The river was a blender of silt, foam, and frigid despair. James, having swallowed a lungful of the water, was convinced he was rapidly becoming one with the aquatic ecosystem. The cold was now beyond painful; it was a numbing, heavy cloak that dragged him toward unconsciousness. His hands, frozen stiff, were locked onto the Earl Grey Caddy, the silver tin feeling like the only warm thing left in the universe, despite its temperature.
He tumbled through a darkness punctuated by the terrifying scraping sounds of his body hitting rocks and submerged branches. He knew, with the chilling clarity granted by near-death, that he had perhaps sixty seconds before the hypothermia rendered him useless.
Sixty seconds. What would a gentleman do? A proper gentleman, James thought vaguely, would locate a bank, request a towel, and demand a fresh pot of tea. Since none of those were immediately available, he would improvise.
As he was dragged around a fierce bend, the current briefly slammed him against a large, floating mass. It wasn't wood, but something soft, pliable, and unexpectedly buoyant. He instinctively wrapped his legs around it.
It was a vast, waterlogged bundle of woven bamboo and industrial-grade fishing net, discarded from a local trawler. It was crude, smelly, and an absolute godsend. Using the caddy as a makeshift rudder, James desperately hauled himself onto the thickest part of the bamboo mass, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. He wasn't on the raft, exactly; he was more securely tangled in its fibers, half-submerged, but crucially, floating.
He had survived the plunge. He was now a sodden, shivering piece of espionage flotsam, drifting rapidly downriver, clutching a treasure box containing a world-changing microchip.
He managed to raise his head, spitting out a mouthful of river water. The temple was far behind him, a dark, silent silhouette receding into the morning mist. He was on the river,