The Sea Force heaved in rhythm with the waves; its powerful motor strained as it competed with the monsoon-roiled waters. As the Anuran coast disappeared in the mists, Janson had a fleeting sense of how insignificant their vessel was, a tiny thing of rubber and metal propelling itself through the vast, empty seas. And yet for those who cared about the future of humanity on this planet, its cargo was significant indeed.

Peter Novak faced the direction in which they were traveling. From the set of his jaw, Janson could see that he was continuing to regain a sense of his identity, a sense of his selfhood. Yet his expression was blank; his mind was elsewhere. The spray and spume of the ocean was glittering in his hair and on his face; his broadcloth shirt was spattered with brine. From time to time, he would run a hand through his bristle-thick hair.

Hedderman’s face was buried in her hands. She had curled up into a ball. It would take her a long time to heal, Janson knew. The two had fallen into the KLF’s clutches in radically different circumstances and were a study in contrast.

Janson’s men, too, were silent, lost in thought, or rehearsing the remaining operational steps.

Would the rebels follow in a speedboat? It was a possibility, though not a probability. If one was not skilled at rappelling, Adam’s Hill was a formidable obstacle.

The six people in the RIB could hear the whompwhomp of the rotors before they could see the craft. Another quarter mile of open sea separated them from it. Andressen checked his watch and turned up the throttle. They were in operational overtime: the exfiltration had taken longer than anticipated. The small boat rose and fell with the waves like driftwood while its powerful outboard motor kept them moving in a more or less straight line. Now the aircraft came into view. It was resting on a flotational helipad, an expanse of self-inflating black rubber. The downwash from the rotors caused the sea to bowl around it. Hennessy, who would be piloting the return flight as Honwana rested, was merely readying the hydraulics.

Now the craft’s matte resin body was outlined in the first glimmers of the new day, a pink tendril over the horizon. A few minutes later, the tendril had become something indistinct but intense, like an arc light glimpsed through closed fingers. Dawn was breaking, into what was now an almost clear sky. A dark violet, shading swiftly into an intense cerulean. Dawn on the Indian Ocean. The first dawn that Peter Novak had seen for some days.

Hennessy opened his window and called out to Janson. “And who’s the woman, now?” he asked, his voice tense.

“Ever hear of Donna Hedderman?”