Griffin agreed. ‘A fair percentage of the island has been logged but there are still quite a few impenetrable pockets. It’s the proverbial haystack.’

Sharpe nodded.

Niven was undeterred. ‘All of which adds weight to my view. I want to ask the US to use one of their military satellites to scan the area I’ve indicated on the WAC. I can’t believe the Indonesians would object to that. If we scanned five nautical mile segments, there’d be enough resolution to see a crashed 747 and cover around one hundred square miles in only twenty passes. The satellites I’m talking about have a two-hour period, so the entire area would be covered in around forty hours.

‘And there was a lot of fuel on board the aircraft. Ground fires in this area would show up like searchlights on infrared film.’

Blight winced as the picture of people burning in firestorms flashed through his mind.

‘Good idea. We might even find the site on the first or second pass,’ said Griffin.

‘Exactly,’ said Niven. ‘As I said, the Indonesians could hardly object. It would save them a hell of a lot of money and, of course, get the plane found as quickly as possible. Good for them. Good for us. Everyone wins.’ Niven’s enthusiasm was infectious.

‘Alright,’ said the PM. ‘If there’s one thing I hate, it’s sitting around on my arse. Our ambassador in Washington can handle the liaison.’

‘Okay, so what about the question of terror?’ Niven asked. It was the thought on all their minds.

‘What about it?’ said Sharpe.

‘I jumped to that conclusion too, Spike, but so far there’s not a shred of evidence to support it,’ said Griffin.

‘And aside from that, terror just doesn’t feel right,’ said Blight, rubbing his temples. ‘Not on this one. It’s all too quiet. Terrorists make grand media statements, don’t they? The USS Cole, the Pentagon, New York, Bali, that awful strike in London. A plane going down in the middle of the night, just disappearing like this… does it fit the terrorist model?’

‘I know, Prime Minister, I don’t want to believe the worst either, but until we hear otherwise, we can’t eliminate it completely, can we?’ Niven had national defence issues to consider and he wasn’t going to turn his back on them.

‘Christ,’ Blight said, frowning. ‘I guess not.’ The PM had slumped into a ball behind his desk. He was short and thickset, his body fashioned by thirty years of hard labour on the waterfront. Large hands with fingers like sausages spoke of physical power, and his skin was leathery from the sun. Until recently, a robust belly had hung over his belt, the product of years of supporting local breweries, but the minders had worked on him for the sake of his television profile, employing trainers to reduce it.

The press called him ‘Bloody-hell Blight’, or ‘Blue Blight’, for his love of colourful language, and that was one characteristic the spin doctors had been unable to change. The average man in the street loved him for it, though. He was human, a welcome change from the years of cocky conservatism.

Central Sulawesi, 0600 Zulu, Wednesday, 29 April

Joe Light swatted ineffectually at the swarm of mosquitoes. Feeling nauseous and utterly helpless, he peered down on the crash site from his new vantage point on an adjacent hill. The plane was far enough away for the detail to be lost but the overall picture was still terrible. He put the compact Bausch & Lomb binoculars he’d found still tangled in their duty-free wrapping to his eyes and centred the old couple in the lenses. He waved exaggeratedly at the old bloke. The man and his wife were now propped under the shelter he’d built for them, scavenged from bits of aircraft aluminium.

Their names were Jim and Margaret. Jim had been in shock and it had taken a while to get his name out of him. Margaret was unconscious when he’d left, probably from the agony of her broken leg.

Joe had gone searching amongst the debris for other survivors, and for painkillers for Margaret. He hadn’t found either. At first he’d been uncomfortable sifting through other people’s luggage but the pangs quickly passed. The passengers had no further use for their things. That change in his outlook coincided with the find of the binoculars.

Joe took a deep breath, filling his lungs. The air here was hot and moist and mercifully clear of the smell of jet fuel and roasted flesh. The equatorial sun and high humidity were already going to work on the hundreds of broken bodies lying around. Down at the crash site, a sickly-sweet smell had begun to rise from the ground. The first signs of decay.