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‘You want to jump out of the plane?’ Draper said, like she’d been told the first line of a joke and was waiting for the punchline.

‘I have problems with the word “want”,’ Koenig replied. ‘But essentially, yes.’

‘Without a parachute?’ Draper continued.

‘It’s not as stupid as it sounds.’

‘Really? Because I have to say, it sounds pretty fucking stupid.’

‘When I was in Russia, I—’

‘I swear to God, if you say you once trained with some weird unit no one’s ever heard of so you can justify more of your bullshit, I won’t be responsible for my actions.’

‘When I was—’

‘Let me guess, some Russian assholes jumped out of planes without parachutes?’

‘Not exactly.’

‘Well, what exactly?’

‘They told me about some soldiers who had.’

‘Oh, they told you.’

‘During the Second World War a Serbian regiment jumped from planes to attack a German tank column advancing on Moscow. They didn’t have parachutes. The plane flew low and slow to make it as safe as possible.’

‘Why didn’t they use parachutes, Ben?’ Carlyle said.

‘They didn’t have any. The Soviets were in dire straits at the time.’

‘What percentage survived this jump?’

‘It depends on who you believe.’

Draper opened her laptop and tapped something into her search engine. She stared at her screen, expanding the occasional article. ‘Thirty per cent, it says here,’ she said eventually. ‘One in three survived to fight. Two-thirds broke their legs or their backs or both.’ She read some more, then added, ‘Also, there’s anecdotal evidence it never happened. That it was Soviet propaganda. A way to shore up morale. To demonstrate resolve. Show what their troops were willing to do in defence of the Motherland.’

‘Doesn’t matter,’ Koenig said. ‘The theory is sound. And don’t forget, skydivers are always surviving parachute malfunctions.’

‘“Always” implies it happens frequently ,’ she said. ‘Whereas I would suggest that surviving a parachute malfunction happens so rarely it becomes a global news event when it does. It’s suicide, Koenig. And while your death would undoubtedly make my life a hell of a lot easier, Smerconish will find a way to blame me.’

She slammed her laptop closed. A bit of plastic snapped off. Shoddy.

‘Full disclosure,’ Koenig said. ‘The Soviets were jumping into snow. Water’s worse.’

‘It is?’ Carlyle said. ‘How?’

‘Because snow compresses; water doesn’t. After a certain height, hitting water is the same as hitting concrete. I’d need to be low enough to avoid terminal velocity, but not so low I couldn’t get into the right position. Too low and I’d hit the water like a bug splatting against a windshield. I’d break every bone in my body. I figure fifty metres will give me enough time to get into position but not so high I’ll reach terminal velocity.’

Draper said nothing. Just glared.

‘I’ll need a knifelike entry into the water,’ Koenig continued. ‘One that offers the smallest surface area. That means I have to go in feet first.’ He paused a beat. ‘I’ll need to break my ankles.’

‘Your ankles?’ Carlyle said.

‘I need them to absorb the worst of the impact. The same way the crumple zone on a car protects the passenger compartment. I’ll be all shook up, but if I enter the water at the right angle, I should survive.’

‘And that doesn’t sound like a problem to you,’ Draper said. ‘Going against Jakob Tas with kindling legs?’

‘With any luck he won’t see me. I’ll breaststroke my way to the boat and put ten rounds in him before he even knows I’m there.’

‘How’s he not going to see you?’

‘Doesn’t matter if he does. I’ll shoot him anyway.’

‘Bess, please talk some sense into this asshole. Tell him we won’t sacrifice him just because we’re out of ideas.’

Carlyle said nothing. Looked down, began wringing her hands.

‘Bess will be fine with it,’ Koenig said.

‘She won’t.’

‘Sure she will,’ Koenig said.

‘How can you possibly know that?’

‘Because she’s done it before,’ Koenig said. He paused. Let it linger, like a bad smell. ‘Isn’t that right, Bess?’

Carlyle looked up. Her eyes were wet.

‘How long have you known?’ she said.