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.’
‘This is clearly an SBS option.’
‘The duty squadron in Poole has already been placed on standby. But they’re severely undermanned. The majority of the service is currently in Afghanistan.’
‘Isn’t a squadron big enough to do the job?’ Nevins asked.
‘If it was up to strength. The current duty squadron has just six operatives.’
Nevins looked at him questioningly. ‘The SAS?’
‘They can only offer limited support to the SBS on a rig as complex as the Morpheus. I’ve requested that two SAS packets move to Afghanistan to relieve two SBS packets.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Realistically, four days minimum but probably more. The SBS standby team could carry out the preliminaries - a technical attack, for instance - and put in surveillance while we’re waiting for the assault teams to get into position.’
The ops officer was suddenly distracted by information coming in over his wire headphones. He looked up at the big screen where a red marker began to flash.
Nevins noticed it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘The Eurocopter that delivered the hijack team to the Morpheus. They’ve ditched.’
Nevins scrutinised the screen. ‘I don’t see any vessels in the immediate area.’
‘There isn’t another vessel for twenty miles.’
‘Did they crash?’
‘One can only assume so. Or sabotage. The storm front is still miles to the north.’
‘Sir, the Nimrod has the Morpheus visual,’ an operator called out.
They all looked at the big screen where a section displayed a long-range bird’s-eye-view image of the platform.
‘Thermals have picked up people on the main deck,’ the operator continued. ‘Close to a dozen by the helipad. Two people outside the control room.’
The image became grainy as it gradually zoomed in on the top section of the platform. It was clear enough to make out a figure moving in the open.
‘They’ve identified something on the end of a cable. It’s dangling from a crane. Looks like a body.’
On the screen the thermal qualities became more visible.
‘It’s cooler than the others,’ the ops officer pointed out. ‘I would have to say the person died not that long ago.’
Nevins’s thoughtful frown returned. ‘Is that storm front going to hit the Morpheus?’
‘Without a doubt. It’ll be in for a couple of days, too.’
‘Something working in our favour, then. Let’s get that SBS section into the arena. Have them ready to put in surveillance.’
The operations officer acknowledged and nodded to one of the operators.
‘I’d better have a chat with the PM,’ Nevins said, heading across the room to the heavy black curtains.
His aides followed him.
6
Stratton stopped the Jeep in a narrow lane lined by black leafless hedges. An icy breeze gusted as he studied the empty crossroads in front. He pulled the thick Afghan scarf down from over his mouth, removed one of his sheepskin gloves and pulled a map from between the seats.
The map showed a T-junction at the point where he thought he was, not a crossroads. On the far side of the junction a bereft-looking wooden signpost leaned at an angle. It was all very peculiar.
He considered backtracking but decided against it, confident that he was in the right place. The GPS would have confirmed it but this had become a challenge, if a minor one, and he was determined to solve it using map- reading and his instincts rather than electronics. It was Stratton’s belief that people had become too dependent on modern technology and that it would eventually lead to the erosion of basic skills.
He put the engine into gear and drove into the junction to get a better look in all directions. The grid reference he had for the MI16 compound was less than a mile away in an unmarked piece of MoD land. No one at the SBS HQ had been to the place before and so there were no clear directions.
Stratton began to turn the wheel to go left but changed his mind, focusing instead on the unmarked lane that carried on straight ahead. He usually leaned more towards taking the route to discovery if he got the chance. On the other hand, now he had a convenient reason to turn around and go home. Not that anyone would have bought the excuse. A strong residue of doubt about the visit prompted his hesitation. Mike had tried to gloss over it as some kind of meeting of minds but Stratton had not entirely bought into that. Ultimately he didn’t like people questioning his abilities and he would always challenge them. But after a couple of days to reflect on the subject, its importance had started to wane in his mind. It was all down to his level of self-confidence. Stratton rarely doubted his own operational abilities. He felt as if he was still in his prime. When he started to have genuine doubts he would know he was over the hill. By then he would be out of the business anyway. It didn’t mean, though, that direct accusations, especially from those he did not respect, could be levelled at him without provoking a response.
He felt reasonably relaxed about it at that moment but he knew that could change if anyone at MI16 rubbed him up the wrong way.
Stratton accelerated the Jeep across the junction and into the unmarked lane. The tarmac quickly turned to mud. Bushes and saplings encroached from either side. The track soon became so narrow that the Jeep could barely squeeze along it. The thick undergrowth on either side was impenetrable.
A sign warned anyone using the lane that government property was up ahead and trespassers would be prosecuted. It was an encouragement to Stratton to keep going at least. At the top of a short rise the ends of a chain fence were visible at either side of the lane. The gate across the road was open. He carried on through and down a steep dip, then to the crest of another rise where the trees thinned out and the dense scrub gave way. A hut came into view on the edge of the track, a robust metal gate - this time closed - just beyond it.
Stratton half expected to find someone in the hut but there was no sign of life. Just a metal box with a card
