He should have been sweating. But to look at him, he could have just stepped out of an air-conditioned room.

He crouched down beside the container, at the same time producing a small device from his pocket. It looked like a car cigarette lighter with a dial attached. He found a socket in the side of the box and plugged the device in. Briefly, he examined the dial. He nodded. It was satisfactory.

“You have the rest of the money?” Carlo asked.

“Of course.” The general straightened up and walked over to the jeep. Carlo and Marc tensed themselves-this was the moment when he might produce a gun. But when he turned round he was holding a black leather attaché-case. He flicked the locks and opened it. The case was filled with banknotes: one hundred dollar bills neatly banded together in packets of fifty. One hundred packets in all. A total of half a million dollars. More money than Carlo had ever seen in his life.

But still not enough.

“We’ve had a problem,” Carlo said.

“Yes?” Sarov did not sound surprised.

Marc could feel the sweat as it drew a comma down the side of his neck. A mosquito was whining in his ear but he resisted the urge to slap it. This was what he had been waiting for. He was standing a few steps away, his hands hanging limply by his side. Slowly, he allowed them to creep behind him, closer to the concealed gun. He glanced at the ruined buildings. One might once have been a control tower. The other looked like a customs shed. Both of them were broken and empty, the brickwork crumbling, the windows smashed. Could there be someone hiding there? No. The thermal intensifier would have shown them. They were alone.

“The cost of the uranium.” Carlo shrugged. “Our friend in Miami sends his apologies. But there are new security systems all over the world. Smuggling-particularly this sort of thing-has become much more difficult. And that’s meant extra expense.”

“How much extra expense?”

“A quarter of a million dollars.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Unfortunate for you. General. You’re the one who has to pay.”

Sarov considered. “We had an agreement.” he said.

There was a long silence. Marc’s fingers reached out behind his back, closing around the Glock automatic. But then Sarov nodded. “I will have to raise the money,” he said.

“You can have it transferred to the same account that we used before,” Carlo said. “But I have to warn you, General. If the money hasn’t arrived in three days, the American intelligence services will be told what has happened here tonight… what you’ve just received. You may think you are safe here on this island. I can assure you, you won’t be safe any more.”

“You’re threatening me,” Sarov muttered. There was something at once calm and deadly in the way he spoke.

“It’s nothing personal,” Carlo said.

Marc produced a cloth bag. He unfolded it, then tipped the money out of the case and into the bag. The case might contain a radio transmitter. It might contain a small bomb. He left it behind.

“Good night, General,” Carlo said.

“Good night.” Sarov smiled. “I hope you enjoy the flight.”

The two men walked away. Marc could feel the money, the bundles pressing through the cloth against the side of his leg. “The man’s a fool,” he whispered, returning to his own language.

“An old man. Why were we afraid?”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Carlo said. He was thinking about what the general had said: I hope you enjoy the flight. Had he been smiling when he said that?

He made the agreed signal, pressing his finger and thumb together. At once the Cessna’s engine started up.

General Sarov was still watching them. He hadn’t moved, but now his hand reached once again into his jacket pocket. His fingers closed around the radio transmitter waiting there. He had wondered if it would be necessary to kill the two men and their pilot. Personally, he would have preferred not to, even as an insurance policy. But their demands had made it necessary. He should have known they would be greedy. Given the sort of people they were, it was almost inevitable.

Back in the plane, the two men were strapping themselves into their seats while the pilot prepared for take-off. Carlo heard the engine rev up as the plane slowly began to turn. Far away, there was a low rumble of thunder. Now he wished that they had turned the plane round immediately after they had landed. It would have saved some precious seconds and he was eager to be away.

Back in the air.

I hope you enjoy the flight.

There had been no emotion whatsoever in the general’s voice. He could have meant what he was saying. But Carlo guessed he would have spoken exactly the same way if he had been passing a sentence of death.

Next to him, Marc was already counting the money, running his hands through the piles of notes. He looked back at the ruined buildings, at the waiting jeep. Would Sarov try something? What sort of resources did he have on the island? But as the plane turned in a tight circle, nothing moved. The general stayed where he was. There was nobody else in sight.

The runway lights went out.

“What the…?” The pilot swore viciously.

Marc stopped his counting. Carlo understood at once what was happening. “He’s turned the lights off,” he said. “He wants to keep us here. Can you take off without them?”

The plane had turned a half-circle so that it was facing the way it had come. The pilot stared out through the cockpit window, straining to see into the night. It was very dark now, but there was an ugly, unnatural light pulsating in the sky. He nodded. “It won’t be easy, but…”

The lights came back on again.

There they were, stretching into the distance, an arrow that pointed to freedom and an extra profit of a quarter of a million dollars. The pilot relaxed. “It must have been the storm,” he said. “It disrupted the electricity supply.”

“Just get us out of here,” Carlo muttered. “The sooner we’re in the air, the happier I’ll be.”

The pilot nodded. “Whatever you say.” He pressed down on the controls and the Cessna lumbered forward, picking up speed quickly. The runway lights blurred, guiding him forward. Carlo settled back into his seat. Marc was watching out of the window.

And then, seconds before the wheels left the ground, the plane suddenly lurched. The whole world twisted as a giant, invisible hand seized hold of it and wrenched it sideways. The Cessna had been travelling at one hundred and fifty kilometres per hour. It came to a grinding halt in a matter of seconds, the deceleration throwing all three men forward in their seats. If they hadn’t been belted in, they would have been hurled out of the front window-or what was left of the shattered glass. At the same time there was a series of ear-shattering crashes as something whipped into the fuselage. One of the wings had dipped down and the propeller was torn off, spinning into the night. Suddenly the plane was still, resting tilted on one side.

For a moment, nobody moved inside the cabin. The plane’s engines rattled and stopped. Then Marc pulled himself up in his seat. “What happened?” he screamed. “What happened?” He had bitten his tongue. Blood trickled down his chin. The bag was still open and money had spilled into his lap.

“I don’t understand…” The pilot was too dazed to speak.

“You left the runway!” Carlo’s face was twisted with shock and anger.

“I didn’t!”

“There!” Marc was pointing at something and Carlo followed his quivering finger. The door on the underside of the plane had buckled. Black water was seeping in underneath, forming a pool around their feet.

There was another rumble of thunder, closer this time.

“He did this!” the pilot said.

“What did he do?” Carlo demanded.

“He moved the runway!”