Black River

by Tom Harper

Genres: Action & Adventure; Mystery; Thrillers

Synopsis

The incredible new novel from Tom Harper, set in one of the most dangerous environments on the planet. Perfect for fans of Dan Brown and The Lost City Of Z. Tom Harper has taken you to the underworld. He's taken you to the Arctic. Now he's taking you to the deadliest jungle on earth.

When Kel MacDonald joins an expedition looking for a legendary lost city in the Peruvian Amazon, he's expecting the adventure of a lifetime. But things are not what they seem.

Paramilitaries, drug cartels, and wildcat prospectors all want what the jungle has to offer—while untamed local tribes will fight desperately to protect their way of life. Maps of the region have been doctored. And what exactly happened to the previous expedition, a government vaccination program that went upriver and never returned?

Soon finding the lost city is the least of their troubles. The jungle hides deadly secrets that must be hidden at all costs. And someone in the group wants to make sure they never get out.

Release date: September 10, 2015

Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton

Print pages: 352

Sample

The lost city of Paititi is real, as far as legends go. Andrea Lopez’s story of his visit there was discovered in the Vatican archives a few years ago, though I invented the tale of Diego Alvarado. Huascar’s golden chain, the golden sun from the high temple in Cuzco and the mummies of the fourteen Inca emperors are all treasures rumoured to be there. The petroglyphs in this book are based on the unexplained carvings at Palotoa Pusharo, which I visited. The guardian that Kel finds is similar to an intriguing rock structure discovered by Diego Cortijo in 2013.

Every year, expeditions go searching for Paititi in the unexplored regions of Peru and Bolivia; most of them come back. The expedition in this book, and the people who go on it, are entirely fictional. Any similarities to actual expeditions and explorers are entirely coincidental. And, frankly, worrying.

If you’re going into the jungle, you have to know who to trust. Unlike Kel, I was exceptionally lucky with my travelling companions in the Peruvian Amazon. Fernando Rivera of EcoManu Peru was everything you could want in a guide: knowledgeable, reliable, resourceful and always good-humoured. The trip he organised took me to places I never imagined I’d see. Kevin Anderson battled wild Indians, ravenous jaguars, snakes, poisonous snails and a full suite of tropical diseases (mostly, it has to be said, in his imagination) to come with me. At time of writing, he’s OK. Thanks also to Simon, Ray, Vicky, Callixto, Roberto, Moises and everyone else who drove, steered, pushed and fed us through the jungle. And special mention to Virginia, who loaned us her balsa raft when ours got washed away by the storm.

Back home, I’m very grateful to Carlos Remon for taking on the challenge of teaching me Spanish; to Dr Tim Thompson for advice on decomposing bodies; to Claire McGowan for telling me about Mexico; to Michael Ridpath for an aphorism about the jungle; and to the Fitzgerald Kay family, who won a character-naming auction in aid of Knavesmire School. In the wilder jungles of the manuscript, I was expertly guided by Oliver Johnson and Anne Perry, who carried a lot of the baggage. Kerry Hood made extraordinary things happen. My agent Jane Conway-Gordon frightened off predators.

There are several long-suffering wives in this story, letting their menfolk go off on dubious adventures in Peru. Mine is one of them. I’m grateful to her for indulging me; and to my children, who never let me forget how exciting this all is. As long as I’m home for bedtime.

‘You’re going the wrong way.’

Cate, in the passenger seat, looked up from the map. Outside, a dull landscape of scrub and dust passed by the window. It hadn’t changed in the last two hours.

‘This map’s no good.’

The map was the freebie that came with the car, a glossy piece of promotion designed on the principle that all tourists are short-sighted. I should have taken the GPS option, but that had cost forty dollars extra, and I’d already felt ripped off by the car hire price. Never book through a hotel.

‘You should have taken the GPS.’

‘I don’t believe in GPS. Anyway, we’re having an adventure.’ I tried to make a joke of it, but the time for jokes had passed about fifty kilometres back.

‘Can we go home?’ Peggy asked from the back seat. She’d been fractious since the iPad battery died. Apparently, that was my fault too.

‘Daddy’s going to turn around in a minute,’ Cate promised her.

‘What’s that?’ I jammed on the brakes. A cloud of dust billowed through the open windows and got in my mouth. I craned my head back to see the building we’d just passed. A mint-green breezeblock shack, with two hens and a Coca-Cola sign out the front. The sign on the wall said Montezuma Bar Café.

‘Montezuma Bar. That’s the one.’ A dirt track split off the main road behind the bar, heading up towards a clutch of trees on a low hill. I turned on to it.

‘How much longer?’ said the little voice from the back.

‘Five minutes,’ Cate said grimly.

We’d been in Mexico six days. Long enough for the jetlag to wear off, long enough to get properly fed up. Cate hated the heat. Peggy hated the food. I hated the crowds, the feeling I’d been dropped on a conveyor belt whose sole purpose was to extract cash, while speeding me past the sights in a superficial blur. Tourism on rails. That was why I’d hired the car that afternoon – to get off the tourist trail, to experience something rather than just be shown it. No air-conditioned busses and itineraries and cultural programmes and vendors swarming like ants the moment you stopped to draw breath. I was thirty-eight, with a wife (adored), a mortgage (hefty) and a six-year-old daughter (cross, because her Octonauts had been cut off). But I wasn’t ready to give up on adventures just yet.

I should have taken the extra damage insurance on the car. Potholes bounced us around; loose stones rattled off the paintwork. The catch on the glove compartment shook loose, spilling paperwork all over Cate’s legs.

‘One minute,’ said Cate, in the voice she uses when Peggy won’t put her shoes on for school.

I drove as fast as I dared, flinching each time a rock pinged the car. ‘I feel sick,’ came the inevitable complaint from the back.

‘Look straight ahead.’

We crested the ridge and reached the trees. Greener than anything else in that parched landscape, a genuine oasis.

‘This must be it.’ I stopped the car and checked the webpage I’d bookmarked on my phone. ‘“Cenote de los Muertos. The Well of the Dead.”’

‘Sounds fab.’

‘“A hidden gem deep in the Yucatán countryside, claimed to be the origin of the Fountain of Youth myth …”’

‘Funny name for the Fountain of Youth.’

‘“If you go, chances are you’ll have it to yourself.”’

‘Chances are we won’t.’ Cate pointed through the dust settling around us. Another car was parked there, half hidden by the trees.

I started to swear, but Cate caught me with a look.

The moment I stepped out, a hundred mosquitoes descended on me. Monsters, B-52s compared to the ones we have at home. I slapped at them ineffectually. Peggy squealed. Cate got some Deet out of her handbag and sprayed it on Peggy’s arms.

I looked at the other car. Even for Mexico, it was a strange one. A Volkswagen Beetle (a real one, not the modern estate-agent version), whose paint had been stripped back to the metal, then reapplied by a consortium of tie-dyers and graffiti artists. A riot of colours.

I couldn’t resist peering in the window. Some kind of extravagant folk-art charm dangled from the mirror; paper cups and food wrappers littered the floor. A polka-dotted bra lay draped across the back seat.

‘This way,’ I said, leading them away from the car before Cate saw. We went along a narrow path – well trodden, for a hidden gem – until we arrived in a clearing.

‘Here we are.’

Three holes yawned from a bulge in the ground, two small and one about five metres across. You could definitely imagine it as a pair of eye sockets and a mouth – even without the skull drawn on a wooden sign lying on the ground. Cenote de los Muertos, it said; underneath, Entrada $20. A tattered folding chair sat next to the sign, though I saw no sign of the attendant. No sign of the owner of the polka-dot bra, either. A knotted rope hung down into the hole.

‘Do real explorers pay an entry fee?’ Cate asked.

I ignored her. I could see sapphire-blue water sparkling underground, and I wanted to be in it. I peeled off my sweat-soaked clothes and got my swimming trunks out of the bag.

Cate frowned. ‘Modesty?’

‘There’s no one to see. Aren’t you coming?’

I knew she was wearing her swimming costume under her skirt. I’d seen her put it on at the hotel. But she stayed back, holding Peggy against her legs.

‘C’mon.’

‘Someone has to stay with Peggy.’ She peered into the cenote. ‘You’re not just going to jump in, are you? You could break your leg.’

‘The website says it’s fine.’

‘And what about getting out?’

I kicked the rope. ‘This.’

‘And if it breaks?’

‘It won’t.’

I could feel myself getting hot, and I didn’t want to start a fight. It was supposed to be my adventure. I turned, held my breath and jumped in feet first.

It was further down than I thought. I had time to wonder, in mid-air, Is this a good idea? Then I smacked the water. It rushed up my nose; I felt myself sinking. Too deep, too fast. You’ll break your leg. I flailed and kicked.

My head broke the surface. I gasped down a breath and took half a gallon of water with it. I expected to gag, but the water was fresh: sweet and clear and so cold it made my heart freeze.

It was the best, purest moment of the holiday. Sunlight shone through the hole and made a perfect halo. Treading water, looking down, I could see tiny fish scurrying about my toes; the dappled limestone walls sinking into darkness. The black mouth of a tunnel in the side wall yawned open. A flaking metal sign bolted to the rock above said, in English and Spanish, ‘Experienced Divers Only’. From Wikipedia, I knew the system ran for miles, an underground labyrinth of fresh water caverns riddling the peninsula.

Cate’s face appeared at the edge of the hole. A long way up.

‘Are you OK?’

‘You should come down here,’ I shouted. The moment I spoke, the cave filled with an echo like giant laughter.

‘Is there anyone else there?’

I shook my head. ‘It’s perfect. Come on in.’

She looked as if she was considering it. Ten years ago, she’d have been in there like a shot, even without a swimsuit. But now—

‘I’d better stay with Peggy.’ At least she sounded as if she regretted it. Small victory.

I lay on my back and kicked around for a few minutes, basking in the sunlight coming through the roof. When that got too hot, I duck-dived underwater, chasing the fish and skimming along the rock walls like an eel. All around the cave, my own private paradise.

But there was one place I kept coming back to. The tunnel mouth, dark and tempting. I felt around it with my hands; I braced myself against the walls and peered in, trying to make anything out. I thought I could see light at the far end.

I knew what the website said. Most spectacularly, a ten-metre swim down a side tunnel brings you to a Mayan ritual site, where the bones of sacrificial victims still lie in a hidden cave.

Of course, Cate would point out, that wasn’t all. This should only be attempted by properly certified cave divers with the correct equipment and precautions. But that was just to cover themselves. You can’t buy a coffee these days without a health and safety briefing. And I’m a decent swimmer. Ten metres underwater shouldn’t have been a problem.

This is my adventure.

I resurfaced, and saw Cate looking down again.

‘Are you coming out soon?’

‘In a minute.’

‘The mosquitoes are eating Peggy alive. I’m taking her back to the car.’

I waited until she disappeared. Then I took a deep breath.

I swam for what felt like a long way, kicking myself forward while my hands traced the tunnel wall. I couldn’t shake the phrase underwater labyrinth from my head – but this was only ten metres. I must have gone far enough. I gave another couple of kicks, just to be sure, then let myself float towards the surface. My lungs were beginning to feel the strain.

My head bumped rock. But I was still underwater: I must have come up too soon. Holding my breath was getting more painful. I lunged forward, feeling ahead for an opening.

Did the website say the Mayan cave had air in it? Suddenly, I wasn’t at all sure. Had I imagined that? Did you need scuba gear to go down there?

The bones of sacrificial victims still lie in a hidden cave. All I could see was skeletons, my own bones sinking to the sandy floor of the cave. And the look on Cate’s face.

I had to go back. I opened my eyes. Dim light illuminated the water, but I couldn’t tell which way it was coming from. I twisted around, turning somersaults this way and that, looking for the source. It seemed to be coming from everywhere. And now I’d lost any sense of direction – didn’t know which way was up.

I couldn’t hold my breath any more. I let go, but of course there was nothing to breathe but water. My lungs felt as if they’d pop; my head was spinning. I knew it was crazy. I couldn’t have come far. I ought to be able to get back. I fought it. But my movements were slow and limp, as if the water was fighting back. Lava-lamp spots danced in front of my eyes. My mind turned in on itself.

Underwater labyrinth underwater labyrinth underwater labyrinth.

I’ve sent so many people under in my life, I knew exactly what was happening. Phase one: a mild state of euphoria, similar to drunkenness, according to the textbook (I’ve experienced both: drunkenness is much better). Phase two, where you no longer respond to commands until finally you wouldn’t even feel a knife sliding into your guts. Phase three.

The black blurs were coalescing into a shape, a human figure swimming out of the void. That’s when I started to believe I was dying. Was this how it ended? Was this what those patients had seen, the ones who didn’t come out? I’d always wondered. He’d come so close he filled the crystal water with his darkness. He reached out and took my arm. For an angel, he had a surprisingly strong grip. Long fair hair fanned around him; I could see the wings bulging out behind his shoulder, but something hid his face.

He forced something into my mouth. I would have resisted, but I was well towards phase three. With some primal infant instinct, I bit down on the regulator (which is what it was) and sucked in. Old, rubbery air that probably tasted like a bicycle tyre, but to me it was like sucking on pure ether.

The angel tapped my shoulder and made a ‘slow down’ gesture. I nodded, and tried to control my breathing. My vision was clearing. He wasn’t an angel – he was a diver. The wings on his back were an oxygen cylinder. Wide blue eyes watched me from behind his mask.

He borrowed back the regulator for a quick breath, then took my wrist and pulled me down the tunnel. Not far – maybe four or five metres. I remember thinking at the time, That’s the difference between life and death. Later, of course, I learned they’re a whole lot closer.

We surfaced in a small, domed cave. Air – real air – and light from a diver’s torch placed on a ledge. I breathed in, grinning like an idiot and not caring. A stone idol with enormous square ears screamed warnings at me from a niche in the wall.

That was how I met Anton.

Anton (the diver) pulled off his face mask. He had a wild mane of dirty blond hair, a sun-beaten face, and pale blue eyes like portals to another dimension. He wore his oxygen tank without a wetsuit; between the straps, I could see a fat scar slashed across his ribcage, and a black shark’s tooth on a leather cord around his neck. I wondered if the two were related.

We weren’t alone. There was a girl, treading water. Maybe it was lack of oxygen, or the hormone rush that came from my escape, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She was in her mid-twenties, lithe skin immaculately tanned, dark hair slicked back down her neck as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. She wore a white bikini, too thin for the icy water. I wondered if she owned a polka-dotted bra. She looked about the right size.

She lifted a hand out of the water and waved. ‘These tunnels can be pretty dangerous, huh?’

Our legs brushed as we all trod water in that tight space. A shiver went through me. I started to say something formulaic about saving my life, but Anton wasn’t interested. He took the torch from the ledge and shone it straight down.

‘I guess this is what you came for.’

I almost jumped out of the water. On the sandy bottom, right under my feet, the torchlight picked out a pile of bones. Arms and legs and ribs; femurs, tibias, thoraces, the works. Worst were the skulls, staring up at me with empty eyes, angry at being disturbed from their rest. Several had been broken open like eggs, jagged holes where no holes should be.

‘The Mayans clubbed them to death,’ Anton said. ‘And have you seen Momma?’

He’d turned the torch towards an alcove in the wall, to the left of the screaming idol. Another nasty surprise: more bones, a whole skeleton laid out on the rock shelf, with a fracture in the skull just behind the ear. Water seeping down over the centuries had covered the bones in a glossy calcium case, so you couldn’t tell if the figure was being born out of the rock, or sucked into it. Straight out of King Solomon’s Mines.

‘Momma,’ said Anton.

I shuddered. ‘Why do you call her that?’

‘It was the conquistadors,’ said the girl. ‘They told the Mayans it was the bones of the Virgin Mary, so they’d treat it like a holy place.’

‘Usual crock of Catholic shit,’ said Anton.

If I were a religious man, I’d have crossed myself. But I was superstitious enough to avert my eyes – straight at the girl. She wasn’t wearing an air tank, or a mask. Had she swum through the passage unassisted?

She caught me looking, and gave me a warm smile. I returned it with interest.

‘You come alone?’ Anton asked.

I blinked. Since he’d rescued me, I hadn’t had time to think of Cate. She didn’t know where I’d gone, only that I’d disappeared from the cenote. She must be frantic. Had she called the police?

‘My wife’s outside. And my daughter. They didn’t want to come.’

‘You should tell them you’re OK,’ said the girl earnestly.

‘Right.’

I didn’t want to go. Now that I’d caught my breath, and got over the shock, I could feel the dark magic in that place. Reflected light rippled over the ceiling, while the yellow torch-beam turned the sand at the bottom gold. Even the bones didn’t frighten me any more.

‘Did anyone ever find any treasure in here?’

Anton laughed. ‘If they did, they didn’t leave any behind.’

I took a last look around. Three months later, in another cave with another family of bones, I remembered that moment. Sacrificial victims.

With a light and a guide and an air supply, taking turns with Anton’s cylinder, the journey back took no time. We came out in the main chamber and swam for the dangling rope. We must have been longer than I’d realised. The sun had moved on. The golden cave had gone grey.

‘Where the hell have you been?’

Cate had stripped down to her swimming costume and was halfway down the rope.

‘Are you coming in?’

She glared down at me – like an avenging god descending in some Greek play. ‘I was coming to rescue you.’

‘It’s OK,’ Anton called. ‘We already rescued him for you.’

The echoes in the cave made conversation almost impossible. The overlapping sounds throbbed uncomfortably in my ears. Cate wanted to say something but it was futile. She turned her back, pulled herself up the rope and disappeared out over the edge. Pretty quick. She’d kept herself in reasonable shape, even after Peggy was born.

I glanced at my rescuer. If he was embarrassed by us, he didn’t show it. Later, when I’d worked him out a bit more, I understood he was immune to embarrassment – and a few other things too. Doubt; hesitation; danger. Totally bulletproof.

‘I’m Kel, by the way,’ I introduced myself.

‘Anton. And she’s Drew.’ He nodded to the girl. Girlfriend? The way he said her name, there was definitely something possessive in it: a sense of intimacy, or ownership.

It’s amazing how easy it is to feel jealous of the man who saved your life.

‘I owe you,’ I said with a big smile.

‘Next time, bring an air tank. Nothing’s dangerous with the right preparation.’

‘Seriously.’ I lowered my voice so Cate wouldn’t hear, though the echoes made it gibberish anyway. ‘I could have died in there.’

He shrugged it off. But I was grateful, maybe profoundly, and I wanted to make him understand it. Perhaps I had other reasons, too.

‘Let me buy you dinner.’

I heard them arrive before I saw them. Anton’s psychedelic VW made a noise like a jackhammer ripping up the hotel car park. Two minutes later, he came through the door of the restaurant, scanning the room like a predator. He’d changed into jeans and a white linen shirt, sleeves rolled up and buttons undone to the sternum. His dirty-blond hair sprang out in every direction like a lion’s mane. Cowboy boots would have completed the outfit. Instead, he was wearing flip-flops.

I stood up and waved my margarita glass. Drew wasn’t with him.

‘I didn’t recognise you with your clothes on,’ he said as the maître d’ led him over.

‘Likewise,’ I joked, though it wasn’t true. He had a presence you’d know anywhere, like a piece of iron knows a magnet. And those eyes. If they were all you could see, you’d still recognise him at once.

‘Is Drew coming?’ I asked, offhand.

‘Freshening up. She likes the running water here.’ He took the seat opposite me. ‘How about your wife?’

‘Just putting our daughter to bed.’

He looked around. Not a casual glance, but a deep searching gaze, as if he’d never seen a restaurant before.

‘You like this place?’

His tone put me on the defensive. I felt I had to justify myself.

‘Well, there’s a lot of space for Peggy to run around. And you can’t beat the location.’

I pointed through the trees that lined the hotel compound. Spotlit behind them, the steps of Chichen Itza, the Observatory pyramid, climbed towards the night sky.

‘You don’t get a ruined Mayan city next door at the Hilton. We wanted to beat the tourists.’

‘Mayaland.’ He chewed the word over like a piece of bubblegum. ‘Don’t you think it sounds like Disneyland?’

‘Maybe that’s the point. I mean, you know what Chichen Itza’s like …’

He shook his head. ‘Never been.’

I stared at him. ‘Never?’

‘Too touristy.’

I couldn’t argue with that. The hotel had a private entrance to the site, but even that was limited value. The moment you crossed the threshold, you were fair game for the vendors. Hundreds of them, some not much older than Peggy; a cacophony of ‘one dollar, one dollar’ and ‘special price for you’ that almost drowned out the guide. And once the tour buses arrived …

‘It’s enough to make you believe in human sacrifice,’ I said. ‘That’s why I went to the cenote. I wanted …’

Anton had stopped listening to me. He’d turned around, and was beckoning Drew, who was threading her way between the tables.

I stood, slightly awkwardly, and tried not to stare – though I wouldn’t have been the only one. She’d looked good in a bikini; she looked stunning now, in a simple white jersey dress that clung so tight there couldn’t have been room for much underneath.

She flashed me a smile. I leaned in and gave her a gallant kiss on the cheek. Her perfume smelled of some sweet flower I couldn’t name.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said.

‘Not at all.’

She sat down next to Anton. He put his hand on her arm. He wore a lot of rings, I noticed: fat steel and silver. Drew had none.

‘This hotel is the best,’ she enthused. She nestled against Anton’s shoulder. ‘Why can’t we stay someplace like this?’

‘Where are you staying?’ I asked. I had to look her firmly in the eye, to avoid any hint of my gaze drifting down the V of her dress.

‘Anton’s got us camping out in the sticks. In hammocks, not even a tent, would you believe? Only a campfire to cook on, and no running water.’

‘There’s a stream,’ said Anton.

‘There’s a stream bed.’

‘It sounds great,’ I said, and I meant it. The hotel’s decor – ‘hacienda style’, the website called it – was starting to embarrass me.

‘Where are you from?’ Anton asked.

‘Scotland. But I live in London now. You?’

‘Kind of all over.’

‘You make it sound so romantic,’ said Drew. Her eyes met mine and she said in a stage whisper, ‘He’s really from Tampico, Illinois.’

‘Birthplace of Ronald Reagan,’ said Anton.

He scraped back his chair. Cate had arrived. She looked nice, in a Boden catalogue sort of way: a pretty flower print T-shirt with ruched sleeves, a denim skirt several inches longer than the ones she used to wear when we met.

‘Sorry,’ she apologised. ‘Peggy wouldn’t stay down.’

Anton kissed her on both cheeks, Continental-style. I made the introductions. With Anton and Drew having to sort out their dive equipment, and Cate desperate to get Peggy back for her tea, there hadn’t been an opportunity at the cenote. I caught her giving Drew a shrewd look. Perhaps it was a sex thing, two females of the species sizing up the competition.

‘So you’re the man I have to blame for saving my husband,’ she said, as we took our seats.

I hadn’t meant to tell her what happened in the tunnel. I didn’t want to worry her. But she’d worked it out of me, over an excruciating hour on the drive back.

‘It’s an amazing place,’ Drew volunteered. ‘Next time, we’ll bring enough equipment for everyone. Your daughter, too.’

The waiter arrived and took our drinks order before Cate could say what she thought of that idea.

‘Anything you want,’ I said. ‘My treat.’

Drew took a daiquiri. Anton ordered tequila – ‘blue agave, neat’ – and I asked for another margarita.

‘Maybe a pitcher?’ the waiter suggested.

‘Sure.’

‘And I’ll have a glass of wine,’ said Cate.

The waiter left. No one moved to pick up the conversation. Cate’s arrival seemed to have broken the flow.

‘So I guess you’re here on vacation?’ said Drew. If all else fails, talk about your holidays.

‘Just a week for half-term,’ said Cate. ‘Kel’s always fancied himself as Indiana Jones. You too?’

‘Some downtime.’ Anton stretched back his arms, looping one over the back of Drew’s chair. ‘We’ve got a big project coming up, so it’s good to chill out. And I need to get Drew used to roughing it.’

‘What do you do?’ Cate asked.

‘I’m a treasure hunter.’

I didn’t know what to say, so I laughed. Cate thought he was making fun of her.

‘Come on.’

‘Seriously.’

‘Is that an actual job?’

It came out sounding harsher than she probably meant. Anton didn’t take offence.

‘Better than working some office job to get a gold watch after forty years.’

‘I don’t think they give out gold watches any more,’ I said.

‘There you go.’

The waiter had brought the drinks. I took a big gulp of my margarita, and topped it up from the pitcher. Cate shot me a warning look. I added a bit more.

‘It sounds great,’ I said. ‘Out in the sun all day, digging and diving. Real adventure. Not like what I do.’

Anton shook his head. ‘Everyone gets the wrong idea. Treasure hunting’s like gambling. Anyone can try it out, and maybe they’ll get lucky. Maybe very lucky. But that’s one in ten million. To make a career, you have to know your shit. Put in the hours, connect the dots. I probably sit a hundred hours in the library for every hour I’m in the field.’

It was hard to imagine Anton in a library.

‘Are you connected to a university?’ said Cate.

The question irritated me more than it should have. Here was this amazing person, and she was trying to place him in a bourgeois box, as if she was a matriarch in a Jane Austen novel and he was her prospective son-in-law.

I tried to make a joke of it. ‘I don’t think they offer degrees in treasure hunting.’

‘College is a waste of time,’ said Anton, confirming every one of Cate’s suspicions. ‘Lo. . .