Traitor Read online

  Eight people wearing dark green overalls occupied the two dozen cabin seats, spread about the craft as if they did not want to know each other. Of different races and complexions they all had one thing in common - they looked like thugs. At first glance they appeared to be typical roughnecks but a closer inspection revealed more sinister characteristics. Each bore some kind of scar or other mark of past hardship or hostility. An observer could have seen it in their eyes, too.

  A robustly built man sitting in the frontmost passenger seat got to his feet, opened the cabin door and looked between the pilots through the windscreen. He had mousy hair cropped short, his European features disfigured by a pudgy, broken-looking nose. He focused his gaze below the horizon on the only solid object in view. From a couple of miles away it looked box-like, as though dozens of giant containers had been piled randomly on top of each other and balanced on four gigantic cylindrical legs that rose from the ocean. A bright orange flame burned on the end of a derrick high up and out to one side of the main structure.

  The pilot glanced over his shoulder. ‘We’ll touch down in less than six minutes,’ he said.

  ‘Any problems?’ the man asked, his accent from somewhere close to London.

  ‘None,’ the pilot assured him. ‘We’re looking good, Deacon - don’t worry.’

  Deacon ignored the man, stepped back into the main cabin and regarded his motley crew. They had been together as a team for almost two weeks and he was still not used to the sight of the strange collection of individuals. When Deacon had mentioned it to the bosses the first time he’d seen the assembled team they’d told him that it was intentional. Deacon never really understood why, beyond the obvious theatrical value, and he didn’t enquire further. If they were as able as they were odd-looking he did not care. He was used to working with different nationalities, just not so many in the same team. ‘We’re approaching the target,’ he called out above the sound of the engines.

  Most of the others looked up at him, though not all appeared to understand fully.

  ‘Five minutes,’ he shouted, holding up five fingers. ‘Comms check,’ he mimed, reminding them that the five-minute warning indicated a prearranged order.

  Each had a large bag. Those that had not understood Deacon saw the others opening them to retrieve a radio and earpiece and caught on, doing likewise.

  Deacon produced a radio from his pocket, turned it on and placed an earphone with a microphone attached into his ear. ‘Onetwo, one-two. If you can hear me loud and clear raise your hand,’ he said slowly.

  All of them put up a hand.

  ‘Good. Final weapons check,’ he said, holding up an old Armalite M-15 carbine and extending the short plastic butt that locked into place.

  The others removed the weapons from their bags and did the same.

  ‘Put one up the spout,’ he shouted, making sure the gun’s magazine was firmly in place before snapping back the cocking mechanism and releasing it to allow the heavy internal spring to slam a round back home.

  The sound of several weapons being cocked.

  ‘Apply the safety catch and put them back into your bag.’

  Each man obeyed, except one.

  Deacon walked down the aisle to the end row and stopped to look at a familiar enough sight that he could never quite get used to. It appeared to be a woman, or at least that was a possibility. She had the athletic build of a man - angular shoulders, thick neck and muscular arms and hands - yet her complexion and make-up belied this: her unblemished Indonesian skin cared for, her eyebrows plucked to form a thin curving line, a ring of pale blue pencilling around the eyes. She was adjusting her make-up using a small mirror.

  ‘Queen?’ he said.

  She sighed and ignored him.

  ‘Is that really necessary?’

  She finished what she was doing, put the lipstick away and snapped the compact closed. ‘I’ve been asked that all my life, Deacon dear,’ she said in a rugged accent. She removed an M-15 from her bag and deftly pulled back the working parts. ‘I think you asked me the same question that first job I did with you.’ She let the mechanism spring back into place. ‘The high-profile convoy from the Kuwaiti border to Mosul - remember?’

  ‘Yeah. You were winding up the Iraqis.’

  ‘They didn’t know what the hell I was when we ran into the first ambush. They pretty much loved me by the end of the second one.’

  ‘No one’s doubtin’ your fightin’ skills. I just don’t want you weirdin’ out this lot. Some are a bit confused about you already.’

  ‘They’re only confused about themselves,’ Queen said, applying the safety catch with her thumb and placing the weapon back in the bag.

  Deacon shook his head and turned away, heading back to the front of the helicopter. The large red-headed Viking-like man he passed twisted in his seat to take a look at Queen. She pushed her breasts together and gave him a wink. He looked to the front again, his brow furrowed.

  Deacon stopped beside a man with short spiky ink-black hair, his nose to the window. ‘Banzi?’

  The man looked at Deacon. He was Japanese, his serious expression distorted by a false porcelain eyeball bearing the Japanese flag instead of a pupil, the red stripes of the rising sun disappearing into the surrounding edges of the socket.

  Yet another weird characteristic that Deacon could not quite get used to. ‘You happy with the route to the power room?’ he asked.

  ‘Of course,’ Banzi said in an abrupt manner. ‘Make sure the Pirate does,’ he added, jutting his chin with obvious contempt towards the man in the seat in front.

  Banzi went back to looking out of the window and Deacon moved forward to the tall slim Somali seated in front, his expression blank as if in a trance. A deep scar ran from his chin, across an eye and into his scalp where it continued to the back of his head through short wiry hair. ‘You happy with the route to the power room?’ Deacon asked. The jet-black man did not respond. ‘Pirate?’

  He half looked towards Deacon and gave a solemn nod.

  The man’s lack of communication skills had begun to frustrate Deacon but he put it to one side. It was too late to do anything about it, anyway. He’d wanted to leave the Somali behind but the boss had insisted that he should remain with the team, assuring Deacon that he had extraordinary killing abilities. The Pirate’s partner, the Jap, seemed reliable enough.

  Deacon went back into the cockpit.

  The pilot was on the radio to the oil platform. ‘Roger that, Morpheus. Understood.’ He gave Deacon a thumbs-up.

  The Morpheus, one of the North Sea’s biggest oil platforms, filled the windshield as the helicopter drew closer, its series of exposed decks like a massive denuded steel tower block. The main platform, at least half the size of a football field, lay covered by building blocks with workspaces in between and a huge crane on one side. The flame derrick stuck out a long way on the far side. The deck below, like a layer of a thick sandwich, was crammed tight with more box shapes, all the same height but with different widths and lengths. Below that was a collection of large pieces of machinery amid more storage structures. A large heli-deck, with its red circular target, came into view on its own level to one side and on top of the platform. They saw the brightly dressed standby fire crew on the side of the deck. As the helicopter came in they could see workers on the various levels. Deacon had never been that close to an oil rig before but he had studied the Morpheus’s blueprints and knew pretty much all of its facilities and features.

  He felt his anxiety levels rise. The days of waiting had suddenly become minutes. Deacon certainly hadn’t done anything like this before. His career had begun with the 2nd Parachute Regiment and had been followed by three years in B Squadron, 22 Special Air Service. He’d missed the Falklands conflict by a couple of years because of his age but had seen some action in the first Gulf War - which was where he’d begun to head down the slippery slope. A combination of boredom with the military life and the discovery of how simple it was to make money illeg
ally had altered his perspective. He had never owned anything of value because he had never been particularly attracted by modern comforts such as fancy cars or wristwatches. That changed a month before the end of the conflict.

  Special forces customarily received solid gold coins to take on operations in the desert. They were part of their emergency survival equipment. They could buy assistance if an action resulted in a team member failing to make the pick-up or emergency rendezvous. Nomadic tribesmen, for instance, roamed much of the desert entirely ignorant or uncaring of the battles going on around them.

  During Deacon’s last operation, an observation post along with three other SAS troopers, he had decided to keep the gold. He made a joke of it to the others, just serious enough for them to go for it if they agreed in any way - they all had to be a part of the plan for it to work. He mused how it would be such an easy way to make some money, that they deserved to come out of the war with something - the gold Krugerrands were worth around five thousand pounds for each man. The others bit. They agreed to see it through to just before the point of no return. If it looked like they could get away with it they would do it.

  They would claim that a threatening enemy presence had caused them to bug out of the position, and that the only escape route headed away from the rendezvous point. Despite them hiding out during the subsequent daylight hours, a group of nomadic Arabs had discovered them and had threatened to turn the patrol over to the Iraqis. They’d had a choice: they could either fight their way out, which might have been costly, or hand over the Krugerrands in exchange for freedom.

  It felt sound enough to go ahead with. Deacon warned them that suspicions would be raised but if they all stuck to their guns they would get away with it. No one would be able to prove otherwise.

  The point of no return would be when the time came to hide the gold and present the operational report. They would secrete the gold among equipment already packed for the return to Hereford.

  And that was precisely what they did. The interrogators questioned the soldiers as a group and individually. They even tried to convince each of the men that another had cracked and revealed the truth. But the technique did not succeed. And despite practically everyone ‘knowing’ that the patrol had stolen the gold, no one could prove it, as Deacon had said, and so they were never charged.

  Deacon quit the SAS and the military a few months before the invasion of Afghanistan. Had he known that the regiment was going to war again he would have changed his mind - he liked a good battle. He turned his sights on becoming a mercenary, advertising himself as a former SAS soldier now turned freelance ‘military specialist’. He soon got all the battling he could handle: many of his subsequent experiences were more dangerous than any he might have had with the SAS. The oil platform task, as it was planned, would be nowhere near as perilous as some he had carried out during those years. By the end of the second Gulf War, big money, along with big risks, had become the norm for him. Running convoys from one side of Iraq to the other, and more recently along the Khyber Pass into Afghanistan, was the most dangerous mercenary work there was. In the half-dozen years Deacon had been doing it he’d lost seventy-eight men serving directly under him, most of them killed alongside him. Many others had been captured after failing to escape an ambush but they’d faced the same fate.

  When the British military pulled out of Iraq and the Americans were preparing to do the same, Deacon wanted to try something else - along similar lines, of course, because he couldn’t do anything different. He had no real idea what that was until the mysterious caller a few months back offered him the task of capturing an oil platform for more money than he had made during his entire time in Iraq and Afghanistan. He hesitated when he learned of its North Sea location: anything in the UK, Europe or the States would have given him pause. It meant taking on sophisticated surveillance and investigative technology and lethal-quality security forces. The money and an assuredly watertight plan brought him on board. Half a million US dollars had been deposited into a Cayman Island bank account in his name. Another half-million would follow on completion of his part in the operation. These people had serious money. The rest of the team were making less than Deacon - half his salary, reputedly - but still a fortune compared with what they were normally paid for far greater risks. The audacity of the escape plan sealed it. Deacon was going to enjoy this.

  One thing alone bugged him. He couldn’t figure out the true motive of those who’d given him the job. Many things about it didn’t add up and he didn’t know who the ultimate client was, which was not altogether a surprise. They were obviously expecting a serious return on their investment. Deacon didn’t care enough to stress about it. He was going to make a cool million, tax free, doing something he really enjoyed.

  The helicopter flared as the craft slowed and aimed its underbelly at the centre of the helipad. Deacon went to the main cabin door and, steadying himself against it, eyed his crew. All still in their seats, most looking out of a porthole. When the wheels bumped down all eyes turned to him. Like Deacon, none of them had done anything quite like this before. The Pirate came the closest. Apparently he had hijacked half a dozen ships in his time, including a supertanker. Deacon had to wonder what he had done with the money, if it was true. He thought piracy paid even more than gigs like this.

  The shifty-looking Lebanese guy seated in front of the Viking had played a key role in the hijacking of an airliner, or so he claimed. Once again Deacon wondered if there had been any logic to the selection of this crew, or was being a hardened mercenary the only qualification required? Scary appeared to be another criterion. They all looked pretty fearsome. That made sense. North Sea oil platforms were generally populated by tough guys and ex-servicemen, types more likely than most to have a go at a terrorist. With fewer players in his team, Deacon needed fearsome as well as armed.

  The helicopter’s engines changed pitch as the torque went out of the rotors. Deacon turned the handle and pulled open the door. The wind rushed inside along with the sunlight. Beyond the steps leading up to the helipad, half a dozen platform workers waited with packs and suitcases, part of the rig’s hot-bunk routine, which meant that with every new arrival there were departures. This batch was going to be disappointed, as were the eleven original members of the shift currently locked inside the bowels of a boat somewhere off the coast of Scotland. They’d been surprised when the helicopter had made an unscheduled stop alongside the boat and even more so when Deacon had stepped into the cabin with his assault rifle levelled to order them off.

  Deacon stepped down onto the pad and walked towards the exit stairway. One by one his crew followed.

  As the line passed them the two standby fire-crew guys both had the same thought: in their day they had seen enough brutes climb in and out of the rig helicopter but never such a collection in one batch.

  Deacon headed along the main deck followed by the Lebanese thug and a large dark-skinned Bulgarian with a massive head draped in a mop of brown hair. The Pirate and Banzi went calmly to the edge of the platform and down a stairway. The red-headed Viking, the tallest of the team at almost seven feet, crossed to the opposite side of the deck and went down another staircase, followed by the shortest team member, a growling Scotsman with half an ear missing. It looked as if it had been bitten off.

  Queen alighted last and stood at the chopper’s door, signalling to the waiting passengers to remain where they were. The firemen stared at the transsexual. Now they had seen everything.

  The oil platform’s control room was divided into two, the larger area tightly packed from floor to ceiling with electronic devices and machinery, the room hum constant. Some of the several technicians present were wearing ear protectors. Gauges just about everywhere measured every essential pressure, temperature, fluid level, voltage and flow rate involved with the running of the platform’s production, life-support and safety systems. The smaller adjoining administrative room contained the platform’s security and radio and satellite commun
ications systems. A couple of flatscreen monitors displayed split CCTV images of various parts of the rig including the Eurocopter on the heli-deck, its rotors turning. A tall long-haired individual in green overalls stood at the cabin door with his back to the camera.

  The Morpheus’s security officer, sipping a cup of hot chocolate from a Union Jack china mug, sat at a small paperwork-covered desk jammed into a corner. He looked at the screens and saw two of the newcomers in green overalls and carrying bags come into view, walking purposefully along a deck corridor. Another screen showed two more of the men heading towards the main power room. An exterior camera showed the backs of three more approaching the entrance to the control room. One of them pushed a button by the door. A buzzer sounded in the room.

  The supervisor put down his drink. Something about the images niggled him.

  The handful of technicians in the main control room remained busy with various systems while the platform’s general manager stayed seated in a corner. ‘Is someone gonna get that?’ he called out.

  ‘Just a second,’ an engineer yelled as he entered some data onto a console.

  The security supervisor leaned closer to the monitors, looking from one to the other. The new arrivals hadn’t booked in with the shift operations manager or checked into the accommodation complex, which was the normal routine. It looked most unusual.

  The control-room door buzzer sounded again. ‘Okay, okay,’ shouted the engineer. He put down the recording device and reached for the access-control button on the wall.

  The security supervisor watched the two men outside the power-generating room open their bags and take out weapons. At the same time the long-haired individual at the helicopter pointed a rifle at the firemen, who put up their hands.

  ‘Don’t open the DOOR!’ the security officer cried.