“If it’s a bomb,” he said finally, “it’s a big one. I can’t begin to guess the number of lives that will be lost if we don’t defuse the bugger.”

“But can you do it?” asked the captain, sounding remarkably calm. “Because if you can’t, my first responsibility is for the lives of my passengers. I don’t need this trip to be compared with another disastrous maiden voyage.”

“I can’t do a damn thing unless I can get my hands on the control panel. It has to be somewhere else on the ship,” said Roberts, “probably quite near by.”

“In his lordship’s cabin would be my bet,” said the colonel, “because we now know that it was occupied by an IRA bomber called Liam Doherty.”

“Does anyone know which cabin he was in?” asked the captain.

“Number three,” said Harry, recalling the old man who had been moving a little too quickly. “Just along the corridor.”

The captain and the sergeant ran out of the room and into the corridor, followed by Scott-Hopkins, Harry, and Giles. The captain opened the cabin door with his passkey and stood aside to let Roberts in. The sergeant walked quickly across to a large trunk in the middle of the room. He tentatively raised the lid and peered inside.

“Christ, it’s due to detonate in eight minutes and thirty-nine seconds.”

“Can’t you just disconnect one of those?” asked Captain Turnbull, pointing to a myriad different colored wires.

“Yes, but which one,” said Roberts, not looking up at the captain as he cautiously separated the red, black, blue, and yellow wires. “I’ve worked on this type of device many times before. It’s always a one-in-four chance, and that’s not a risk I’m willing to take. I might consider it if I were on my own in the middle of a desert,” he added, “but not on a ship in the middle of the ocean with hundreds of lives at risk.”

“Then let’s drag Doherty up here posthaste,” suggested Captain Turnbull. “He’ll know which wire to cut.”

“I doubt it,” said Roberts, “because I suspect Doherty isn’t the bomber. They’ll have a sparks on board to do that job, and God knows where he is.”

“We’re running out of time,” the colonel reminded them, as he stared at the second hand’s relentless progress. “Seven minutes, three, two, one…”

“So, Roberts, what do you advise?” asked the captain calmly.

“You’re not going to like this, sir, but there’s only one thing we can do given the circumstances. And even that’s one hell of a risk, remembering we’re down to less than seven minutes.”

“Then spit it out, man,” rapped the colonel.

“Pick the fucking thing up, throw it overboard, and pray.”

Harry and Giles ran back to the chairman’s suite and took up positions on either side of the vase. There were several questions that Emma, who was now dressed, wanted to ask, but like any sensible chairman she knew when to remain silent.

“Lift it gently,” said Roberts. “Treat it like a bowl full of boiling water.”