Traitor Read online

  Jordan stuck the pistol into his trouser belt. ‘You can have his,’ he said.

  The doors slammed open and Banzi crouched in the opening with his M-15 at the ready, his gaze flicking between the two standing men and the Lebanese thug’s corpse on the floor. ‘Is all okay?’ he asked, confused.

  ‘He was a wanker anyway,’ Deacon said.

  ‘Have you laid the charges?’ Jordan asked.

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘I want to take a look.’

  Deacon took the Arab’s coat off a hook and handed it to Jordan. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Would you mind tossin’ ’im over the side?’ he called out to the Japanese mercenary. ‘Weigh ’im down a bit so’s he doesn’t float where someone might find ’im.’

  Deacon led Jordan into the accommodation block. Partway along a corridor Jordan stepped into one of the doorways. ‘I need a minute,’ he said. Deacon paused at the end airlock. A moment later came the sound of a toilet flushing and Jordan stepped back into the corridor, buckling up his trouser belt.

  Outside the weather hit them like a brutal ambush, heavy pelting rain and powerful winds that twisted between the sandwiched deck and through the grilles above and below. It felt like a typhoon was assaulting the platform. The men leaned into the storm as they moved across an exposed stretch of deck to a flight of rain-soaked metal stairs. They held tightly to the rails to maintain their balance.

  Deacon stopped halfway down the steps and crouched to indicate the huge platform leg nearest to them. ‘There’s the first,’ he shouted above the wind. Jordan continued past him onto the next deck. The wind and rain lashed at him as he limped across the griddled flooring to the massive leg. He examined the linear charge, wrapped in black plastic sheeting, and followed it around its entire circumference.

  Deacon joined him. ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘Looks it,’ Jordan shouted back.

  ‘The other charges,’ Deacon said, pointing.

  Jordan leaned over a rail to look down between the lower struts. He saw a charge wrapped around a heavy link that held fast one of the dozen anchor cables that kept the rig in position.

  ‘There are five more like that. Can you manage a ladder?’

  Jordan frowned at the implication and walked over to a ladder welded to the side of the leg. He grabbed hold of the cold wet rungs with his bare hands, swung his legs beneath him and began to descend.

  Deacon grinned, amused by the man’s effort to prove himself. He rubbed his hands together against the cold, took hold of a rung and followed.

  Jordan reached the lower deck. Here there were fewer equipment blocks and machinery to check the wind and rain, and the gale funnelled between the spars ferociously. He inspected one of the charges and eyed the others spread around the perimeter of the deck. He looked back to see Deacon partway down the ladder. ‘You have the detonating control?’

  Deacon touched down onto the deck and removed a yellow box the size of a cigarette pack from his pocket. Jordan wanted to ask for it. But from what little he knew about Deacon he could sense that the man wouldn’t give it up. The bosses hadn’t been clear enough about who was in ultimate command. Splitting the leadership in this way was not very clever and could cause friction when final decisions had to be made. Jordan decided not to make his play just yet.

  He took in the vast oil platform above, below and around them. ‘You think they’re serious enough to do this?’

  ‘I get the feeling they don’t bluff.’ Deacon wondered what Mackay knew. ‘Is this just about ransom money or is it something else?’

  Jordan wondered in turn how much the other man knew, if anything. ‘I’ve got my piece to do, just like you. Other than that I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re the platform expert?’ Deacon shouted.

  ‘Not exactly.’ Jordan looked out to sea. ‘They’ll come at night.’

  ‘Who?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘Those whose job it is to take back the platform. They might come in force, one heavy assault, or send in a recce team first.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Depends on the negotiations . . . Soon . . . Days.’

  Deacon had an idea who - or, at least, what - Jordan was. ‘You ex-SBS?’ he asked.

  Jordon nodded.

  Deacon smirked. ‘We’ll be ready for ’em. I’m going to place booby traps on all the stairs and ladders coming from below.’

  ‘They won’t come the way you think. You won’t see them until they show themselves. If you’re still on board when they get here they’ll kill you.’

  Deacon’s smile melted.

  Jordan reached for a rung and pulled himself up the ladder. Deacon watched him climb, suddenly feeling less comfortable. He sensed that Jordan might be a problem. The man had the air of someone who thought he was in charge. Deacon would take the first opportunity to let him know who really was.

  The Chinook cruised at several thousand feet above the English countryside, keeping the city of Sheffield on its left as it headed towards the coastline at Scarborough. Stratton had gone through every operational trunk and the team’s personal boxes to gather the equipment that he felt he needed for the task. It had been more an exercise to keep himself busy than it had been based on any great confidence that he would actually use it.

  The crewman came over to Stratton and tapped him on the shoulder, looking concerned. ‘Charles is getting stressed about the lost comms,’ he yelled above the noise of the rotors and engines. ‘What’s weird is that none of us have even been able to get a signal on our cellphones.’

  ‘What does he want to do?’ Stratton asked, placing a magazine into a semi-automatic pistol. It was drawing close to that critical moment.

  ‘Do you think something back at MI16 damaged our comms?’

  ‘Ask those guys,’ Stratton said, indicating the scientists still in their seats.

  George glanced at them. Jason was looking at the ceiling. Binning was watching him and Stratton. Jackson was tapping the screen of a pocket computer with a stylus. Smithy was literally twiddling his thumbs and Rowena had her head back and her eyes closed. ‘Doesn’t matter if they can’t fix it. We’re going to have to land somewhere we can contact ops.’

  Stratton had been thinking all the time about a way round this obstacle and had been unable to come up with an even remotely acceptable option. The only solution was the extreme long shot of the pilot taking things into his own hands and pressing on with the task. But that would have required a sudden madness in Charlie.

  ‘If there’s been a change in plans we won’t know about it,’ George explained.

  Stratton knew he had to make some kind of effort, futile though it looked. He made his way to the cockpit, stepped inside and tapped the pilot on the shoulder. Charles looked around at him. ‘Ops’ll know that you have lost comms. The procedure is to continue with the task.’

  ‘I understand that. The plan calls for us to put down on a ship north of the Morpheus. But a serious storm has overtaken the operational area. We have enough fuel to get to the ship and land on it but not for a return to the mainland. If the ship has moved and we have to turn back for the coast, we could be in trouble.’

  Stratton had hoped they were headed directly for a sea drop-off. ‘Could you drop us off a couple of miles from the Morpheus and get back?’

  ‘The rig’s closer to land than the command ship. But those aren’t my orders.’

  ‘It’s one of the contingencies, though, isn’t it? To go direct to water drop?’ Stratton was guessing but it was an option he would have put in the orders.

  ‘I can’t make that decision. And neither can you.’

  Stratton knew he had hit a brick wall.

  ‘If we don’t have comms by the time we reach the coast, I’m landing,’ Charlie added.

  Stratton nodded and walked away. He sat beside Jason. ‘The pilot’s going to land if they still have no comms by the time we reach the coast.’

  ‘What are our options?’ Jason asked.

  ‘If we ha
ve any, I can’t think of one.’

  Binning began to look agitated. ‘If it comes down to it, could we threaten the pilot?’

  ‘You want to threaten to shoot one of the crew?’ Stratton asked sarcastically, wondering about the man’s common sense.

  Binning realised it was a stupid comment but it was a sign of his growing frustration.

  The crewman stepped out of the cockpit and walked over to the group. ‘Scarborough’s coming up,’ he said.

  Stratton looked through the porthole behind his head at the coastline below. The sea stretched to the horizon.

  ‘We’re going to head north to Aberdeen,’ George informed them. ‘Charles will put down at the forward mounting base there.’ He headed back to the cockpit.

  The news only served to increase Binning’s agitation. ‘We’re screwed if he does that.’

  Stratton had to agree. He could see it all grinding to a halt if they landed in Aberdeen. ‘You’d better turn the comms block off.’

  Binning was on the verge of anger. ‘Is that all you can come up with?’

  Stratton flashed him a look, finding his response odd. ‘Turn it off,’ Stratton ordered, a warning in his tone.

  Binning clenched his jaw and looked at Jason for help.

  ‘Turn it off,’ his boss said resignedly.

  Binning was alone and had no alternatives. He opened the apparatus’s plastic casing, reached inside and flicked a switch. Stratton got to his feet and went to the cockpit door, taking a pair of headphones from a hook. He put them on and the voices in the cockpit came to life.

  The operations room commander sat in his high chair staring at the giant screen showing the North Sea covered in its various information markers, with Morpheus in the centre. On the east coast of England, close to the Scottish border, was a moving object circled in red, the window next to it giving its details. The circle turned to blue and began to flash.

  ‘Whisky four-zero is back on line, sir,’ one of the console operators called out, informing his boss of something that he had seen for himself.

  The ops officer pushed a button on his panel. ‘Whisky four-zero, this is zero Charlie.’

  ‘Zero Charlie, Whisky four-zero.’ The pilot’s voice came over speakers that were mounted around the room.

  The operations officer beckoned to one of the aides. ‘Tell Nevins we’ve got comms with the SBS team,’ he said.

  ‘Haven’t a clue about the cause of the blackout,’ the pilot continued. ‘Strangest bloody communications breakdown I’ve ever experienced. Everything went offline. Even our mobile phones. Diagnostics picked up absolutely nothing.’

  The ops officer frowned. ‘What’s the likelihood of it happening again?’

  ‘Since I don’t know what caused it, I have no idea.’

  The ops officer looked over at his communications specialist who could only reply with an apologetic shrug. The door opened and Nevins walked in, his stare switching immediately to the screen.

  Jason joined Stratton at the cockpit door, unhooked another pair of headphones off the bulkhead and put them over his ears. ‘You’re fifty minutes behind schedule,’ he heard the ops officer say to the pilot. ‘How’s your fuel?’

  ‘Plenty to get to the RV. I was idle while at India one-six waiting for the team change which took more than half an hour.’

  Jason and Stratton braced themselves for the reply.

  The operations officer frowned on hearing the words, as though he had missed something. ‘What do you mean, “team change”?’

  ‘The new team, sir. After Chaz’s bunch got stuck in the airlock. They took a while to get geared up.’

  The ops officer looked around at Nevins whose confused expression reflected his own.

  ‘I received a report of a shutdown at Sixteen but no mention of any personnel involved,’ Nevins told the officer.

  The ops officer was now completely confused. ‘I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,’ he said into the microphone.

  The pilots looked at each other and the crewman turned to look at Stratton.

  ‘Tell me precisely who you have on board your helicopter,’ the ops officer asked.

  ‘John Stratton, SBS, and five members of MI16, one of them a woman.’

  Jason moved the headphones’ microphone to his mouth and found the transmit switch on the cable hanging from one of the earpieces. ‘Hello. This is Jason Mansfield, head of MI16.’

  The ops officer was stunned to hear the strange voice boom over the speakers, as was Nevins.

  ‘I am accompanied by Phillip Binning, Avis Jackson, Harold Smith and Rowena Deboventurer,’ Jason continued.

  ‘By whose authority are you on board my helicopter?’ the operations officer asked.

  ‘The original team violated a security protocol and got themselves automatically locked in a security vault as a result. The task is within our capability and so I decided to take it on. Naturally, I would have contacted you immediately but the communications failure prevented that.’ At this blatant lie he gave Stratton a child-like look but he was still working on sticking to the task, desperate as that was.

  The ops officer removed the microphone from his lips. ‘Can someone pinch me?’ he said. ‘I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.’

  Neither did anyone else in the room by the look of their expressions.

  The officer returned the mike to his mouth. ‘I sometimes feel I could do a better job as England’s scrum-half but I have so far resisted the temptation to rush down onto the pitch and take over. I’ll ask you once again,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘What the hell are you doing on my helicopter?’

  Jason put his hand over the mike. ‘I think he’s upset.’

  Stratton was ahead of the scientist. He knew what would happen next and he wasn’t looking forward to it. Yet his concern for Jordan, his failure to come to the man’s aid, overshadowed the fear of punishment. He’d failed his old friend.

  Nevins piped up. ‘You tell that pilot he’s to put that bloody kite down and then I want those fools locked up until we can get to the bottom of this.’

  The operations officer was about to relay the order when Nevins stopped him. ‘Wait. Give me that. I’ll tell him myself.’

  As the ops officer handed Nevins the microphone neither of them saw the large doors that led into the operations room open and a man walk in. Nevins was about to speak when he felt a hand on his shoulder, while another clamped over the mike, preventing him from talking into it. Startled by the sudden intrusion he wheeled around to see Jervis, head of MI6 operations.

  ‘What the devil?’ Nevins demanded.

  ‘Let them go,’ Jervis said.

  ‘What?’ Nevins was stunned.

  ‘I need you to let them go,’ Jervis repeated. ‘I have the minister’s backing on this.’

  Nevins could not wipe a look of utter confusion from his face. Everyone in the room had frozen: some kind of power play was happening before their eyes. They could only remain still and watch to see what developed.

  ‘I’ll discuss this with you in your office,’ Jervis said. ‘Not here.’

  Nevins brought himself back under control. He was an experienced man in the business, and knew Jervis well enough. The man was a canny high-stakes player and something extraordinary definitely had to be going on for him to intervene in such a manner at this level of the operation. And if the PM had given his support there was nothing more to say, for the moment at least. But he was also aware of Jervis’s manipulations and ambition to set up the boffin inventors as medium-level operatives. It was well known within the secret service’s inner circles. If he’d chosen this moment to make his move, it was a bold one indeed. If it went wrong, Jervis was toast. Far too much was at stake all around and Nevins knew he could not afford to make an error either. He handed the microphone back to the operations officer and acknowledged the master mongrel’s new grip of the reins.

  ‘Tell the pilot to continue with the contingency RV,’ Jervis t
old the operations officer.

  ‘The target drop-off?’ the ops officer asked. He knew it was what Jervis meant but the situation was so remarkable that he had to confirm it.

  ‘That’s correct. Stratton is to lead the next phase of the operation. MI16 is his team.’

  The ops officer knew he had just witnessed a remarkable event, one far beyond his level, but he quickly recovered. He pushed the transmit button. ‘Whisky four-zero, this is zero Charlie.’

  ‘Whisky four-zero send,’ the pilot’s voice crackled over the speakers.

  ‘Continue with the task. Proceed to the target-drop RV.’

  ‘Sorry, sir. Did you say proceed to the target-drop RV?’

  ‘That’s correct. Maintain normal communications schedule.’

  ‘Roger that,’ the pilot said, glancing at his co-pilot and shaking his head as if he’d missed something.

  Jason could not believe it. ‘What happened?’ he asked Stratton. ‘They were about to order an abort.’

  ‘Someone important changed his mind,’ Stratton said, as confused as anyone else.

  Jason removed the headset, hung it on the hook and walked back through the cabin to the others. They had no idea what was happening and looked at him as if they were waiting to hear the bad news.

  Stratton could not begin to think of an explanation. But whatever had happened back in the operations room, it seemed they were on their way. He would only believe it when they were in the water and beyond the point of no return.

  He walked over as the others gathered close to Jason to listen to what he had to say. ‘It looks like we’re going in,’ Mansfield said, smiling.

  Binning could hardly contain his relief. Jackson nodded, with the thinnest of smiles. Smithy looked pale - his nervousness that had been bubbling below the surface became more evident as he squeezed his hands together tightly. Rowena gave nothing away.

  ‘London has acknowledged that we’re up to the task and has given us the go-ahead,’ Jason continued. ‘They clearly recognise our potential. I’ll bet my bottom dollar we can thank Jervis for this. We’re on our way.’

  He held his fist out in the centre of the group. Binning was the first to grab it strongly. The others piled their hands on top.