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Koenig felt rather than heard the Gulfstream’s airspeed slow. He thought it was probably the pilot applying the air brakes. Draper had gone into what he thought of as her CIA mode. Her emotionless, take-charge, take-no-shit-from-anyone mode. Smerconish had tried contacting her through the pilot. She’d ignored him. He’d sent an F-35 to escort the Gulfstream back to San Diego. She instructed her pilot to fly right at it. The F-35 blinked first. It was now following them at a respectable distance.

The Gulfstream’s internal phone rang. The call tone seemed especially shrill in the quietening cabin. Draper answered it. ‘How long?’ she said. She listened, then placed the phone back in its cradle. ‘Ten minutes.’

They made their way to the rear cabin.

‘Hi, guys,’ Nash said. ‘I was only joking about being thrown out of the plane. No sense of humour, that’s your problem.’

Draper stared at her, a small frown forming. It looked like she was trying to figure something out.

Nash said, ‘Why don’t you take a picture, it’ll last longer.’

Childish.

‘Ready?’ Draper asked them.

‘As I can be,’ Koenig replied.

‘I’m ready,’ Carlyle said.

‘Tie yourself to something. We’re low, so we won’t need masks, but it’s going to get windy.’

Koenig did. He tied a seat belt around his left wrist. Used a reef knot. Right over left and under; left over right and under. It was the only thing he remembered from his time with the Boy Scouts. That and he was supposed to do a good turn daily. Carlyle did the same. She was wearing a life jacket. Bright orange.

Draper reached up and removed a long, flat panel above the over-wing porthole. It exposed a red toggle.

‘As soon as we’ve located the NorseBoat, the pilot will climb, then slow as rapidly as he can,’ Draper said. ‘When the engine stalls, he’ll bank right. The second he does, you step out of the emergency hatch like it’s a hangman’s trapdoor, Koenig. He thinks it’ll be safer that way. But he can’t hold the banking position for long. Not with a dead engine. You’ll need to go immediately as he’ll need to recircle the boat so I can heave out Bess when you’re shooting at Tas.’

‘He’s done this before.’

‘No, Koenig. No one’s done this before. We’re all improvising here. But like you said, I don’t employ fools.’

‘Won’t banking after he’s stalled the engine make it harder for him to restart it?’

‘Let him worry about that.’

‘But—’

‘But nothing. Have you both got everything you need?’

Carlyle had her Makarov. It was underneath her life jacket, in a shoulder holster. Wasn’t going anywhere.

Koenig held up his SIG and his Fairbairn–Sykes.

‘You’re taking your knife?’ Draper said. ‘Isn’t that like running with scissors?’

‘Of course.’

Koenig holstered the SIG. He’d had a choice between a shoulder holster and a drop-leg holster. He didn’t like either. He’d have preferred an inside-the-waistband holster. An IWB would have been ideal. They were uncomfortable to wear, but it would have kept the SIG secure. He chose the drop-leg holster in the end. Shoulder holsters were impractical when jumping out of a plane. The gun would flap about when he was in the air. Might hit him in the face. It was why paratroopers didn’t use them. And he would be landing hard. Much harder than paratroopers landed. Carlyle was using a shoulder holster but that was fine; she had it under her life jacket. The drop-leg holster was the marginally better option. It hung from his belt and was strapped to the thigh. He adjusted it so the SIG was within his grasp when his arms were at rest. The holster wasn’t perfect. It had Velcro fasteners instead of a strap and buckle. Velcro came undone during intensive movement. It was noisy. They could turn, end up on the inside of the thigh. And when you moved, the holster moved, making it an unpredictable draw. Particularly when running. Plus, they were a little too macho for Koenig’s liking. Like they’d been designed by someone who’d played too much Call of Duty .

He didn’t know what to do with the Fairbairn–Sykes. He didn’t want to leave it behind, but he had no real way of securing it during an uncontrolled fall. He’d either stab himself in the leg or, worse, lose it. He decided to take it anyway. He grabbed a field dressing from the medicine box and wrapped the knife in as much padding as he could. He then slipped it into the back of his pants. Fiddled with it until it was snug against the base of his spine.

He raised his shirt and said to Draper, ‘Tape me up?’

‘Er, hello?’ Nash said, screwing up her face. ‘Can you please do this someplace else? I don’t want to see your gross old-man ass.’

Draper ignored her. She grabbed a roll of medical tape, the non-stretch porous kind used to secure dressings to flesh. She tore off a dozen strips and began taping the Fairbairn–Sykes to his back.

While she did, Koenig mentally rehearsed what he needed to do after exiting the plane. The first thing would be stabilising himself. To halt the unavoidable uncontrolled spin. He would tuck his arms and legs in, like a kid cannonballing into a swimming pool. The kind of move that got you whistle-checked by the jerk in the lifeguard chair. He figured he’d need two seconds. He’d then fold out his legs and raise his arms. Like he was surrendering. Logically, this was the most aerodynamic position. It would reduce the drag force, which would increase his velocity, but it would get him to the water in the right position. Two moves. The cannonball, then the surrender. Two seconds for the first move, one for the second. Three seconds in total.

Then he’d either hit Lake Mead gracefully and streamlined, like a gannet, or spinning wildly like an out-of-control helicopter. If it were the former, he’d come up shooting. Be the diversion Carlyle needed him to be.

The cabin phone chirped. Draper answered it.

‘We’re over Mead now,’ she said after she’d hung up.

‘Has the pilot found Tas?’

‘He’s in the middle of the Boulder Basin.’

‘No wonder Smerconish thinks the dam is the target,’ Koenig said. The Boulder Basin was the large open part of Lake Mead, just north of the Hoover Dam. ‘With a strong wind he could be there within minutes.’

‘You still think it’s misdirection? Because if you aren’t sure, it’s not too late to call this off.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘I guess we’re doing this then,’ Draper said. Resigned. She reached up and pulled the red toggle. Koenig heard the click of the emergency exit unlocking. It wasn’t big, about the size of the top half of a stable door. Draper pulled. Koenig assumed it would come out, then up. Or to the side. That it would stay attached to the cabin. But it didn’t; it came out completely. Like Draper was removing a storm panel after a hurricane. The cold air rushed in. Faster than a wind tunnel. It stung Koenig’s face. Draper wedged the emergency exit between a seat and the cabin wall.

She grabbed Koenig’s head and shouted directly into his ear. ‘He’s going to put you within two hundred yards if he can. Remember, banking right is your green light. And the moment you get in the water, you start fucking shooting. Give Bess a fighting chance.’

Koenig formed a circle with his thumb and forefinger. OK. He moved to the open emergency exit. The wind battered his face. Rippled his cheeks like an astronaut during high-g training. He couldn’t breathe. He turned away from the wind and sucked in a lungful.

The engine sputtered, caught again, then stopped completely. The Gulfstream stopped being a sleek private jet and became a poorly designed glider. The pilot banked to the right.

‘Go!’ Draper shouted.

‘I hope you get eaten by a shark!’ Nash yelled.

Koenig smiled and nodded. Then he stepped out of the airplane.

And fell into the lake faster than a cannonball.