“Did you take your Dramamine?” Ben asked as they boarded the giant white-and-blue ferry at Kirkwall’s Hatston terminal. His own stomach was fluttering with excitement.

“No, it’ll put me to sleep,” Evan said. “Besides, this route’s smoother than the one we had to take to Stromness last month, so it won’t make me as sick.” He nodded briskly, as though convincing himself.

“What if we can’t find him?” Ben avoided David Wallace’s name, in case one of their fellow embarking passengers heard. “What if he’s holed up in a cabin?”

“The cabins and berths were all booked when I bought our tickets,” Evan said, “so unless he planned this trip ahead of time, he’ll be in a regular seat like us, out in the open.”

Ben found a map of the ferry on the wall. He and Evan studied it in silence while the flood of passengers went by in a hushed rush, toward bed or a late drink in the midship bar.

He noticed Evan examining his own reflection in the map case’s glass. The disguise was a variation on “Bruce,” the Glasgow Greens fan who had infiltrated the gay football match with Jamie and Ben. “Am I padded enough?” he asked.

Ben poked Evan’s ribs to test the layer of stuffing beneath the purple Highlands and Islands University sweatshirt borrowed from his brother Thorfinn. Then he tugged down the visor of Evan’s matching cap. “Looking good, Bruce. And by ‘good’ I mean fashion-tragic.”

“Then let’s get started. Mind on, this is just simple reconnaissance, and it’s all I’m letting you do.”

“Got it.” Ben had been cautioned a dozen times on the way to the ferry terminal, and he was determined not to act out of order.

“I’ll take the first level,” Evan said, “and you take the second. First one to find him texts the other, but regardless, we meet in the third-floor gift shop before deciding next moves.”

“Roger that.” Putting in his earphones, Ben went up the stairs to the second level. Passing through the lounge and seating area, he took cover a few steps behind one of the crew members, a large man who resembled the Viking painted on the ship’s exterior. The crewman’s leisurely pace allowed Ben to scan each row of seats, looking through the passengers instead of at them.

You’re an overworked student, he told himself, who just wants a comfy place to finish that blasted paper. It wasn’t a hard role to play, being so near reality.

He soon lost his man-size rampart when the hulking steward went through a door marked Crew Only. When he didn’t find Wallace on the second floor, Ben went to the third, approaching the gift shop at the top of the stairs.

Just before he passed through the open, frosted-glass doors, Ben saw David Wallace. He forced himself to keep going rather than screech to a cartoonish stop.

“Hiya,” he said to the gift-shop lass arranging perfume boxes. She returned his smile, suppressing a yawn.

Ben quickly texted Evan: Found DW outside shop.

Evan: Buy something and meet me in level 2 bar.

Ben purchased an Irn Bru and a black-and-white stuffed Shetland pony from the sleepy shop assistant. Instead of going back down the way he came, he strolled past David Wallace—oh my God, it’s definitely him—and used the rear stairs.

He found Evan in the lounge and handed him the orange fizzy drink. “To keep you awake and maybe settle your stomach.” Ben slid onto a barstool. “He seems to be sleeping, but instead of reclining his seat like everyone else, he’s sitting upright with his feet on a big black kit bag.”

“How big?”

“Big enough it’s weird he didn’t check it as luggage. It’s nearly full, based on how much it sags under his legs.”

“That’s helpful.” Evan twisted off the Irn Bru cap with a hiss. “Good eye.”

Ben basked in the warm sun of Evan’s approval. “How shall we distract him so one of us can look in the bag?”

Evan’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not involving you. It’s too dangerous, not to mention illegal.”

“Then why are we here?”

“To observe him.”

“To stalk him. Which is also illegal.”

“Only when you do it.” Evan picked up his rucksack. “Back in a minute. Stay here.”

Ben obeyed, and Evan returned as promised, looking like himself again but for his slicked-back hair.

“What happened to Bruce?” Ben asked.

“Gunnar ate him.”

Ben put the pieces together. “You’re going to just walk up to Wallace and talk to him?”

“Aye. Maybe he’ll show me what’s in the bag.”

“What if it doesn’t work? What’s your Plan B?” He bobbed his eyebrows. “Aka, your Plan Ben?”

“I’m not letting you anywhere near that man.”

“It’s not him you’re afraid of, is it? It’s me. You think I’ll blow your cover again.” When Evan didn’t protest, Ben said, “I don’t blame you. But instead of shutting me out, why not deploy me in some way where I won’t babble?”

“I’ll not be deploying you at all. You’re a civilian.”

“I’m also all you’ve got.” Ben gestured to the wide, dark window beside them. “Soon we’ll be in the middle of the North Sea, in the middle of the night. You need a team, and right now that team is me.” He pressed his palms together. “I promise I’ll do whatever you say.”

“But if things go wrong—”

“We’ll make a plan for that.” Ben made his final pitch. “Remember the day I broke up with you? You said, and I quote: ‘Maybe I shouldn’t trust you. But I’m going to do it anyway.’”

Evan sighed, then reached into his bag and pulled out a pen and jotter. “I suppose if we’re to be together, we can’t leave each other behind.” He tore off the jotter’s top sheet—to avoid leaving an imprint on the pad, Ben assumed. “Let’s make a plan.”

Ben settled behind the rear table in the third-floor lounge, which was empty apart from what looked like another tired uni student working on her end-of-term paper. Then he got out his laptop, plugged in his earphones, and waited for Evan’s call.

He couldn’t see David Wallace from here—which meant the BVP leader couldn’t see him—but he could see the two empty adjacent seats, where “Gunnar” would soon sit.

After ten minutes, Ben’s phone buzzed in his pocket. When he answered, Evan asked, “He still sleeping? Short answers only.”

“Not sure.”

“The ship is setting sail any minute, so hopefully that’ll wake him enough to see me. Put your phone on mute and keep it that way.”

Ben pressed the mute button and laid the phone on the table so he wouldn’t accidentally un-mute it in his pocket. Then he opened a blank document on his laptop.

The ferry seemed to suddenly wake, its engine’s purr becoming a roar as it prepared to leave the terminal. The rumble worked its way up through Ben’s body. He’d never felt so alive.

“David?” came a Norwegian voice in his ear. “It is you.”

Evan appeared about a hundred feet in front of Ben, extending his hand. He saw David’s head as the man stood to greet Evan.

“Gunnar…” Wallace’s voice was faint, but Ben caught the words surprise and beard.

“I always shave it in springtime.” Evan sat two seats away from David—per straight-guy rules—and took out his left earphone, leaving in the right wire that held the microphone. “Contact lenses are new, though. Still getting used to them.”

Wallace said something Ben couldn’t hear, and Evan replied, “I was in Kirkwall to visit friends.”

They chatted for a while about Shetland versus Orkney, and Ben typed everything he could hear. Then David must have beckoned Gunnar closer, because Evan shifted into the center seat.

Ben shut his eyes to hear better. David was doing most of the talking, with Gunnar offering Mmmms of acknowledgment. Ben typed snippets of what he could make out, bracketing the less audible parts to jog Evan’s memory later:

“Social influence campaign…”

“The Russian model of [operation]…”

“Not exactly propaganda…”

“…know real truth [when they see it?]…”

“Are you okay, mate?”

This last part was louder, and the concern sounded genuine. Ben looked up from his laptop to see Evan slouching in his seat, holding his Irn Bru bottle to his temple.

“Just a bit hot,” Evan said. “Sometimes I become…sjøsyk. On the sea.”

“Oh, seasick?” David asked. “Sorry, mate. Can I do anything?”

“I came to get medicine from the shop. That’s why I’m…here.” Evan tried to get up from the seat, then slumped back down as if too weak.

Ben held his breath in anticipation of Plan A’s execution: Evan searching the bag while David went to the shop to buy him Dramamine.

“I think it’s closing soon,” David said. “You’d better hurry.”

So much for Plan A. All hail Plan Ben.

“It’s too late for the medicine now,” Evan said. “I’ll either be fine or I won’t be fine.” He took a deep breath. “Sometimes talking helps. Like, telling a story.”

Ben listened closely for one of the code words that meant he should or shouldn’t act.

“The people I met in Kirkwall,” Evan said. “They’re from Norway. I told them about you.” After David’s inaudible response, Evan continued. “People like us. People with pride in Norwegian heritage, who love and respect that heritage enough to protect it. To keep it pure.”

Ben kept typing, though he felt a bit sick himself at these words from Evan’s mouth, fake as they were.

“There are organizations like BVP in Norway,” Evan said, “but most do nothing but talk because they have no money.”

David’s reply was indistinct.

“There’s a donor now,” Evan said, “a man in the oil industry who can…ugh, helvete.” He took a deep breath. “Can we go outside? Cold air is good.”

Yes! There was the code word, helvete—hell—which meant Evan wanted Ben to search the bag.

Ben couldn’t make out David’s response, but he seemed to be dithering about taking his bag outside. It definitely didn’t look waterproof, and with the way the boat was rocking, it could slide overboard.

“Can you leave it?” Evan asked. “We’re out of the port, so no one can steal it without being found.”

More quiet protests.

“I understand.” Evan stood unsteadily, grabbing the back of his seat to keep from falling. “I will go to my room now. Also, I will move back to Norway soon, so this might be goodbye.”

“No!” David stood up. “I mean, it’s fine. Let’s go outside and keep talking until you feel better.”

Evan lunged for the exit. David followed, glancing back at his bag.

The door shut behind them. A few moments later the sound of Evan retching came through Ben’s earphones. He was either truly seasick or a fantastic actor.

Ben put his laptop screen into password-protected sleep but left it open. Then he walked through the lounge, past the other uni student, who was now napping with her head down on her crossed arms, her back to David’s seat. The few passengers in his section all sat at least three rows behind him.

Just going to the gift shop for a late-night snack. He pulled out a handful of change, gripping it loosely. A pound coin slipped free and bounced over the carpet toward David’s row, rolling beneath the seat beside his.

Ben knelt to retrieve the coin. Then, with a last peek round, he unzipped the bag.

“The sea feeds you, and you feed the sea.”

As Evan donated the last remnants of dinner overboard, his grandfather’s words came back to him, an old fisherman’s Zen acceptance that he might one day drown in a storm.

“Feeling better?” David asked, a few feet upwind.

Evan managed to stand up straight. He searched for the horizon to aid his equilibrium, but on this side of the boat there was no land, just the inky North Sea spilling straight into the sky. The ferry dipped and rolled in what lucky people probably found a soothing rhythm.

“A bit. Thanks.” Evan wiped his mouth with a tissue, avoiding the earphone mic that was hopefully still transmitting to Ben through their phone call. “Sorry for that.”

David gave a dismissive wave. “When I was growing up, my brother was carsick every time we went on holiday. At least here there’s fresh air.” He ran his hands along the ferry’s sea-slick railing. “So you were saying about a donor?”

“Yes, this oil man is very interested in supporting the cause. But he’s a well-known business leader, so…”

“It’s tricky. He’s got a reputation to protect.”

“Exactly. He needs a, how do you say, boundary? No, that’s not the word. Someone to be between him and…”

“A buffer?”

“Yes! So I suggest to him that he donate internationally to help the greater cause. We can help each other, see, Norwegians and British. We are not the same, but we have a common enemy. Anyway, I thought of you.” The ferry crested a high wave, and Evan’s stomach lurched. “Now I will go inside and try medicine.”

He went to the door and rattled the handle before turning it—to emphasize his unsteadiness but also to warn Ben.

Inside, the bag was sitting at the same angle as when they’d left, tucked half beneath David’s seat with the zips in the same positions. Either Ben couldn’t approach the bag or he’d followed Evan’s instructions to leave no trace.

Evan headed for the gift shop, where he nearly collided with an exiting Ben.

“Sorry, mate.” Ben offered the sort of awkward smile one gives a stranger, then moved on toward his table, swinging a small plastic bag.

Evan purchased some Dramamine, a motion-sickness acupressure bracelet, and a bag of ginger sweets, prompting a sympathetic hmm from the shop assistant. Then he returned to David, whose feet were propped on the black kit bag again.

“I’m going to my cabin to lie down,” Evan told him. “Phone me soon and we’ll discuss more.”

“Definitely.” David tugged his rented blanket up over his chest. “Feel better, mate.”

As Evan descended the stairs, trying not to pass out, he murmured to Ben, “Stay and wait for my signal so he doesn’t associate us. Hanging up now.”

He went to the toilets to put his “Bruce” disguise back on and to procure a stack of paper towels, then found a secluded area of seats on the first floor. Evan wet the towels with cold water, plastered them to his forehead, then turned so he could glance up at the handful of receding Orkney lights as he jotted everything he recalled about the conversation with David.

By the time he beckoned Ben, he felt ten percent better.

“That was the longest half hour of my life.” Ben sat beside him, then leaned close and whispered, “The bag was mostly cash. Stacks of shrink-wrapped fifty-pound notes. I lifted it briefly, and it weighed maybe two or three kilos. At a gram for each note—assuming they’re all fifties—that’s more than a hundred thousand pounds. How are you feeling, by the way?”

“Erm…stunned.” Evan tried to wrap his head around this revelation. “Ten thousand is the legal limit to carry over the border without declaring it. But within the country—”

“It’s still suspicious, yeah? If the cops caught him with that bag, they’d have questions. They’d probably think him a drugs dealer or a gangster.” Ben looked at him. “Is that what he’s suspected of?”

I wish. “You said the bag was mostly cash. What else was in it?”

“Documents, I think, but they were at the bottom in what looked like sealed envelopes. No way I could look at them without serious risk of being spotted.”

“Wise.”

“Also, I got photos of the cash and of the bag itself.”

“Wow.” Evan touched Ben’s arm. “You did well. Thank you.”

Ben beamed briefly. “But we’re not done, right? What happens now?”

Evan wasn’t sure, to be honest, and it was only a matter of time before the Dramamine stole his ability to think clearly. “My supervisor would say we should watch and wait. Let Wallace run free so MI5 can see where the money goes and what it’s used for.”

“You can’t tell people at work about the cash,” Ben said, “because they’ll ask how you know.”

Ben was right. They were already out of the box on this spontaneous operation. With Evan’s suspension, he should be staying far away.

“Besides,” Ben added, “while you lot are watching and waiting, David Wallace uses that money to do bad things.”

Evan remembered what David had told him about all the “exciting new opportunities in online social influence,” many examples of which Evan had seen himself the night of the “leak.” Perhaps the cash in Wallace’s bag was to pay and equip that army of trolls. The documents beneath them could hold the key to everything.

He turned to Ben. “What do you think we should do?”

An hour later, Ben was all out of ideas. Not coincidentally, he was all out of snacks. Now he felt frustrated and almost sick.

Evan had “red-teamed” every proposal, poking holes in it the way his MI5 colleagues would do. First Ben had suggested phoning in an anonymous tip. But according to Evan, the police couldn’t get a warrant based on an anonymous report. While they could stop and search without a warrant, they needed consent from the person searched. Also, Wallace had nothing technically illegal, so a random cop would probably let him go after a few questions.

In an admittedly daft moment, Ben had then suggested planting something illegal in Wallace’s bag—a knife they’d steal from the bar, for instance. The idea seemed to literally make Evan sick. Upon returning from the gents’ after another round of boaking, he reminded Ben, “This isn’t TV, for fuck’s sake, where clever characters break the law without consequences.”

Not that Evan had any better ideas.

Now it was nearly two a.m., and they’d taken a break from this operation to focus on the picture of their future together, or at least the future of their jobs.

“There’s another possibility,” Evan said. “Let me think out loud for a minute before you shoot it down.”

Ben mimed zipping his lips, then winced at the memory of having done that before, after the news of the thwarted ISIS attacks.

“In my job,” Evan said, “I’ve often worked with Police Scotland’s Specialist Crime Division, which handles terrorism and organized crime. Perhaps instead of working with them, I could work for them.”

He paused, as though expecting an interruption. Ben said nothing, as promised.

“Then I could tell everyone who I work for,” Evan said. “You wouldn’t have to keep that secret. And I wouldn’t have to move to London. What do you think?”

“Have Police Scotland offered you a position?”

“Of course not. They’d never try and poach an MI5 officer.”

“Then what makes you think you can just waltz in and say, ‘Give me this job’? Wouldn’t you start at the bottom as a beat cop?”

Evan frowned. “It’ll be worth it to come out of hiding and be real, to have you know where I am and what I’m doing.”

“Until you get into this special unit and go undercover again, which is what you really want.”

“Not if it means hiding things from you.”

“I’ll learn to live with it,” Ben said.

Evan gave him a withering look that said what they both knew: Ben wasn’t going to change. Reining in his curiosity was like imposing a hyper-restrictive diet on his brain—it just made him crave secrets more.

“You shouldn’t have to live with it,” Evan said. “Being with me shouldn’t be a constant exercise of willpower.”

“It is exhausting.” Ben sat back to ponder Evan’s new idea. Fighting terrorists and gangsters was obviously cool. But first Evan would spend years walking the streets in one of those neon-yellow body-armor things, chasing pickpockets and football hooligans—important work but quite a letdown after thwarting international bad guys.

Ben sat up suddenly. “I know what to do.”

“About our future?”

“No. About right now.”

Ben outlined his plan. After refining it, Evan finally signed off with reluctance. He downloaded an obscure burner-phone app, gave Ben a number to dial, and finally put in an earphone to listen.

“Hiya,” Ben said into the phone, using a less fey version of his Wullie McTweedy voice from the Glasgow Greens scouting match. “I want to talk to Detective Inspector Hayward or Detective Sergeant Fowles.”

“I’m sorry, neither of them are present at the moment,” said a female SCD officer. “How did you get this number?”

Ben ignored the question. “There’s a suspicious character aboard the MV Hjaltland, arriving in Aberdeen at seven o’clock. I think he’s mebbe one of they gangsters an’ all, cos he’s got a kit bag of fifty-pound notes and he was making some pretty dodgy-sounding phone calls, so he was.”

“Can you describe this suspicious character?” asked the officer, sounding either sleepy or skeptical.

“White guy, about five-ten, mebbe thirteen stone. Blue polo shirt and tan chinos like a right walloper. Also, his name’s David Wallace.” He rubbed his mouth to hold in the nervous laugh bubbling up his throat. This was deadly serious. “He telt it to someone he phoned.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “You’re sure he said it was David Wallace?”

“Positive, hen. I reckon it could be an alias, though.”

Evan shook his head. Ben clamped his lips together to stop further spontaneous speculation.

“Your name and number?” the officer asked.

“You think my head buttons up the back?” Ben replied. “If this guy’s a gangster, and he finds out I grassed him up to the polis, then I’m dead.”

“We’ll keep your information confidential.”

Ben looked at Evan, who nodded reluctantly. “I’m not an innocent bystander,” Ben told the officer. “I’m with Wallace. I know him fae the BVP, and I’m no’ keen on what he’s doing with they Russians. It’s no’ right. This is our country, int’it? What’s the point of taking it back if we do it with foreigners’ help?”

There was another long pause, then the officer said, “I’ll phone DI Hayward now.”

Ben repeated the ferry information, then hung up and immediately burned the phone number. “SCD will know what to do with Wallace?”

“If anyone does.”

Ben took a gulp from his water bottle, hoping his heart would stop racing soon. “Was that call okay?”

“It was brilliant. You followed instructions perfectly tonight. It meant a lot having someone I could depend on as a backup.”

The word made Ben think of the police team who’d been carjacked the night of Evan’s abduction, leaving him to deal with his captors alone. “I know it’s not easy for you to ask for help, especially from someone who’s been a bit of a diddy in the past.”

“I always trusted you, Ben.” Evan gave him a hopeful smile. “I just didn’t always know if I should.”