He felt like calling the emergency number on his sat phone and insisting on talking to someone in charge about it.They needed to be told that you don’t put an SBS bloke in charge of an SAS bloke. That sort of thing might go on these days but it hadn’t in his day, or at least not to him.

Deacon picked up the sat phone to check for the number when the inner door opened and Jordan walked in, his coat and leggings soaked and dripping water. Deacon put the phone down with a frown. He put the box back in his bag.

Jordan shuffled past the technician monitoring the control panels and hung his coat on a hook. He went over to the makings corner, put a tea bag in a mug, filled it with water from the permanent heater, added a couple of spoons of sugar and powdered milk and stirred it.

He sat down at a desk, dumped the tea bag and took a sip of the hot, sweet liquid. It felt good as he warmed his hands around the mug. Jordan contemplated his situation. It had become something of a habit over the last few months, and more so since he’d taken on this task. The road to the Morpheus had been a strange one. He’d had bouts of guilt about his decisions but had managed to beat them off. He could do it easily enough. Whatever he could get out of his country, his government, he would. And he felt justified. They owed it to him, those wankers in the Ministry of Defence. His umpteen requests to stay in the SBS in any role other than as a storeman? Ignored. It hadn’t been much to ask. They’d done it for others in the past. He was an invalid but not useless. It was their decision to ignore that, and so he would prove it. Give the nobs a demonstration. If they wouldn’t let him stay on the team, then he would be against them. It sounded extreme at times but he had to do it to believe in himself.

The only problem that he had with this operation was the potential threat to the SBS lads themselves. They weren’t to blame for anything that the MoD had done to him. If it had been up to them, Jordan would have been able to stay in the service. He was reasonably confident he could work it so that none of them got hurt. As long as he could control Deacon and his apes. It had been one of his bargaining chips with the organisers. To his surprise they had accepted this reasoning without debate. They didn’t want anyone to get hurt either. This was a pure money-making task and had been planned in such a meticulous way that violence could pretty much be avoided.

Jordan had practically given up on life after leaving the SBS, with little to show for the forty years he’d been on the earth apart from a terraced house in Dorchester. He’d paid off the mortgage with his meagre medical-discharge payment. The monthly pension was all right but it was just paying him to sit around until he died. He’d been feeling dead already. When his girlfriend of ten years left him soon after the discharge he pretty much stopped believing in anything. Who wanted a civilian cripple? She’d told him that the spark had gone out of his life. It was true enough, although he didn’t think that was exactly what she meant. He wasn’t special any more.

When he received a call out of the blue to meet a man in a nearby pub to talk about a job that could not be discussed over the phone it was more intriguing than anything that had come Jordan’s way in years. There was a time when he would have punched the man across the floor for even suggesting a task that threatened members of his former unit. But time and experiences could change a person. Into something that they would never have believed possible. He even found himself offering suggestions on how to increase the value that the planners had already attached to him. Admittedly the offer of a million dollars placed in an offshore account had been a more than attractive incentive.

They didn’t tell Jordan very much about the job, other than that it was a task on an oil platform and that it could involve working against the British security forces. The man gave him a letter containing a decryption code word and a few days later he received an e-mail with an encrypted file attached that the code word opened. The attachment contained details of the promised Cayman Island bank account with half a million US dollars in it and a proposed date for the next half-million to drop. After checking that the funds really did exist he became very excited, more about the prospect of spending a million dollars than about the task itself. But as the operation drew closer the excitement about the money turned into something else: concern. About what he had to do. About Deacon. About Deacon’s men. They were a threat to his control. He had the feeling right from the start that Deacon wasn’t comfortable being his subordinate. And now he could feel the man looking at him in a way that suggested the idea was eating at him.

Deacon suddenly wondered if his own expression reflected his contempt for Jordan. He looked away. ‘Do we need this guy all night?’ Deacon asked, wanting to get rid of the technician.

Jordan considered it, wondering what Deacon wanted. ‘I can monitor things for a while.’

‘Hey. You,’ Deacon said to the technician who looked at him fearfully. ‘I want you to go down to the cookhouse and take a break until I send for you. I’m going to let you go unescorted. But if you don’t turn up, if you try and hide, when I find you I’ll toss you overboard. Do you understand?’

The man nodded quickly.

‘Good. Get going.’

The man headed for the door.

Deacon picked a radio off the desk and pressed a button in its side. ‘This is Deacon in the control room. Technician coming down to the cook ’ouse. Let me know when he arrives.’

A moment later a squelch came from the phone, followed by a gruff foreign voice. ‘Understood.’

Deacon put the radio down. He wondered again what more Jordan knew about the operation than he did, and how he might get the man to reveal any of it. Deacon’s orders had been quite specific. He was responsible for the team and the prisoners, none of whom were to be harmed if at all possible. Jordan now had charge of the operation itself and the final say over strategy and policy. But the man didn’t appear to be the chatty type. Yet he was an ex-serviceman and one thing ex-servicemen liked to do was talk about the years they’d spent as soldiers, Deacon reasoned, usually because civilian life was nearly always so dull and unamusing by comparison. He hoped that rule applied to Jordan. ‘How long you do in the SBS?’ he asked.

The question didn’t particularly surprise Jordan. It was one ex-special forces guys always seemed to ask each other. A way of gauging their experience. Anyone who’d done less than eight years wasn’t considered rounded enough. They might have seen a lot of action but that wasn’t where the SF experience really lay. It was in the depth and variety of challenges. Jordan hadn’t given much thought to Deacon’s background, other than assuming the man was ex-service himself. It only then occurred to him the bloke would not have been hired without a suitable pedigree, such as SF. As they might be together for days he tried to be friendly. ‘Long enough,’ he said. ‘What’s your own background? ’

Deacon’s instinct was to keep his identity secret but he couldn’t control his ego. Not with this individual. He wanted his top-dog status back. ‘SAS.’

Jordan wondered if the man was lying. A lot of ex-servicemen in the civilian security business claimed to be former special forces. ‘Which squadron?’ he asked.

‘B.’

‘When did you get out?’

Deacon suspected that Jordan was verifying his claim. It only added to his resentment. Surely it was obvious to another soldier that Deacon had to be SAS. He and Jordan had never met but they were men of the same era. Even a shaky boat could see that. It wasn’t unusual for the two services that they’d never crossed paths. Some guys had spent much of their careers cross-training between the SBS and SAS and some hardly at all. ‘Just before Afghanistan.’

‘You know Marvin Goodman?’

‘Marvellous was my sergeant major.’

Jordan nodded, convinced. Deacon was former SAS all right. The man’s arrogance sealed it - he acted as if he’d been insulted by Jordan’s doubts. It didn’t matter that he’d answered the question correctly.

‘You get the leg on the job?’

‘Afghanistan.’ Jordan felt reluctant to discuss his service history.

‘I’ve been there but as a civvy.’ Deacon felt he had little in common with the other man. ‘Was it operational?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Something go wrong?’ It was a fair enough question to ask about an SF wound. The ops were so meticulously planned that if anyone got hurt it was worth hearing about.

‘Not as badly as it could’ve.’ Other than the official debrief, Jordan had told no one about the operation in any detail. Much like Stratton. He had refrained from discussing it with SBS members because it would only cause friction. Some believed it was Stratton’s fault and others felt that the incident was the price of war. He couldn’t discuss it with a civilian. They could never fully understand. But another SF operator might be able to put himself in his shoes. Apply his own experiences as well as his knowledge of the system. Jordan didn’t particularly trust the man in front of him but he had a sudden urge to tell him the story. Perhaps it was because he wanted to hear a qualified outsider’s view. An SAS guy might give an unbiased opinion. ‘It was one of those jobs that was wrong from the start.’

‘Why’d it go ahead?’

‘Same reason a lot of them do. Ego. On the ground as well as those up top. You know what the SBS and SAS hierarchies are like. Always competing against each other, point scoring, wanting to impress London. No offence but the regiment’s been falling behind a bit of late, what with Iraq dying down. And the SBS getting all the glory in Afghanistan. And the Yanks finally starting to share the lead in SF roles . . . maybe even take it from us in places.’

This was all news to Deacon and it did not sit well with him. He had no contact with current troopers or any of his old mates from the regiment yet he had strong opinions regarding special forces. All of them. As far as he was concerned the SAS were at the top of the SF tree with the SBS several branches down and the Yanks even lower. And it had always been that way. It was only to be expected - and typical - for an SBS operator to rubbish the SAS at any opportunity. He suddenly had a good reason to dislike the other man. ‘So what happened?’ Deacon asked.

‘The job went ahead - a hit on a Taliban encampment. We try not to arrest many these days. Ever since the media clowns and bleeding-heart liberals have been bleating on about the treatment of terrorists in prisons like Guantánamo, the only solution is to shoot them instead.’

‘I like that,’ Deacon said.

‘Too much had been left to chance on this one.’

‘I don’t see why it was allowed to go on.’

‘Sure you can. The SAS has had more cock-ups over the last twenty years than anyone.’

‘That’s because they’ve done nearly all the bloody work,’ Deacon said defensively, feeling his hackles rising.

‘That may be a part of it,’ Jordan said, unaware of the hurt and venom in Deacon’s reply. ‘But you’re missing the point. Many of those ops were damned before they started. It didn’t stop ’em from going ahead, though. It’s still about peer pressure and egos causing a lot of the problems.’

‘So what happened?’ Deacon asked, controlling his anger at the digs against his beloved former unit. His foul temper had grown worse over the years and once it turned physical he knew he was apt to lose control altogether. He had spent so long in lawless environments, where he had not been held to account for his actions, that he was no longer able to check himself. The oil platform was just such a place. The only law was that imposed by Deacon and his men, all answerable to him. The only chance of keeping him in check here was the risk of screwing up the task and losing the money.

Jordan had no inkling of his colleague’s murderous intent and how his talk was eating away at the restraints on the man’s madness. To him it was just a conversation, albeit a contentious one, with a fellow ex-special forces operative who was under the illusion that he was the senior figure in charge of the operation. ‘As I’d expected, the hit didn’t go as planned and I had to go in and hot-extract the team with vehicles. It was a mess. We were only lightly armoured and we took a lot of fire.’

‘And you took one in the leg.’

‘As a result I had to leave the mob.’

‘What about the team leader?’

Jordan gave him a look. It was an interesting question. He hadn’t intended to discuss that side of it. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you blame him, right?’

Jordan did blame Stratton but he experienced an internal conflict whenever he thought about it. He had always liked and respected Stratton. The man was highly rated by everyone in the SBS and to accuse him of incompetence did not sit well with most of them. It felt awkward - traitorous, even. ‘I suppose so,’ he finally admitted.

‘What do you mean, you suppose so? It was ’is fault. You got shot. Why didn’t you take it out on ’im?’

‘Because that’s not how it’s done.’

Deacon, seething inside, studied Jordan. ‘Don’t take this wrong - just like you said to me with your comments about my old regiment - but I think you’re a pussy.’ ‘What’s that?’ Jordan asked, surprised. He hadn’t seen it coming. This was one old soldier telling a war story to another.

‘I’ve been in so many contacts, some that’d make yours look like an exercise on Salisbury Plain. Getting shot at is all part of the big show. Listen to your crap. You know what the difference is between the SAS and the SBS? You’re all a buncha whingeing pussies.’

Jordan’s eyes narrowed. He felt a cross between brimming anger and confusion.

‘Sorry, mate, but I ’ave to call it as I see it.’

Deacon’s radio came to life. ‘This is Pirate. I think there’s someone on the lower spans.’

Jordan and Deacon remained staring at each other despite the significance of the interruption. Jordan was the first to disconnect. This was why he was here, in command. There were more important things to deal with.

Deacon was far more self-destructive in nature and could easily value emotional issues above practical essentials. It would have needed a similar madness from Jordan to sustain their dispute. Deacon’s only respect for Jordan came from how decisively he had dealt with the Lebanese thug. That was warning enough not to give him any advantages. He suspected Jordan would not do anything to jeopardise the operation. It was the same weakness that had stopped him from challenging his team leader on that Afghanistan mission.

Jordan got to his feet. ‘Tell all your call signs to go silent unless it’s an emergency,’ he said as he pulled on his coat.

‘Why’s that?’ Deacon asked, remaining in his seat and looking at Jordan.

‘Because if your bloke’s right and someone has climbed onto the rig, it will most likely be the forward recce. It’s too soon for an assault. That means in turn they’ll be putting in a technical option, which means they’ll be able to hear you.’ Jordan felt a little better, talking down to Deacon like this. He made his way to the door. ‘Where’s this Pirate feller?’

‘I’ll show you,’ Deacon said, getting to his feet and pulling on his waterproof as he stared at Jordan. He disliked him even more for the way he was talking to him.

In the driving wind and rain outside Jordan squinted beyond the rails into the blackness where the join between the sea and sky had disappeared. It was as if the platform were shrouded in a tempestuous cloak that allowed no light in from the outside world. The cold rain beating against his face was refreshing, a cleansing balm against the anger that had engulfed him back in the control room.

He wondered who might be on the platform and if he knew them. His thoughts went to Stratton, not just because of the discussion with Deacon. Bumping into him at the airport the other day had been a strange coincidence and he wondered what the chances were of him being in the first wave. He dismissed the idea as quickly as he had thought of it. If Stratton was involved in any way it would be leading one of the assault teams, not the recce. He felt grateful for it.

‘This way,’ Deacon shouted, walking past Jordan, his hood pulled over his head.

Jordan followed. Deacon deliberately walked too quickly. He paused at the top of a flight of riveted metal steps to wait for the former SBS operative, a mean glare in his eyes that Jordan would never be able to see in the darkness and inside his hood.

They descended to the low-blocked accommodation deck and walked across an open space in front of the cabins to another flight of stairs going down. They followed these to the lower deck and on down a set of narrower, steeper steps to the machine deck, the lowest operating deck before the spiders. There was a mixture of machine equipment, storage containers and piping of every description stacked everywhere. The thunderous boom of the powerful swell pounding against the rig’s legs grew louder with each step down. The black-painted metal railings were wet and slippery.

They halted beside one of the four massive legs. A wide ladder leading down was welded to its side. Here the wind was even more turbulent, its pressure dropping and increasing alternately as it pushed between the supports.

Deacon’s pace slowed and became more cautious as his concentration focused ahead. Partway around the curved surface of the huge leg he stopped and pressed himself against it. He removed his hood and slowly leaned over a rail in order to look below.

Jordan gradually closed on him.

Deacon had to search for a while before he eventually spotted the Pirate squatting on a cross-brace some twenty feet below. Only when the jet-black Somali looked up and revealed the whites of his eyes could Deacon make out which part of the dark bundle was the man’s head. The Pirate pointed down and diagonally opposite.

Deacon could see nothing except shadows and shimmers of light absorbed by the white water breaking around the rig’s legs. He looked around at Jordan. ‘I’ll bring the team in. We can ambush them as they come up.’

Deacon brought his radio to his lips but Jordan stayed his hand. ‘They won’t be coming up.’

‘Then we’ll go down and get them.’

‘Bring your man up in case he’s seen,’ Jordan ordered.

Deacon looked at him as he yanked his hand free. ‘Why?’

‘Because we don’t want to start a war with special forces. You know them as well as I do. If we kill just one of them they’ll want revenge. Remember, there’s no law out here to govern us. There’s little to govern them, either. We’ve been there, right?’ Jordan added by way of subtle manipulation.

It made sense but only to someone who didn’t like confrontation. Deacon was convinced that Jordan was weak, and usurping him became suddenly a very serious consideration. The one thing stopping him from doing it, for the moment at least, was that Jordan still held a significant ace up his sleeve. ‘When are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

‘You’ll find out in good time.’

‘This is your moment of power, isn’t it?’

‘Don’t be so bloody childish. Now bring your man up.’

Deacon took his time going back to the rail. When the Pirate looked up, Deacon gestured for him to join them. The Somali moved slowly back along the strut to the leg and began to climb the ladder.

Jordan turned to go but Deacon grabbed his arm. ‘At least tell me what our next move is.’

Jordan was beginning to get some pleasure out of squeezing the little shit. He was prepared to kill the fool if he showed serious signs of becoming a threat but he expected the man ultimately to control himself. ‘They’ve come to do a job down there. When they’re finished they’ll go and I suspect it will take them minutes rather than hours. Then, if things have gone to plan, we may be able to leave too.’

‘You’re serious? We could be gone in hours?’

Jordan yanked his arm free and shuffled back along the gangway.

Deacon watched him go, feeling quite pleased. The prospect of getting off the platform lessened his concerns about Mackay. He had mentally prepared himself for a long-drawn-out affair. This was uplifting news, to be sure. Another half-million would be in his account in days or even hours and then he could begin the pleasant business of spending it.

He made it to the next spider deck, a complex intertwining of horizontal spars that connected the four legs. Stratton paused to take a breather and a better look above. Each step brought him closer to the enemy and perhaps into the cleaner view of a sniper. He glanced down to see Binning not far below. There was movement beyond him - Jason and Rowena.

Stratton pulled himself up onto a wide span and moved along it to leave room for Binning to join him. Rowena and Jason had stopped on the level below and as prearranged would wait for Binning to secure the device and come back down.

The first operational deck came next, a dark enclosure of machinery, drilling and pumping apparatus, the humming from its engines and generators mingling with the sounds of the sea and wind. The squally rain continued to pelt them. The water ran down their faces and into their eyes and mouths as if they were looking straight into a shower head.

‘Is this high enough?’ Stratton asked.

‘This should do fine,’ Binning replied, looking around. ‘I’ll need to take a reading, though.’

‘You happy with the procedure from here?’ Stratton said.

‘Do you really need to go?’ Binning asked. ‘You’ve come this far and risked so much already.’

‘I’m not prepared to die for Jordan or for anyone. If I can’t get him, well, at least I will have tried. Get that kit in place, go down and join the others and get going,’ Stratton said. He pulled himself up.

Binning watched him go, then glanced below to see Jason and Rowena looking up at him. The black container was still attached to his harness but he made no attempt to remove it.