malcolm says, looking at Konrad.

‘Oh, less than that . . . more like four, three even . . .’

‘And Roland liked it,’ Malcolm says as Roland groans again, sagging on the spot. ‘His suggestion actually, wasn’t it, Kon?’

‘You cheeky fucker,’ Safa says, glaring at Roland.

‘Okay okay,’ Roland says, holding his hands out to placate them. ‘Fine. Rio nineteen ninety-nine. We’ll need a few minutes to get organised.’

‘What for?’ Ben asks immediately, the suspicion still strong.

‘Er, we need the GPS coordinates, Mr Ryder,’ Malcolm says.

‘Ben, mate,’ Ben says, still unused to being called Ryder after so many years. ‘How do you get those?’

‘They’ll need clothes too,’ Konrad says to Roland. ‘We’ve got a place we use,’ he adds, looking at Ben to explain. ‘Take us a half hour. Any preference on clothes?’

‘Street clothes. Jeans, T-shirts . . . casual,’ Ben says before Roland can answer. ‘Muted plain colours, nothing bright or patterned.’

‘How do you know about covert clothing?’ Safa asks him.

‘Common sense,’ Ben says bluntly, not wishing to explain anything to anyone right now. ‘We’ll wait in that big room.’

They file out of the room, leaving Roland, Malcolm and Konrad in silence. Into the corridor and back up through the doors towards the room with the fruit.

‘That was bloody amazing, Ben,’ Safa says, once more in the lead, but she turns to smile at him.

‘Aye, good work.’

Ben doesn’t reply. His clear head vanishes as those emotions plummet back down into despair and confusion.

Fifteen

Fifteen

Safa watches him. He’s hardly said a word since they walked out to wait in the main room. ‘You look good,’ she says with a smile at his jeans and plain black T-shirt.

‘Thanks,’ Ben says, smiling tightly at her.

‘Yanks wear denim,’ Harry says again, tutting at the jeans on his legs in distaste.

‘It’s just for now,’ she says.

‘What’s wrong with slacks?’

‘Nothing, apart from nobody ever wears them now,’ Safa says.

‘Yanks wear denim.’

‘Do they?’ Safa asks. ‘Do yanks wear denim?’