‘Actually, he lives in a fancy penthouse right here in town.’ Nina looked towards the window. They were in a room on the tenth floor of a hotel with a view across Auckland’s central business district. The city’s premier landmark, the Sky Tower – the southern hemisphere’s tallest building, though rivals in Australia were under construction with the intention of stealing its crown – dominated the vista, a slender spire stabbing over three hundred metres towards the clouds. ‘His mom fits the whole “ultra-rich survivalist” bill, though. She’s got a big estate on South Island. She ran the company until a few years ago, when our smirking friend here took over.’

‘The question is,’ said Cheng, visibly fidgeting because someone else was using his computer, ‘did he hire the mercenaries?’

‘Like I said, let’s ask him.’ Nina, like her husband, had years before learned first-hand the benefits of a waterproof phone; hers had survived its immersions intact. A modicum of web searching provided contact numbers for various divisions of the Miller & Family headquarters. She decided to aim straight for the top and called the executive office, as expected reaching a secretary. ‘Hi, this is Macy Garde, from the Times in New York,’ she said. ‘Is it possible to speak to Mr Miller?’

‘I’m afraid he’s very busy,’ came the polite reply. ‘You’d have to make an appointment. I’m sure something could be arranged for, let me see . . . the middle of next week?’

‘That’s a shame, I was kinda hoping to speak to him right now. Otherwise we’d have to run the story about Mr Miller’s involvement in a criminal conspiracy without any comment from him, and I’m sure he’d like to put forward his side of the story before it goes to press. It might not even need to go to press if he can clear up a few questions.’

‘I’ll . . . I’ll see if I can reach him. One moment, please.’ Tinny hold music came down the line.

Eddie nodded approvingly. ‘Nice.’

‘You work at a university, you meet a lot of kids who fancy themselves as the next Woodward or Bernstein. I guess it rubs off.’

The secretary returned. ‘Please hold for Mr Miller.’

‘Thank you.’ She switched her phone to speaker so Eddie and Cheng could hear.

A click of connection, then: ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Miller?’ said Nina.

‘Yeah. Who’s this, and what’s it about? Sounds like you were making a threat, and let me tell you, people who threaten me regret it.’ Despite having lived in New Zealand for many years, Donny Miller still had an American accent, though inflections on some of the vowels showed his adoptive country had taken a hold.

‘My name’s Macy Garde, from the Times in New York. I want to talk to you about iceberg D43, a man named Harhund, Professor Nina Wilde – and a golden coffin.’