A week after the couple had left Rotterdam, iceberg D43 was now in sight. It had been a fraught seven days, the flight back to New York followed by a confrontation with an angry and upset Macy – understandably so, after being told her parents would be jetting off and leaving her behind again. At ten, Nina recalled with grim amusement, her daughter was old and savvy enough to protest that it was a form of child abuse, and she couldn’t entirely disagree. It was certainly not an ideal situation; Holly couldn’t take any more time off work, so childcare duties were being shared between her, Olivia and Lola Adams, a friend of Nina’s from her days at the IHA.

But the sight of the iceberg reminded her there were other considerations. If the Dionysius remained intact inside, there was a chance, however slim, that its crew might still be alive. Imka was right: a rescue attempt had to be made.

And then there was the question of what else was inside. Nina still totally dismissed the idea that it might be demons or aliens, but there was something – something connected to the long-lost civilisation of the Veteres.

Which was why she had to be there, she told herself. As far as she knew, she and Eddie were the only people in the world with direct knowledge and experience of the ancient race. That edge could mean the difference between life and death.

She turned from the angular blue-white iceberg to the other people on the bridge. Three days earlier, the research vessel Torrox, sister ship to the Dionysius, had set sail from Sydney, Australia. Vorster had joined the mission, the bearded shipowner constantly lurking behind the Torrox’s captain as if itching to take command himself. Imka Joubert was also there, the stress and frustration of enforced inaction during the voyage clear on her face. Even if her fiancé was still alive, there was nothing the slender blonde could do to help him until they reached their destination.

But that time would soon come. Nina went to the last passenger on the bridge: Hui Cheng. The young Chinese was on his laptop, using a satellite link to download updated satellite imagery of D43. ‘Anything new?’ she asked.

‘This is from yesterday,’ Cheng said, showing her the picture. ‘Some more pieces have broken off,’ he indicated a cluster of white objects near the berg, ducklings trailing their mother, ‘but none are very big.’

The captain, a languid Australian named Alan Tate, glanced at them. ‘Doesn’t mean it’ll hold together. This latitude, the water’s warm enough to work away at any cracks. The whole thing could split in half any time.’