Traitor (8 page)

The GM took a moment to think about it. ‘A hundred and sixty-five,’ he replied looking at the security officer for confirmation.

‘That’s less than the number of men I’ve personally killed in the last six years . . . Now. Everyone sit down and don’t do anything silly or he’ll shoot you,’ Deacon said, indicating the large Bulgarian. The man looked up to the task.

A clatter of gunfire came from outside. A ripple of panic shot through the platform workers in the room. The Bulgarian, himself unsure for a second, levelled his weapon towards them.

Deacon stepped outside and onto the deck to see a man lying face down near the railings. He looked over at the Lebanese thug and his smoking weapon. ‘What did you do that for?’ Deacon asked calmly.

‘He surprised me.’

Deacon crouched by the casualty to feel for a pulse at the man’s neck. There was none. Blood dripped from the torso through the deck grilles onto the level below.

‘You’re paid to ’andle surprises,’ Deacon said. ‘I’m gonna deduct a hundred grand from your money. You step out of line again and all you’ll end up with is your deposit. You got that?’

The Lebanese gritted his teeth but knew better than to argue. He had never met Deacon before the team had gathered at the safe house in the Shetlands fourteen days previously. Initially twelve team members had spent the days going over plans and each individual’s role. But four of them had disappeared one night - they simply were not in the house the following morning. Deacon said they had been removed to a secure location until the operation was complete, but the Lebanese believed that Deacon had killed them. He knew enough not to cross the Englishman, not during the operation at least. Threatening to cut his wages had been a stupid error, though, and he could already see himself killing the man. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he said.

Deacon had in fact wanted to dump him but the four that he had already cut were worse and he needed a minimum of eight to carry out the operation. That was the first thing he had complained about. But when the escape plan was revealed he understood. It was tight but he would have to make it work. ‘You see that crane over there?’ he said, pointing across the platform. ‘Take this geezer and ’ang him on the end of the ’ook. We might as well get some use out of ’im.’

The Lebanese wanted to ask why but that was another thing he had learned about Deacon back in the Shetlands. He didn’t like to be questioned.

‘Get on with it, then.’

The Arab shouldered his weapon and dragged the dead man across the deck towards the crane.

The radio crackled in Deacon’s ear. It was Queen. ‘Hey, sweetie. The pilot wants to get going but he’s nervous about the ditching procedure. He says there’s a storm front heading this way.’

‘There’s always a storm front heading somewhere in the North Sea.’

‘His orders are to ditch the chopper in the middle of the ocean a hundred miles from nowhere.’

‘So?’

‘He’s worried about not being picked up.’

‘You tell ’im this. If he fails to ditch where he’s been told to, ’is biggest worry will come when - not if - I find ’im. If he doesn’t ditch at the precise GPS coordinates he will not be picked up. And even if he survives that, I will find ’im and kill ’im. Also, remind ’im that if he does not ditch at the precise location he won’t get the rest of his considerable pay cheque. And I’ll still find ’im and kill ’im.’

‘Sounds clear enough to me.’

‘And one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t call me sweetie.’

A chirp sounding very much like a kiss came from the radio as Queen disconnected. Deacon frowned as he dug a satellite phone from a pocket, retrieved a number from the address book and hit the call button. It rang a couple of times before it was answered. ‘Yes,’ said a man’s voice.

‘This is Thanatos. Phase one is complete.’

The phone beeped as if it had completed some kind of electronic eavesdropping scan and a monotone voice answered. ‘Understood. You can make the call to the British Ministry of Defence.’

Another beep indicated that the signal had been disconnected and Deacon turned it off and put it back in his pocket. The first phase had gone according to plan, apart from that Lebanese twat killing the worker. Then again, it added some gravitas to the operation. It had all been so polite and amicable otherwise.

The sound of the Eurocopter as it powered up its engines grew from the direction of the heli-deck and Deacon looked beyond the control centre to see the chopper rise into the air and turn away from the platform.

He looked to the control room to see the GM looking at him through the open door. ‘One hundred and sixty-four,’ Deacon called out, shrugging.

The Bulgarian closed the door.

Deacon looked down at the hard drive in his hand, walked over to the rail and tossed it over the side, watching as it flipped and caught in the wind on the long way down to the water. On the far horizon, beyond the crisp blue sea, slate-grey clouds were forming. The plan took into consideration the North Sea’s reputation for harsh weather, but it could still prove detrimental to the operation’s overall success.

He retrieved another stored number from the satellite phone and pressed the call button. ‘Is this the Ministry of Defence? . . . Good. Me and some friends have just hijacked an oil platform in the North Sea. Who should I speak to?’

Gerald Nevins walked briskly down a broad staircase into an Elizabethan hallway. Its ornate wooden carvings stretched from the ground- to the second-floor ceiling. He touched the perfectly tied knot of his silk tie as if to adjust it but without doing anything of the kind. It was a characteristic reflex when he was deep in thought. Two suited aides came down the steps behind him, one tapping the keys of a BlackBerry while the other talked into a phone.

‘All shipping within a radius of fifty nautical miles is being diverted away from the area,’ one of the aides announced. ‘Airspace is being cleared out to a radius of one hundred.’

‘The submarine HMS
Torbay
will be inside the operational boundaries by this evening,’ said the second. ‘Admiral Bellington will command all forces. He’ll be on board HMS
Daring
within the hour and then inside the ops area by early morning.’

‘It’s confirmed that the satellite-phone transmission originated on the Morpheus, sir,’ the second added.

‘Thanatos is Greek mythology,’ the BlackBerry scrutiniser offered. ‘The god of death.’

‘What did you think he’d call himself? Kermit the bloody frog?’ Nevins muttered.

‘Voice is definitely English,’ the aide continued, used to the sarcasm. ‘London or close to. Ninety per cent certainty he’s Caucasian.’

The three men headed across the marble-floored lobby towards a pair of solid-looking carved doors. The aide with the phone hurried ahead and placed his hand on a fingerprint scanner that unlocked the door. He opened it in time for Nevins to breeze through without breaking stride.

They entered a large operations room dominated by a huge screen that practically covered an entire wall from the floor to the high ceiling, the majority of its surface taken up by a live map of the North Sea - a hybrid of satellite imagery and colourfully illustrated enhanced topography. The Morpheus was indicated at the centre. Colour-coded reference numbers shadowed hundreds of other platforms and vessels, including the smallest fishing boats. Lines emanating from naval vessels extended across the map, indicating their tracks. Details of aircraft included their number, altitude and speed: most of them looked as if they were moving or turning away from the centre of the map. The screen’s deep margins contained data on various meteorological and current events. The air was filled with suppressed radio conversations from countless sources.

A dozen men and women occupied the room, a few in civilian clothes but most of them in casual military uniform from all three forces. They sat in front of computer consoles, facing the large screen and typing or talking into wire headsets.

The command centre’s operations officer, wearing a Royal Navy uniform and standing in the centre of the room looking at the screen, turned grim-faced towards Nevins as he approached, acknowledging his superior with a slight stiffening of the back and a nod. ‘We’ll have a satellite view of the platform in fifteen minutes,’ he said while Nevins scanned the display. ‘A Nimrod will provide a view in less than five.’

‘Do we know who these damned people are yet?’ Nevins asked as though it were all a great personal inconvenience.

‘No. It still appears to be a purely economic event. The ransom demands remain focused on the oil company.’

‘Arcom,’ one of Nevins’s aides interjected. ‘They’re at the top of the ownership tree, sir. Head office in Abu Dhabi.’

‘Any previous?’ Nevins asked.

‘Nothing relative to this,’ the aide replied.

‘Shareholders?’

‘Still compiling that one, sir,’ the other aide said. He went to one of the consoles and with the briefest apology to the operator typed in some commands. ‘A couple of red flags have already come up, though. Al Qatare Jalab Natar. Sim Basar Negal.’ Faces matching the names appeared in the margins of the large screen. ‘Both notorious money launderers for heavy Russian Mafia players like Valery Moscov and Boris Kilszin. Moscov’s a political player but so far there’s no plausible tie-in to this type of crime.’

‘Winners and losers?’

‘Still hard to say right now. We’re waiting for the underwriters to get back to us with the details of the coverage. One of them did say, with unmasked pleasure, that the ransom was marginally within the first-level deductions, suggesting that the oil company will take the brunt of the hit.’

‘Sir, I have a call for you,’ the other aide interrupted. A Mr Kaan in Abu Dhabi. Says he’s Arcom’s crisis-team manager.’

Nevins frowned as he looked at his aide clutching the phone as if he was protecting his boss from it. ‘He specifically asked for me?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The operations officer looked at Nevins and raised an eyebrow. ‘He’s well informed.’

‘Clearly,’ Nevins muttered. ‘I only moved from South-East European operations last month.’

‘I can confirm that the call is from Arcom’s executive offices,’ said a young female technician operating one of the computer consoles.

‘Shall I tell him you’ll call back?’ the aide asked, putting the phone to his ear.

Nevins took a few seconds to decide before holding out his hand. The aide passed him the phone.

‘This is Nevins.’

‘Good day to you, sir.’ The accent was foreign but the words came across as well defined as any upper-class English that Nevins had heard spoken.

‘What can I do for you, Mr Kaan?’ Nevins asked.

A technician brought up something on her monitor and transferred it to the margin of the big screen: a photograph of a well-attired dark-skinned gentleman in his forties, with a finely groomed goatee. A biographical summary accompanied it.

‘I suppose the question to begin with has to be: what are you going to do about our oil platform?’

Nevins scrutinised the information on the man with disdain. Kaan had spent two years at Eton before moving to Harvard to complete a law degree. ‘Why, everything we possibly can, Mr Kaan.’

‘I don’t need to tell you that we have over a hundred and sixty people on board the Morpheus whose lives we are responsible for.’

‘Many of them British citizens who I am responsible for . . . not to mention that the hijacking has taken place in our sovereign waters.’

‘I fully appreciate that, Mr Nevins. Nevertheless, we will be the ones liable if harm comes to any of them. Can you give me an indication of your intentions?’

‘Have the hijackers made contact with you?’ Nevins asked, still reading the man’s bio.

‘Not yet. At the moment their dialogue appears to be directed towards your government.’

‘What’s your company policy with regard to the payment of ransoms?’

‘We don’t have one. We don’t enjoy the luxury that governments have when it comes to sacrificing our personnel for political purposes. We run a business. We will take the least expensive option. If that means paying a ransom it will be a strong consideration. We would appreciate you keeping us informed of your intentions since they will have an impact on that.’

Nevins finished reading the last paragraph of the bio. Kaan had been born in Dubai and was part of a wealthy family with connections to the ruling family. ‘Who is your decision-making authority?’

Kaan did not respond.

‘Who do you answer to?’ Nevins asked.

‘I’m afraid that has to be confidential, for the time being at least.’

‘I see. Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Mr Kaan,’ Nevins said. ‘Good day.’ He handed the phone back to the aide and looked up at the screen. ‘What are our options for taking it back?’

‘Remove the battery from your cellular phone, please,’ the operations officer said to the aide.

The aide almost dropped the phone in his speed to obey. The ops officer looked at the other aide who held up his cellphone with the battery already removed.

The operations officer redirected his attention to Nevins. ‘Technically this comes under the Grampian Police.’

Nevins glanced at him, a confused frown on his face. ‘Since when did the police have the capability to recapture an oil platform?’

‘They don’t. But every UK offshore structure now falls under the responsibility of its coastal police force. Our special forces are too thin on the ground and too overworked to maintain that role. It’s all part of a programme to have Home Security eventually deal with all domestic issues, terrorist or otherwise.’

‘Are you telling me that if I want to take the platform back by force I’m going to have to rely on a troop of constables?’

‘Of course not. None of the forces are even remotely trained and equipped to carry out such a task.’