She heard the man behind the lights draw in his breath. Perhaps he nodded. Sucre drew up a seat and sat down by the other man. 'The jefe wants to know what you think of us. It was as though one of the lights was talking.

'Of the venceristas?

'Si.

She wondered what was the right thing to say. But they would know she'd try to say the right thing, so what was the point of it? She shrugged, looked down at the cello, fingered the strings. 'I don't know. I don't know everything that you stand for.

After a pause; 'Freedom for the people of Panama. Eventually, a greater Columbia. Cutting the puppet strings of the yanquis.

'Well, that might be good, she said, not looking up. Silence from the far end of the table. The coal of the cigar glowed brightly for a moment. 'I am not a politician, she said. 'I am a musician. Anyway, this is not my fight. I'm sorry. She looked up. 'We all just want to get out alive.

The cigar coal dipped towards Sucre. She heard a deep voice, smoky, as though it had taken on some of the character of the pungent blue fumes it passed through on its way to her. 'But the yanquis forced you to open up your country, yes? 1854; the American Navy made you trade. She sensed Sucre lean close to the other man again, heard the rumble of his voice once more. 'And then, less than a century later, they nuke you. The cigar coal was out to one side; she could just see it, under the glare of the left-hand light, and she could imagine the seated figure, arm on an arm of the chair. 'Huh'? Sucre said.

'That has all happened, she said. 'We… she struggled to find the words to describe a century and a half of the most radical change any country had ever undergone. 'We had strengths in our isolation, but it could not persist for ever. When we were… forced to change, we changed and found new strengths… or new expressions of the old ones. We tried too much; we tried to fit ourselves to the peoples outside; behave the way they did. We defeated China and Russia, and the world was amazed, and amazed too that we treated our prisoners so well… then we became… arrogant, perhaps, and thought we could take on America, and treat the… foreign devils as less than human. So we were treated the same way. It was wrong, but we were too. Since then we have flourished. We have sadnesses but, she sighed again, looking down at the strings, resting her fingers on them, imagining the chord she was producing, 'we can have few complaints. The lights still blazed. The cigar was centred again, and bright.

'You think the people on the other ship support us? Sucre said, after a pause.

'They want to live, she said. 'Maybe some want you to succeed, maybe some don't. They all want to live. That is stronger.

A noise that might have been a 'hmm'. Smoke billowed like a sail into the twin cones of light and flowed across the table in a slowly fluid tumble.

'Will you play in America? Sucre said.

'After Europe, I said I would think about it. I may. She wondered how much the man behind the lights was taking in. She wasn't choosing her words to make them easy.

'You play for the yanquis? Sucre said, sounding amused.

'I'd swear I wouldn't, if it would make any difference to you.

Definite amusement from the far end of the table. The rumbling voice again. 'We don't ask that, Señorita, Sucre said, laughing.

'What do you ask?

Sucre waited for the low voice, then said, 'We ask that you should play another — ?

The lights flickered and went out; some tone in the ship, never noticed because always there, altered, whined down. The lights came on dimly for a moment, then faded slowly, filaments passing through yellow to orange to red; the same colour as the cigar. They went out.

The emergency lights came on from the corners of the room, filling the mess with a flat neon glow.

She was looking at a man in olive fatigues; square shoulders, square face. For a second she thought he was bald, then saw he had blond hair, crew cut. His eyes were glittering blue. She saw Sucre stand quickly. There was noise from behind her, and the door opened. A voice behind her said, Jefe… then trailed off.

Frozen, the scene seemed cardboard and drained of colour; almost monochromatic. Sucre moved uncertainly towards her. The man holding the cigar raised it to thin lips under a thin blond moustache; the red glow brought colour to his face.

The voice behind her made a throat-clearing noise. Jefe?

The jefe looked steadily at Hisako. The deep voice rumbled, 'Sucre; check out the engine room. If somebody's… made a mistake with that generator… I want to see him.

Sucre nodded and left quickly. The man at the door must still have been there; she saw the jefe look above and behind her, raising his eyebrows fractionally and giving just the slightest inclination of his head. Si, said the voice. The door closed, and she felt alone; alone with the jefe.

The blond man sighed, looked at the end of his cigar. He tapped a couple of centimetres of ash into an ashtray on the table directly in front of him.

'Havana, he said, holding the cigar up for a moment. He studied the end again. 'You can tell the quality of the cigar… well, by the leaf… but also by how much ash it'll support. He rolled the cigar round in his fingers for a few seconds. 'Rolled between the thighs of señoritas. He smiled at her, and smoked.

He reached down to his waist, pulled out an automatic pistol and laid it gently on the table beside the ashtray. He looked at her. 'Don't be alarmed, ma'am. He put one hand on the gun, running his fingers over the barrel and stock, looking at it. His hands were broad, large-fingered, yet he touched the gun with a sort of delicacy. 'Colt nineteen-eleven A-one, he said, his voice filling the room, bassy and full. She imagined cigar tar in his lungs; vocal cords scarred by smoke. The cello seemed to feel his voice, responding.

The large hands stroked the pistol again. 'Still a damn fine gun, after all these years. This is a seventy-three model. He raised his eyes to her. 'Not as old as your cello though, I guess.

She swallowed. 'No. Not by… two and a half centuries.

'Yeah? He seemed amused, leant back in the chair. 'That much, huh? He sat, nodding. The cigar smoke made a ragged rising line in the air.

She wanted to ask if she was dead now, if seeing him was her sentence, and the light her executioner, but she could not. She bit her lips, looked down at the cello strings again. She tried to finger a silent chord, but her hand was shaking too much.

'You played real good, Miss Onoda. The deep voice shook her, a sympathetic frequency to her trembling hands.

'Thank you, she whispered.

'Ma'am, he said quietly. She didn't look up, but had the feeling he'd leant closer. 'I don't want you to worry. It wasn't my intention you should see me, but now you have, all it means is you can't go back to the others until our job here is finished.

His elbows were on the table, between the lamps, straddling the ashtray and gun. His eyes disappeared behind a veil of smoke. 'I don't want you to worry none, see?

'Oh, she said, looking straight at him. 'Fine. I won't.

He gave a throaty laugh. 'Damn, Sucre said you were cool, Miss Onoda. I see what the man meant now. He laughed again. The seat creaked as he sat back in it. 'I'd just love to know what you thought was going on here, you know that? Strikes me you might have all sorts of ideas.

'None worth repeating. The trembling in her hands was subsiding. She could finger a chord.

'No; I'd really like to know.

She shrugged. One chord to another; the change made just so.

'What if I said nothing you say to me makes any difference? The voice seemed to rise a little, as though stretching. 'My job is to out-think people, ma'am, and I seriously suspect I out-thought you some time ago, so why not — she heard the indrawn breath, could see the cigar glow reflected - just tell me what you think? The hand waved the cigar around, never far from the lying gun. 'Can't be worse than what I already think you think.