‘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.’

‘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.