PROLOGUE

SMITH FEARFALL was a scavenger. This beach was his territory.

He watched the canister as it danced, nibbling the waves, teasing him. He waited. He was good at waiting. Finally his quarry came within reach. He waded out. The plastic that covered his trousers snapped and cracked in the gale. The canister moved away from him. He waited, eyes on his prey, his mind fully focused.

Once more the silver glint of the metal cylinder cut through the salty water. Smith reached out and felt the hard metal beneath his fingers. The canister slipped from his grasp. He lunged and caught it once more. He wrapped both hands around it and cradled it to his body.

Back on the beach, he examined it, the sharp sand stinging his eyes. He noted the red star and the string of letters: N-I-CE-N-E, but they meant nothing to him. He shoved the canister into his hemp bag along with the other treasures he had found that morning.

Beyond him, over the vast stretch of turbulent grey water, a gull screamed. Smith stopped and looked out to the horizon. He shivered. Then, pulling his coat closer to his bones, turned and headed for home.