Suzi ducked into the darker oval of an open hatch, fumbling her photon amp into place as she went.

Greg pulled his own photon amp out of the dinner jacket's pocket. That reassuringly familiar pinching as the band annealed to his skin. Mirriam resolved into cold hard reality around him, nebulous leaden shadows stabilising into sharply defined blue and grey outlines.

02:12:29, flashed the yellow digits.

"At two hours, twelve minutes and thirty-five seconds GMT the crewman will exit the cabin-lounge door on to the afterdeck," Gabriel had said, her voice raised above the Trinities' scoffing.

Greg dumped Toby on the glossy polished decking and ran for the afterdeck, black leather shoes squeaking.

02:12:35.

"At twelve minutes and forty-one seconds GMT he'll move into your line of sight."

02:12:38.

Greg stopped and assumed a marksman stance with his Armscor. Lining it up one metre wide of the corner of the superstructure.

02:12:41.

The crewman obviously knew something was amiss; he came round the corner of the superstructure fast, crouched low.

The photon amp showed a monster crab scuttling right at him, metre length of pipe instead of claw. He fired.

"The crewman's name is Nicky."

Metallic clangour as the crab's erratic momentum skated him into the railing, pipe skittering away anarchically. "Bye, Nicky," Greg whispered.

"Radar cancelled," Suzi's voice squawked in his earpiece. "God, this place is exactly like Lady Gee described it. Wild!"

Greg finished up at the stern, scanning the glum water of the marina and its flotsam carpet of decaying seaweed. Oily ripples slapped lazily at Mirriam's hull.

"On the taffrail you'll find a control box with six weather-proofed buttons. Press the second from the left."

The box was there. Rigid forefinger pressing. A stifled drone of a motor lowering the diving platform ladder.

The inflatable dinghy surged out of the gloaming, four figures hunched down, muffled engine cutting a hazy wake through the seaweed. It turned a finely judged arc and rode its bow wave to a halt at the foot of the ladder. The first three figures swarmed up the ladder, dressed in combat leathers and helmets. Des and two of his troop, Lynne and Roddy.

They ignored Greg and crossed the deck to the half-open cabin-lounge door. Des slid it right back and the three of them rushed in.

Greg leant over the taffrail to see Gabriel puffing her way up the ladder. She was wearing a balaclava and a heavy night-camouflage flak jacket, restricting her movements; it was the largest the Trinities had in stock. He put his hand down and diplomatically helped her over the railing.

She tugged the balaclava off, wiping the back of her hand across her perspiring forehead. "We're too old for this Greg, you and I, believe me. If you weren't such a bloody ignorant stubborn bugger." A resigned smile lifted her lips. Shaking her head. "Crazy."

Greg smiled fondly. "Tell you, I have a horrible feeling you may be right."