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.

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.

‘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 do 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.

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 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 have 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.

‘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.

‘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 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.

‘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 told 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.

‘Now we have to make sure this is a damned success,’ Jason said emphatically. He looked around at Stratton. ‘I hope you now share London’s confidence in us.’

Stratton couldn’t understand the decision, nor could he have argued with it even if he’d wanted to. His personal motive had not changed. The decision’s major impact for him was how it affected his original plan to ditch the team when he got to the Morpheus platform and then to go it alone. Now he would have to take them along. They would all have to board the platform. It would be easier than trying to go it alone, anyway. But nothing about the situation made him feel any better.

There was another consequence to the turn of events, of course. When the team had set off from MI16’s HQ they had all been rebels. Now they were bona fide operatives. If Stratton continued with his part of the plan he would be the traitor.