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Stratton left them to ponder the comment and he opened the exterior door enough to look towards the helipad. The sound of the helicopter’s purring engines increased measurably. ‘That thing working?’ he asked Binning.

  Binning held the plastic case in his hand. ‘I promise you it is.’

  Stratton opened the door fully. ‘Give me one minute.’

  As the operative closed the door behind him it aroused Rowena’s suspicions once again. ‘Have you considered the possibility that he’ll simply tell the helicopter crew what we’re doing and bring this to an end?’ she said.

  ‘Don’t you believe him?’ Jason asked.

  ‘Does he need us to achieve his mission?’ she wondered.

  ‘I think he needs us - for the initial stage, at least.’

  ‘Want to bet he doesn’t plan on taking us all the way to the platform, though?’

  Jason opened the door enough to let the noise back in and saw Stratton walk up the steps of the helipad and out of view. ‘We’ll have to watch him.’

  With the rotors unengaged only the hot exhaust from the engines bothered Stratton as he entered the Chinook. The relatively spacious cabin had a line of hammock seats halfway down one side, while on the other dozens of various-sized plastic moulded boxes were lashed to rings on the bulkhead. Taking up most of the centre of the floor was a reinforced fibreglass SBS mini-submarine that looked like a fat and stubby black cigar, rounded at the front like a revolver bullet. The propeller, at the rear, sat inside a housing designed to protect a diver from swimming into it. Directly behind the nose was the open cockpit with seats for pilot and navigator. A compartment behind that, separated from the cockpit by a grille, was just about large enough to accommodate four people. The craft had breathing umbilicals attached along the inside of the bulkhead with nozzles for six divers. With no doors in the cabin or cockpit, just gaps where the crew climbed in and out, the sub was termed a ‘wet ride’: it flooded fully when it was underwater.

  As soon as Stratton saw the sub he had a fairly good idea what the SBS plan was. In the cockpit the pilots and the crewman were in a discussion about something. Stratton put down his bags, reached inside and tapped the crewman on the back.

  The man looked around and broke into a broad grin on seeing the face he instantly recognised. ‘Stratton. What’re you doin’ ’ere?’ he asked, immediately wondering why he was wearing a firesuit.

  ‘How’s it going, George? You well?’

  ‘Not bad. Not bad. Chaz didn’t mention we were picking you up.’

  ‘Who’re the drivers?’ Stratton asked, trying to get a look at the faces inside the helmets worn by the two guys sitting with their backs to him.

  ‘Charles and Steve,’ George said, tapping both men on the shoulders and indicating the new visitor.

  Charles, the pilot, smiled a hello on seeing Stratton and Steve gave him a wave. ‘What are you doing here?’ Charles shouted.

  ‘Complicated story,’ Stratton said.

  ‘Got a comms problem,’ the pilot continued. ‘We were in the middle of a sitrep from ops when everything shut down.’

  ‘Can you fix it?’

  ‘It’s not us. I’m certain of that.’

  ‘Maybe it’s this complex.They have a lot of security here. Haven’t you spoken to ops at all?’

  ‘Told them we arrived.’

  ‘Did they mention our situation?’

  Charles shook his head. Stratton got a little closer. ‘There’s been a security breach inside the complex. One of the team tripped a lockdown.’

  The pilot’s gaze moved to look beyond Stratton at the bunch of new faces outside, all wearing firesuits and carrying kitbags. ‘Who are they?’

  Stratton glanced over his shoulder to see Jason and the others. ‘What I thought you’d already know by now. Chaz and the others are stuck in a security vault for the next twenty-four hours. They took something into the complex that tripped the lockdown. London has given us the okay to continue with the task. These guys are up to it. Luckily enough I happened to be here.’

  The pilot looked from his own crew to the newcomers. It was definitely an odd situation. ‘I need to confirm this with ops.’

  ‘Of course,’ Stratton agreed.

  ‘But I don’t have any comms,’ he reminded Stratton.

  Stratton needed to help him along. ‘We can’t jeopardise the task,’ he shouted above the noise of the Chinook’s engines. ‘I suggest we get airborne, see if your comms clear, then confirm it with ops.’

  The pilot agreed. ‘Get them on board and I’ll wind us up.’

  Stratton waved Jason aboard and the team filed into the cabin.

  The entire crew gave Rowena a double take and George looked approvingly at Stratton.

  Stratton moved his lips close to the crewman’s ear. ‘Careful, George, you’re just her type.’

  George suspected that Stratton was joking but a part of him hoped it could be true. Smiling, he faced the team as the engine noise increased and he indicated for them to sit in the seats. ‘Buckle up!’ he shouted and mimicked buckling the seat belts.

  They felt at their sides for the belts. George was on his knees and in front of Rowena like a shot. He slid his hands past her thighs in order to retrieve the straps from beneath the thin nylon seat. She watched him but George was too thick-skinned to read her disdain. He went as far as to buckle it up for her.

  ‘I’ve never seen a strap tighten that small before,’ he said, raising his eyebrows and grinning.

  Her look froze even further.

  George stood up and took a step back. He walked around the mini-sub where Stratton was checking the boxes for the equipment they contained. ‘Does she always look like that?’

  Stratton glanced over at her. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  George took it to mean nothing but then was unsure. He moved away to prepare the chopper for lift-off.

  Stratton lifted a silenced H&K sub-machine gun out of a box to inspect it. The helicopter shuddered as it ascended. He looked through a porthole at the shrinking old compound. They’d done it. Now how the hell were they going to get to the coast, never mind get into the water?

  8

  The sumptuous penthouse offices of Arcom Oil looked out on a partially constructed cityscape: a forest of cranes and beyond them a sea of sand. Inside the spacious suite furnished with an unsubtle blend of expensive Arabian and Western fixtures sat four men, two of them Arab, two Eastern European.

  The two Russians were both large and overweight, one of them was bald. One of the Arabs wore traditional if rather expensive Bedouin garb. His skinny companion wore a fine-quality Western suit. All four men were sunk into deep, comfortable leather chairs. The Arabs had cups of tea on small tables in front of them. The Russians had large glasses partially filled with ice on a single table between them, on which also rested an ice bucket that had a bottle of vodka pressed into the snowy shavings.

  Two beautiful and busty young women in revealing evening wear sat on high stools at a bar at the far end of the room. They were talking quietly and comparing their nails.

  The bald Russian looked at the face of the gold and diamondstudded watch he wore. But he seemed neither bored nor restless despite the lack of conversation. He leaned his heavy frame forward, reached for the bottle of vodka and filled a glass. He said something quietly in his native tongue to his colleague who nodded. The bald Russian filled his colleague’s glass. They took a stiff drink under blank but somehow still disapproving gazes from the two Arabs and sat back, exhaling deeply with the effort.

  A door opened and a well-groomed Arab in a smart Western suit walked in. It was Mr Kaan, Arcom’s crisis manager, carrying a phone, which he held in front of him as if it were a chalice filled with God’s blood. The skinny Arab snapped his fingers several times in the direction of the girls. After several sharp ‘tsks’ from the man the girls stopped talking, slid off their chairs and sashayed out of the room. Kaan placed the phone in a cradle on a desk, adjusted a speaker box attached to it, and
touched a button. ‘You can go ahead,’ he said loudly. ‘Say what you have to say.’

  ‘The people from MI16 are on their way to the Morpheus,’ a man’s voice crackled.

  The men remained expressionless. One of the Russians whispered something to his associate. The two Arabs exchanged a whisper as if in retaliation. The bald Russian gestured with his hands to the Arab opposite in a manner that asked if he had anything to say to the phone. The man produced a polite smile and shook his head. The Russian indicated to Kaan that they were finished with him.

  Kaan disconnected the phone from the speaker, walked out of the room and closed the door behind him.

  The four men looked at each other, waiting for one of the others to begin. The suited Arab spoke. ‘We have reached the point where we must decide if we are to see this through, or abort.’

  ‘We have not yet reached the point of no return,’ one of the Russians pointed out.

  The skinny Arab had not made himself clear. ‘If we proceed to the next stage there may be no turning back.’

  ‘He’s right,’ the other Russian agreed.

  They all thought about it for a moment.

  ‘Shall we vote on it?’ the fat Arab asked.

  ‘We didn’t vote on the last decision,’ the Russian who still had his hair pointed out.

  ‘That’s because we all agreed beforehand and a vote wasn’t needed,’ the Arab reminded him.

  ‘What do we do if one of us votes differently from the others?’ the bald Russian asked.

  ‘We have already agreed that if it is not unanimous we abort,’ the man said, making an effort to hide his mild frustration.

  The bald Russian looked unsure. ‘I thought that was only to begin with.’

  ‘No,’ his associate said, correcting him. ‘It stands for every phase. This needs to be agreed by all of us. It is crucial.’

  ‘So if one person votes no the whole deal is off,’ the bald Russian summarised. The skinny Arab struggled to come up with a polite smile.

  ‘Those in favour of continuing, raise a hand,’ the other Arab said. ‘Does that suit everyone?’

  They glanced at each other and eventually nodded.

  The bald Russian raised his hand.

  The skinny Arab did the same.

  The fat Arab followed.

  The Russian with hair raised his hand.

  All four broke into smiles.

  The skinny Arab pushed a buzzer on his coffee table and a moment later the door opened and Kaan returned. ‘Would you bring in the satellite phone and prepare to make a connection to Mr Deacon.’

  ‘Are we going through to the next phase?’ Kaan asked.

  ‘Yes, we are.’

  Kaan beamed. ‘Excellent. I’ll bring the codes.’ When Kaan returned he placed the phone and a file on the table and reconnected the speaker. After dialling a number he placed the phone in the cradle. A beep announced that the call was going through. Seconds later it was picked up. The initial sound was like that of a wind tunnel.

  A man’s voice broke through the interference. ‘Yeah?’ he shouted as if he was outside in a storm.

  Deacon was on the topmost deck of the platform, trying to find protection from the wind and driving rain among some heavy machinery. ‘I can’t hear you. Give me a moment,’ he shouted.

  He hurried along the deck, the rain lashing at him and whipping his hood from his head. He reached the control room and pushed in through the door into the airlock, shutting the first door behind him and the weather with it. Deacon remained inside the lock. ‘Hello,’ he said into the phone.

  ‘Thanatos?’

  ‘Yeah. This is Thanatos.’

  ‘An identity code, if you please.’

  Deacon took a second to select one of the many identity codes he had memorised. ‘Jupiter’s moon.’

  ‘Good. You are instructed to proceed,’ Kaan’s voice came over the phone. ‘I suggest you get a pen and paper if you don’t have one to hand. We don’t want this next phase to go wrong due to a faulty memory.’

  ‘Right,’ Deacon said, feeling his pockets. He pushed open the inner door, went to a desk and found a pen. Jock sat reading a newspaper.The only other person present was a technician working at a bank of electronic machinery. ‘Go ahead,’ Deacon said, ripping a piece of paper from a printer.

  Jock looked up to see the nerd staring at the hijack leader. He picked a steel nut that was doubling as a paperweight off the desk and tossed it like a frisbee. It struck the man on the side of the head with a loud clunk, making him yelp. He looked over at the Scot, who made a threatening gesture indicating that he’d punch him if he did not get back to minding his own business.

  Deacon wrote down the number and read it back to make sure it was correct. When he and Kaan were satisfied he turned off the phone and put it in his pocket.

  He went to his bag that rested on the floor beside the Scotsman, took from it a small metal money box and placed it on the desk. The words WARNING: DO NOT OPEN THIS BOX WITHOUT THE CORRECT CODE had been written in bold letters on a piece of tape fixed across the keypad. Deacon removed the tape and studied a digital display, which he activated by pushing a button. He read the number on the piece of paper again and hit the first key.

  ‘What’s that?’ Jock asked.

  ‘My next orders,’ Deacon replied, keying in the next number.

  ‘Inside the box?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they don’t want me to see them before I have to.’ He pressed another key.

  ‘Bit silly, isn’t it, leaving your orders in a little box?’

  ‘Not if it’s got a stick of plastic that’ll detonate if anyone tries to open it without the right code.’

  Jock nodded, impressed. ‘Nice. Wouldn’t it also be a good way to get rid of you if they’ve changed their mind about the task? They just give you the wrong code.’

  Deacon hadn’t thought of that and gave Jock a look.

  ‘’Scuse me,’ Jock said, picking up his newspaper and walking into the security office to stand behind a cabinet from where he could just about see his boss.

  Deacon’s finger hovered over the final key. If that was true, how had they planned to kill the rest of the team? He decided that killing just him would not make sense and so he pushed the key. Nothing happened. He could not help giving a small sigh of relief as he turned the handle on top of the box and raised the lid.

  A lump of plastic explosive had been fixed to the inside of the lid. The detonator was wired to a battery and a small circuit board was attached to the keypad. An envelope rested in the bottom of the box. Deacon removed it and put the box into his bag.

  The envelope contained a single sheet of instructions and a photograph of a man was stapled to a corner of the paper. The man was Jordan Mackay.

  As Deacon read the instructions his brow creased into a frown. Jock stepped back into the room. ‘I take it we’re moving right along, then.’

  ‘It would seem so.’ Deacon put the envelope into his pocket. ‘I’m going down to the galley.’

  Jock watched him go and glanced at the technician, who was looking at him. When he saw Jock’s hostile expression, the nerd could not get back to work quickly enough.

  Deacon entered the accommodation block and wiped the rain from his face as he made his way down the stairs. He strode purposefully along the corridor, through a door and along another corridor towards the galley. The Lebanese thug slouched outside the entrance to the food hall. He gave Deacon a glance but no more.

  ‘What you doin’ out ’ere?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘I think some of them have shit their pants,’ the Arab said.

  Deacon pushed open the galley door and scanned the room. It smelled like a foul toilet, and the workers were crammed into every inch of floor space. Some of them appeared to be sleeping. Banzi, the Pirate and the Bulgarian were sitting on the long serving counter, guns across their laps.

  ‘Why aren’t you letting these blokes d
o their business?’ Deacon called out.

  ‘We are,’ Banzi answered. ‘Some of ’em couldn’t wait. The she-he is making food for them now.’

  Deacon scanned the faces of the hostages. He saw the one he was looking for. The man was staring straight at him. Deacon checked the photograph to confirm the man’s identity, realising he was one of the men they had filmed on deck. ‘You,’ he said, pointing. ‘Get to your feet.’

  Jordan struggled to comply.

  Deacon indicated the entrance doors. He stepped aside to let Mackay pass into the corridor. When the doors had closed behind them he said, ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Don’t you know?’ Jordan said coldly.

  ‘I know a name.’

  ‘Jordan Mackay.’ He turned his back to Deacon and offered his bound hands. Deacon took a knife from a sheath on his belt and cut the plastic bonds. The Lebanese wondered what was going on.

  Jordan rubbed his chafed wrists. ‘Give me your pistol.’

  Deacon looked at the man questioningly.

  ‘You were given instructions about me.’

  ‘They said nothing about you being in charge.’

  ‘You were told to give me anything I asked for.’

  ‘They said nothing about a weapon.’

  ‘A weapon comes under “anything I ask for”,’ Jordan said, holding out his hand. ‘You all have weapons. You have them for a reason. Give me one.’

  Deacon considered the brief instructions on the sheet of paper. As the man said, anything meant anything. He reached inside his coat, took his pistol from its holster and put it in Jordan’s hand. Mackay removed the magazine, pulled back the top slide enough to see the round in the breech and replaced it.

  ‘So. What’s your part in this?’ said Deacon, curious.

  Jordan levelled the pistol at the Lebanese thug’s face and pulled the trigger. The deafening report of the gun reverberated along the corridor as the bullet went through the Arab’s head and into the wall behind, followed by a spout of blood. His body went limp and dropped to the floor.

  Deacon stiffened at the sight and sound but kept cool, wondering immediately if he was going to be next.