‘Will that work?’

  He shrugs. ‘Possibly not, but it is worth a try. If, as I suspect, it doesn’t achieve the desired result, we can consider DBS. Deep Brain Stimulation.’

  Your stomach lurches. That does not sound good.

  ‘We will use surgically implanted electrodes to deliver continuous electrical pulses to deep brain structures such as the hippocampus and the entorhinal cortex.’

  ‘You want to put electrodes into my brain?’

  ‘Early studies of the technique suggest that stimulating the entorhinal cortex can improve memory encoding and recall. It has been used to restore some memory function in Alzheimer’s patients.’

  ‘You are not putting electrodes in my brain,’ you say. You try to be forceful but you can hear the uncertainty in your voice.

  Svetlana smiles. ‘We will not be asking you to sign a consent form,’ she says.

  You look imploringly at the doctor. ‘First do no harm,’ you say. ‘The Hippocratic oath, remember?’

  ‘Needs must,’ says the doctor.

  ‘Isn’t there a drug you can give me? An injection that will restore my memory.’

  ‘We could use Ampakines, possibly. They modulate AMPA receptors and thus increase synaptic transmission and strengthen synaptic connections which could in theory help with memory recovery.’

  ‘Try it,’ you say. You want to do anything other than having electrodes implanted into your brain because you can’t see how that will end up well.

  ‘Ampakines are not readily available,’ he says.

  You look over at Svetlana. ‘We need to try,’ you say.

  ‘We will,’ she says. ‘But let’s let the doctor try shock therapy first.’

  You get up out of the chair but the crewmen are already moving and they grab you as soon as you get to your feet. They drag you over to one of the beds and push you down. They have leather straps and they fasten your arms to the bed and then your legs and they step back, grinning as you struggle.

  ‘Please don’t do this,’ you say to Svetlana. ‘I came here to help you.’

  ‘You will help us,’ she says, standing over you. She reaches down and gently brushes your thigh. ‘Just relax, it’ll soon be over.’

  You thrash around on the bed but the restraints hold you tight. The seconds tick by as she continues to rub your thigh. She seems to be taking pleasure in stroking you when all you can think about is what they are planning to do to you.

  Eventually she moves away and the doctor takes her place. He places electrodes against your temples, cold and hard, sending shivers through your skull. You’re not numbed, not sedated. Every nerve is alert, buzzing with dread.

  The doctor steps away. A low hum fills the room, electric and menacing. Then it hits. A shock, bright and violent, explodes behind your eyes. Your body convulses uncontrollably, muscles jerking like a puppet on fire. Teeth grind, jaw locked. You try to scream, but it’s a strangled sound. Pain radiates through you, deep, electric, a white-hot hammer smashing through every fibre of your being. Your mind fractures. Thought scatters in jagged fragments, memory and fear mixing into a chaotic storm. The world tilts. Time stretches and snaps back, disorienting and cruel. Your chest heaves, lungs fighting for air as your arms flail against the straps. You’re conscious, agonisingly aware of every second, every strike of the current coursing through your brain.

  Then it stops. Abruptly. Silence crashes in. Sweat drips into your eyes; your body trembles, useless and shaking. The doctor quickly checks your vital signs.

  Svetlana appears again, standing over you. ‘Do you remember anything?’ she asks.

  Tears well up in your eyes. ‘No,’ you say.

  She grits her teeth. ‘Do it again,’ she says.

  CHAPTER 40

  You groan and open your eyes. At some point you passed out but you don’t know if it was during the third or fourth shock. You are exhausted and ache all over. You wince as you lift your head. Svetlana has gone and so has the doctor. One of the crewmen is still standing by the door and Prokhorov is sitting in the medical chair.

  ‘Water,’ you gasp.

  Prokhorov gets up and walks over to you. He unfastens the restraints on your wrists and tells the crewman to get water. The crewman fetches a bottle of water from the fridge while Prokhorov unties your ankles.

  Prokhorov helps you sit up and you are surprised by his tenderness. The crewman gives you the bottle of water and you unscrew the cap. You drink. The bottle is glass. Your hand starts to shake and you fight to control it. You swing your legs over the side of the bed. ‘Can I sit in the chair?’ you ask in Russian.

  Prokhorov nods and helps you off the bed. You put your left arm over his shoulder to support yourself. The crewman is grinning at your obvious weakness but that’s his mistake, not realising you are faking it. Or at least exaggerating it.

  You stagger to the side and Prokhorov fights to keep you upright, then you smash the bottle into his face and feel his nose shatter as blood spurts down his shirt. You push him forward then slide your hand down his back and pull out the gun. He is roaring either in pain or anger and he starts to turn but you transfer the gun to your right hand and bring it crashing down on the back of his head. He falls to his knees and you hit him with the gun again and this time he slumps to the floor.

  The crewman moves towards you, his hands up, but you slip your finger on the trigger and point the gun at his face. He stops and slowly raises his hands. ‘Don’t shoot,’ he says in Russian.

  ‘Get on your knees,’ you hiss, also in Russian.

  He does as you say but you can see that he’s poised to attack you the first chance he gets so you carefully walk behind him, keeping out of reach, then you rush forward and slam the gun against the side of his head. He goes down without a sound.

  You stare down at the two bodies, breathing heavily. Neither of them move. You’re not averse to shooting either of them but the moment the gun fires, everyone on board will know that something is wrong.

  You move to the infirmary door and slowly open it. You’re half expecting to find a guard there but the corridor is empty. The corridor is wider than it needs to be - the kind of excess that speaks of money rather than necessity. The air smells faintly of jasmine. The floor is teak, laid in flawless herringbone, polished until it shines like wet honey. Discreet LED strips run along the baseboards, casting a soft golden glow that picks out the curve of the walls. They are padded in pale leather, stitched with the precision of a luxury car interior, broken only by teak doors and recessed alcoves holding pieces of art, most of them ballerina figures. You look up and spot the smoked glass panel in the ceiling that you are fairly sure is hiding a CCTV camera. You go back into the infirmary and shut the door. The two men are still unconscious on the floor but you have no idea how long they will stay that way.

  There are no CCTV cameras in the infirmary that you can see, but you doubt it will be too long before you are discovered. You point the gun at the porthole, saying a silent prayer that it’s not made of bulletproof glass. You pull the trigger and the porthole cracks, and when you pull the trigger again it explodes into a hundred fragments. You grab a chair and place it under the porthole, then climb on to it and haul yourself up, feeling the metal frame bite into your palms. Cold air and salt spray hit your face. The sea is a dark, heaving mass many metres below, flecked with white. You don’t have time to think. You swing one leg through the opening, then the other, the gun slipping from your hand and vanishing into the water far below. For a heartbeat you hang there, fingers slick on the edge of the frame, the wind roaring in your ears. Then your grip goes and you drop into the void.

  The fall seems to go on for ever and then you hit the water hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs and you disappear beneath the surface in a surge of white foam. You kick as hard as you can and claw your way back to the surface. You look around, trying to get your bearings. You see the Anastasia off to your right and you begin swimming the way she had come, figuring that must be the closest land. You have no memory of ever having swum before but instinctively you know what to do, moving your arms and legs in what you know is breaststroke. But every move is an effort, sapping what little strength you have left. You close your eyes and concentrate on moving your arms and legs together and keeping your head above water. It gets harder and harder with every passing minute and after a while you start to think that it would be a blessing to simply relax and slip under the waves.

  CHAPTER 41

  Your eyes flicker open and you wince as pain lances through your head. It feels like the migraines you used to get as a teenager. Painkillers never helped, the only way to get any relief was to lie quietly in a darkened room. Your mother would bring you cold towels to put on your forehead but really time and darkness was the only cure. Your breath catches in your throat. Your mother? Tall and thin with dark brown hair, almost black, a slightly upturned nose with nostrils that flared when she was angry. Your heart pounds in your chest. You remember your mother. And your father. An inch or so shorter than your mother but powerfully built and with the habit of lifting his chin as if that would make him taller. The memories flood over you like a cold shower. Being stung by wasps when you were eight years old. Your father teaching you to ride your bicycle. Your first day at secondary school. Your first kiss - you were fourteen and the girl was sixteen, her name was Skye and her braces cut your lip but it was a price worth paying.

  Your heart pounds as you realise that your memories are back. All of them. You remember everything. You sigh with relief and then a face appears above you. A man in his late twenties with curly blond hair and pale blue eyes, is looking down at you. He’s wearing a bright yellow T-shirt with DIVE DUBAI in green letters above a grinning dolphin. He smiles with relief. ‘Thought you’d never open your eyes,’ he says. ‘How do you feel?’ He has an accent, and you are fairly sure that he’s a New Zealander.

  ‘Where am I?’ you ask.

  ‘On a dive boat,’ he says. ‘We were just heading back to shore and we saw you in the water. Where have you come from? Did you fall off a ship?’

  ‘Sort of,’ you say.

  ‘You had a lot of water in your lungs,’ he says. ‘You coughed up a gallon or so. You’re okay now but we need to get you to hospital.’

  ‘No,’ you say. ‘No hospital. Please.’ You try to sit up. It’s an effort and the man helps you. You’re in a cabin surrounded by air cylinders and diving equipment.

  ‘You almost drowned.’

  ‘I feel okay.’ That’s not true, you feel bloody awful, but the last place you want to be is a hospital. Dubai is a relatively small city and news of a near-drowning would soon get around. ‘Please, I’ll be fine. Are you a Kiwi?’

  The man grins. ‘Yeah. Most Poms think I’m an Aussie.’

  ‘Nah, Aussies are rougher around the edges. But how did you know I was a Pom?’

  ‘Your wallet was in your trousers. British bank cards and a UK driving licence.’

  ‘So you know who I am?’ You stick out your hand. ‘Thanks for the rescue.’

  He shakes your hand. ‘We’re both Robs,’ he says. ‘Rob Taggart. And it was one of my students you need to thank. She’s the one who spotted you and she jumped straight in. Plus another of my students is an emergency room doctor, she did CPR and whatnot. Emptied all the seawater out of you and brought you back to life. You were lucky.’

  ‘Can’t argue with that,’ you say.

  ‘So what happened, Rob?’

  ‘I had a bit too much to drink and stumbled over the side.’

  ‘And no one noticed you were missing?’

  ‘I guess not. It was a big boat.’

  ‘But presumably they’ll be looking for you.’

  ‘As soon as I get back to my hotel I’ll call them.’

  ‘We’ll be ashore in about half an hour. I’d feel a lot happier if we got you an ambulance and had you checked out.’

  ‘I’m fine, really. I’ll just go back to my hotel and I’ll contact my friends.’ You suddenly realise that you’re naked under a blanket. ‘Where are my clothes, Rob?’

  ‘Up on deck, drying. You’ve lost your shoes, though.’

  You swallow and wince. Your mouth is bone dry. ‘Any chance of some water?’

  ‘Sure,’ he says. He goes over to a blue and white cool box and returns with a cold plastic bottle of water. He unscrews the top before handing it to you. You drink greedily.

  ‘Look, I have to sign everyone’s dive logs, but I’ll be back down to see you before we reach the shore,’ he says.

  You thank him and drink more of the water, then you lie back and let your memories wash over you again. Your first holiday in Abersoch with your parents. The first time you went on a plane, a package holiday to Spain with your mum and dad. The first time you rode a horse. The time you almost drowned in your local swimming pool during a school trip, when a teacher, Mr Wilson, saw you were struggling and jumped in to rescue you. You don’t remember everything that ever happened to you, it’s far from total recall, but your past life is back.

  You hear someone coming down the steps and you turn your head. It’s a red haired woman, late twenties, wearing a blue and white wetsuit. ‘Hello Rob, I’m Julia, I gave you CPR.’ She has a soft French accent.

  You sit up and offer her your hand. ‘Thank you for that,’ you say.

  She shakes your hand. ‘You are strong and it wasn’t your time,’ she says. ‘You coughed up a lot of water.’

  ‘I guess I was lucky you’re a doctor.’

  ‘I am, but I work in an emergency room in Paris and we don’t get to see many drowning victims. In fact you’re my first. Do you have any idea how long you were in the water?’

  ‘I don’t, no.’

  ‘Rob says you had too much to drink and fell off a boat.’

  ‘I don’t remember much about it,’ you say. You don’t like lying to the woman who saved your life, but need’s must.

  ‘There’s a nasty bang on the side of your head,’ she says.

  ‘Maybe I hit it when I fell.’

  She nods thoughtfully. ‘It looks like somebody hit you with something hard. Wounds like that I have seen in Paris.’

  ‘It’s all a bit vague,’ you say. In fact you remember everything. It was the blow to your head that probably brought all your memories back, but you can’t tell Julia that.

  ‘Rob also says you don’t want to go to hospital?’

  ‘I’m fine, Julia. Really. I just need to go back to my hotel room and get some rest.’

  ‘The thing is, there can be all sorts of complications linked to near-drowning,’ she says, clearly concerned. ‘It can cause acute respiratory distress syndrome, there is a real risk of pneumonia, and there is the possibility of brain damage caused by oxygen deprivation. Such damage can be immediate or delayed. And at the very least you need a scan to check the state of your lungs.’

  ‘I promise I’ll get a check up,’ you say. ‘But there are people I need to talk to, things I have to organise. Really, thank you for your concern. You saved my life.’

  ‘Any doctor would have done the same,’ she says. She looks like she wants to say more, but she just smiles, pats you on the shoulder, and goes back up the stairs.

  You take a deep breath. You were unconscious when you fell into the water but you remember Oleg Prokhorov screaming at you and hitting you with the butt of his gun. Did he push you over the side or did you jump. It’s one of the few things you don’t remember. You don’t remember hitting the water or trying to swim which probably means that you were unconscious.

  Rob comes down the stairs holding your clothes. ‘They’re dry but a bit wrinkled,’ he says. ‘I’m afraid we don’t run to an iron on the boat.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ you say, taking the clothes from him. ‘Thank you.’

  He holds out a pair of well worn training shoes. ‘These are mine, you’re welcome to them.’

  You pull your wallet from your trousers. It’s still damp. You offer him some damp banknotes but he shakes his head. ‘No, it’s okay,’ he says.

  ‘For the trainers?’

  ‘I was planning on throwing them away,’ he says. ‘Really, I’m just glad that we saved you. No need for money.’

  ‘I owe you one,’ you say, putting the notes back into your wallet. Your hotel key card is there, which is good news.

  ‘We’ll be in port in about five minutes,’ he says. ‘I’ll see you on deck.’

  He heads back up the stairs and you pull on the underwear, shirt, trousers, socks and jacket. You decide not to bother with the tie and shove it in your jacket pocket. The trainers are a bit loose but they’re wearable.

  The engine note of the boat changes and it lists to one side, then there’s a juddering thud and the engine cuts out. You hear people talking and laughing. You head up the stairs. A dozen or divers are walking down a jetty carrying their gear. Julia spots you and blow you a kiss and you blow one back. The guy walking next to her - boyfriend or husband - puts his arm around her protectively. You smile. Stealing his woman is the last thing on your mind.

  The last of the divers steps off the boat, leaving just Rob and three other instructors. The instructors busy themselves sorting through the boat’s gear and Rob sticks out his hand. ‘Best of luck, mate,’ he says.

  ‘Thanks for everything,’ you say, and shake his hand. You look around. ‘Where are we exactly?’

  ‘Dubai Marina,’ he says. He points off to the left. ‘There’s a taxi rank that away.’

  You thank him and head off. As you walk, you think long and hard about what to do next. You’ve got your Rob Johnston credit cards and driving licence but your passport is in the safe in your room, along with a wad of cash. You can’t get back to the UK without your passport, but you have no way of knowing if Martin Waller would have mounted surveillance at the hotel. Now that your memory has returned you’re sure of one thing - you need to get back to London without anyone knowing.

  CHAPTER 42