He checked the magazine pouch and the spare ammunition it held and moved forward, his rubber-soled neoprene lace-up boots practically silent on the metal flooring. After a brief pause at the foot of a narrow stairway at the end of the line of machines, he quickly made his way up the steps, crouching at the top to reduce his silhouette. Above the main machinery the area was sparsely lit, with shadows everywhere. Now he cherished the wind and rain as they whipped between the piles of equipment, finding the gaps and flapping loose tarps or lines, adding to the cacophony. He wiped his face and padded across an open section to a corner of the platform and another set of broader steps leading up to the living deck.

Stratton took the steps slowly at a slight crouch. He waited at the top. This deck was a congested area of accommodation: galley, hospital, laundry and utilities. He scanned around once again. In front of him a broad, exposed space led to an illuminated door to the accommodation block. Beams of light filtered by the griddle deck above bathed it in a yellow glow. If he walked across the space anyone who might be there would see him. Stratton chose to go around the outer edge, keeping in the shadows thrown by the bulky containers and smaller items of machinery.

He crept across the deck. He did not see the figure that stepped out a few metres behind him. Yet he heard them, even through the hum and whip of machinery and weather. Stratton’s highly tuned senses picked up the out-of-place noise which sounded like a small piece of metal rolling along the metal floor. He stopped, his senses suddenly screaming but at the same time warning him not to turn around just yet.

Pirate hadn’t seen the tiny bolt that he’d scuffed with the toe of his heavy boot. His stare had been fixed on the back of the figure he had seen coming up through the guts of the platform. He had moved back from his position as ordered. He hadn’t engaged anyone. Yet. But he couldn’t comprehend the figure’s presence. He wasn’t used to taking orders, or obeying any that he considered stupid. That was how he had become a commander. During the attack on a Russian ship in the Gulf of Aden a couple of years before, his boss, a man from his own village and like him a former fisherman, had ordered the men not to kill any hostages. Pirate knew the Russians to be dangerous but when he suggested they should shoot the first crewman as a warning to the others the commander chastised him.

When the Somali thugs scrambled on deck, Russian crewmen stepped out of the engine room with their empty hands held high. The pirates moved forward to capture them, signalling to the boats to come alongside. The ship was theirs. But then the Russian crewmen dropped to the floor and others carrying AK-47 assault rifles leaped from cover. Their bullets tore into the pirate ranks, cutting them down.

Further along from the fighting Pirate had climbed unseen onto the vessel. He fired his RPG at the ambushers, killing several, wounding others, and setting the ship alight. Those who could fell back into the superstructure. Pirate led the charge but this was no longer an attack for profit. It became a battle for revenge. He went through the vessel room by room, killing anyone he found. He shot the captain and officers on the bridge. He walked calmly into the communications shack to kill the radio operator.

Pirate never knew what happened to the ship, neither did he care, after abandoning it ablaze. The attack had been a waste of time and manpower. A resulting argument with his commander left the leader dead, a knife buried in his neck, the hilt firmly in Pirate’s hands. And for his efforts the others made him commander.

From that day on his pirate philosophy had been to kill first, capture later. But his command turned out to be short-lived. His methods were shunned by other pirate commanders as counterproductive and he was soon forced out of his position under threat of execution.

Such was the way of his world. One’s power rose and fell like the tide. Surviving was the only important thing. And so here he was again, forced to obey orders that he believed to be wrong. He had watched this man step past him carrying a gun and knew he was a threat not to be ignored. And so he decided to act. ‘Move one more step and I kill you,’ the African warned.

Stratton’s mind raced. The fact that he had not been shot already told him the man was not quite prepared to kill him yet, for whatever reason. That gave him a narrow margin in which to negotiate. ‘I’m not alone,’ he said, hoping to unnerve the man.

‘You will be when I shoot you,’ Pirate replied.

Stratton sensed the murderous confidence in the foreign voice immediately.

‘Put your gun down on the floor now or I put a bullet into the back of your head.’

‘Okay,’ Stratton said, trying to sound nervous. ‘Don’t shoot.’

As he leaned forward he used his thumb to click the selector catch on the weapon from single-shot to fully automatic and moved the barrel round so that it angled across his body instead of facing his front. With nothing to go by but the voice he estimated the man to be three or four metres behind him. The barrel of the weapon was now pointing at a head-height container forming a wall to his side. He angled the gun a little further back as he bent at the waist and lowered it to the floor. Before it touched the ground he pulled the trigger. The only sound that resulted was the click, click, clatter of the moving parts as the weapon shuddered in his grip and the bang of the bullets hitting the metal container. The silenced SMG fired low-velocity rounds: bigger bullets than the average high-powered rifle but slower and less penetrating. They couldn’t pierce the skin of the container, for instance. Stratton held on to the trigger and emptied the entire magazine, the rounds striking and then ricocheting off the metal wall like billiard balls. He turned to see the figure of a man, juddering as he fell, a gun slipping from his grip.

Stratton moved to the man to look down on him. He was alive but breathing in short, rasping breaths. Stratton checked around to ensure they were alone. He couldn’t leave the Somali in case he was discovered. There was too much more to be done. Under normal circumstances a follow-up team would take care of him, the details of such cases depending on the nature of the operation and its ability to absorb enemy prisoners. In most cases this would be zero. That certainly applied to Stratton’s current situation.

Stratton couldn’t get the man to the platform’s outer edge because of the deck configuration: he’d have to drag him around the container and machinery to do that and risk exposure. The only choice he had was a gap between the narrow gangway he had climbed and the edge of the deck. A more or less unobstructed line of sight straight down to the water.

He slung the SMG over his back and dragged the man to the gangway. He heaved him up, leaned him over the top rail, picked up his heels and let the weight take him the rest of the way over. The man fell silently into the blackness. At first. But instead of a distant plop as he hit the water, a couple of dull thuds followed by a single deeper one came back up, as though the body had struck something very solid.

Stratton had no time to worry about the man’s fate. He was dead either way. The good news was that there was now one fewer enemy to fight. The bad news was that the clock had started ticking, for it would only be a matter of time before the man was declared missing and the reason for it became obvious.

He hid the Somali’s weapon and moved across to the door that led into the accommodation block.

As she steadied herself the thought hit her. Binning!

Mansfield jolted as if he’d had the same thought. ‘Stay here,’ he said. He shuffled to the end of the girder and climbed through an angled junction to the span where the body lay.

After a brief examination he made his way back. ‘It’s not Binning, or Stratton.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘For his sake I sincerely hope so. There’s little that anyone can do for him if he isn’t.’

‘Then where’s Binning?’ Rowena asked. They peered up into the complex web of light beams and shadows.

There was nothing more for it. She had to see for herself and so she clambered up the ladder. Jason wanted to stop her but instead climbed up behind her.

‘He’s gone with Stratton,’ she decided as Jason stepped onto the next spider deck.

‘He wouldn’t allow that,’ Jason said.

‘What other explanation could there be? Binning was supposed to set up the G43 here. Where the hell is he?’

‘Maybe he had to go further up,’ Jason suggested, craning to look for his colleague.

‘I’m surprised you didn’t go with him too. You and Binning are so keen to prove you’re better than Stratton.’

‘One minute you hate him, the next you’re a fan.’

Rowena ignored the comment. ‘What are we going to do?’

‘He may be having trouble securing the device. Be patient. He’ll be back soon.’

‘Then what about him down there? I suppose he was just taking a stroll in the storm and slipped. Are you going to tell me you can’t sense that something is really wrong here? Binning is not setting up the device anywhere here. He’s gone, Jason.’

Mansfield could not ignore her or the situation any longer. She was right.

‘I’m not going to wait for him,’ Rowena said, taking hold of the ladder. ‘I want to know where he is and that he’s placing the device. You stay if you want to.’ He grabbed her hand. ‘Don’t try to stop me, Jason, or so help me . . .’ Her expression was one of pure anger.

‘I’m not trying to stop you,’ he replied in a deliberate, calm voice. ‘We’ll both go but if we simply bimble around we could end up on the news ourselves. There’s no point in that, right?’

Rowena could see the sense of this.

Mansfield took out his pistol and held it firmly pointing upwards. ‘Let me take the lead, please.’

She hesitated, a long-time critic of the gender-weakness thing.

‘Consider it a condition of me letting you go up there at all.’

She gave in and let him go ahead of her up the ladder.

They reached the level below the machinery deck as the rain and wind whipped at them.

‘He’s not here,’ Rowena said loudly above the noise of the weather.

‘Perhaps he set up the G43 and then went off to help Stratton.’

She considered the possibility. ‘How can he do this without telling us?’ she said in frustration.

Jason began to have a change of heart. ‘Rowena! Tell me why we’re risking our lives for them. They’ve chosen to do this. We should go back down, get into the water and rendezvous with Jackson at the mini-sub, just as Stratton said. You forget why we’re here.’

‘Forget why we’re here?’ Rowena repeated, stupefied. ‘I don’t have a goddamned clue why we’re here, other than to satisfy your and Binning’s egos. We’ve lost Smithy. God only knows if Jackson’s still around out there. We can’t do anything about them but we might be able to do something about Binning. I can’t stand him but he’s still one of us.’ It did not look as if she was getting through to Jason. ‘If you don’t know what to do, ask yourself what Stratton would do,’ she shouted finally. The comment stung him, as it was meant to. ‘There’s another difference between you and Stratton,’ she continued. ‘He knows when it’s time to forget what you’re supposed to do and try to save the life of someone else instead.’

Rowena took out her pistol and was about to move to the narrow staircase when she paused to say something else. ‘I’m too damned scared to go back down. I don’t think I’ll be any less a victim by jumping back into that ocean and floating off into the beyond in the hope that someone might find me.’

She walked on up towards the next level. Jason gripped his pistol, exhaled tiredly and marched on after her.

He padded along the corridor, leaving a line of wet footprints behind him. Doors on either side, some closed, those open revealing compact bedrooms, toilets, showers. Personal items on the floor in rooms and along the corridor signs of a hurried departure by the occupants.

He came to the end door and opened it carefully. Another corridor ran across his path.

Stratton couldn’t remember the living deck too well, not having spent much time in the private quarters of the platform during his time here. He’d trained on the Morpheus, concentrating on familiarising himself with the main operations deck and on practising climbing the structure. But he knew there were a couple of places large enough to keep a hundred and sixty men out of the weather. The first he planned to check was the galley. A simple diagram of the deck and its main locations was posted on the opposite wall.

He walked along a wider corridor past soft-drink machines, a water fountain, snack dispensers and cupboards of emergency equipment. Up ahead was a pair of swing doors, a clear glass panel in each of them. After them another corridor and the galley. As he approached the swing doors he kept tight to the wall.

Stratton lowered his body and placed an ear against one of the doors but he could hear nothing above the sounds of air vents and humming machinery. He decided to take a risk.

He moved his face to the corner of the glass and took a quick look, his eyes in the window frame long enough to make out a couple of figures standing ten or fifteen metres down the corridor.They were near the entrance to the galley, a strong indication that they were playing at being jailers.

He leaned back against the wall. He had to think. This was the pivotal juncture of his private task. The next point of no return. He hadn’t really believed he would get here and now that he had the questions were starting. It was a bit on the crazy side, he had to admit. He could still change his mind. But Jordan had been even crazier when he’d driven into that Afghan village to rescue him. The man had been selected to be executed by the hijackers, and Stratton owed him his life, and that meant he owed Jordan a future.

Stratton put all other thoughts aside and examined the next phase. He needed to disrupt the hijackers’ flow. If he could release the workers - assuming they were all in the galley - that would drastically alter the hijackers’ plan. He asked himself how many of them there were, how they would react, what price they were willing to pay to succeed, and what they were willing to sacrifice when faced with failure.There were endless gambles. Endless consequences of his actions.

‘Bollocks,’ he muttered as he stood to face the swing doors and brought his weapon’s butt into his shoulder. The gods had got him this far. He took a deep breath, exhaled, pushed open the doors and marched into the corridor. Both of the men were big. One had red hair. The other looked Slavic. They reacted slowly to him striding towards them in his black dry-bag, shoulder harness, kit hanging from hips, pistol strapped low on thigh, another weapon levelled in front just below his face, both eyes in short-range battle mode staring into theirs.

Viking and the Bulgarian began to move apart and brought their weapons up to fire. Stratton pulled the trigger. Click, click. No other sound. The first silenced bullet struck Viking in the chest, the second hit the Bulgarian in a similar spot. The initial rounds were intended to destabilise whoever they hit, the centre of the torso being a bigger and easier target than the head, which required the shooter to take a millisecond longer aiming to ensure a hit. Operatives still did this even if the targets were wearing body armour since the purpose was to disrupt the enemy’s aim and increase the time they would take to return fire.

Both men rocked back as the bullets entered their bodies. Stratton neither slowed nor speeded up his deliberate pace. He fired again, the weapon going clickety-click as two more bullets spat from the end of the silencer extension. These hit both men in the head. The life went from their limbs and they dropped as if they had been switched off, the sound of their falls the loudest noise of the firefight. But the clatter of their weapons on the solid floor had been significant relative to the quiet of the corridor.

Stratton speeded up as he approached the galley doors. He found himself in a classic hostage situation. He’d breached the first line of the kidnappers’ defence and bodies had begun to drop. He knew the surviving kidnappers’ choices: give up and surrender, lie down and toss their weapons aside, mingle with their captives; defend themselves and engage the attackers; or turn their weapons on the hostages in an attempt to kill as many as possible before dying themselves. It was his single responsibility to make sure he reached his objectives as swiftly as possible and kill every one of the enemy in the quickest possible time.

Stratton pushed through the galley doors and stopped dead, unable to move in further to dominate the room because of the bodies sprawled on the floor in front of him. He kept the weapon against his shoulder, looking along the top of it, analysing the panoramic image he was presented with.

Jock and Queen stood at either end of the long serving counter, weapons in their hands. They’d heard about the movement on the spider decks. The thumps and clatters in the corridor outside had snapped them out of any daydreaming. But the only way they could have been assured a fighting chance against the man who entered their space was if they’d had their weapons against their shoulders and pointing at the door.

Stratton’s two targets, being at opposite ends of the counter, presented him with something of a challenge though. He would have to pivot in a wide arc to engage them both. What was more, both of them were experienced fighters and knew the first rule of engagement: move from the static position. Precisely the type of situation in which to use instinctive shooting techniques as distinct from target-shooting methods.The second option employed the weapon as a tool, the first made it an extension of one’s body. One required the use of the weapon’s sights, the other didn’t. One needed conscious thought and deliberation, the other was all subconscious reflex and instinct. And to be effective in a close-combat situation in which the shooter was outnumbered by targets at different angles, the ‘target’ version undoubtedly required great skill, while the ‘instinct’ style demanded something extra that could not be taught.

Stratton touched his gun’s trigger and the resulting click sent a round into Jock’s chest just above his heart. Stratton swivelled his upper body to face Queen who was in a more advanced firing position, having had a fraction of a second longer to bring up her weapon.

Stratton squeezed the trigger a second time and swivelled back, his eyes focusing over the top of the SMG to see that Jock, although he’d been punched backwards by the force of the first bullet, was still intent on firing his weapon. The second round struck Queen in the face, below her left eye - Stratton had not risked firing a destabilising bullet at someone who was ready to fire.

Stratton fired a third round and swivelled again to find Queen still on her feet, the muzzle of her gun dropping down to aim at the men directly in front of her, her grip still strong.

Stratton fired again and twisted round to see Jock falling, his head crashing against the wall, his eyes half open, his gun slipping from his grip. The final bullet to strike Queen had hit her in the forehead and she died on her feet, dropping to the floor as if strings that had been holding her up had been cut cleanly. Jock slid on down the wall, leaving a streak of blood behind him, and crumpled on the floor in a motionless heap.

Stratton remained in the firing position to scan the room for more targets. Most of the platform workers were asleep and had remained so throughout the near-silent battle. Those awake were stunned by what they had seen and by the speed with which it had happened.

‘Any more?’ Stratton calmly asked a man who was sitting on the floor a few feet away and staring at him through wide eyes.

The man took a moment to gather himself and shook his head.

‘You sure?’

The platform worker pulled himself together. ‘I don’t think so. Two outside and two in here.’

‘You ex-military?’ Stratton asked the man on a hunch.

He nodded. ‘Green Jackets.’

‘Good unit,’ Stratton said, lowering his weapon and pulling his knife from its sheath. He reached behind the man and cut through his plastic handcuffs.

The men who had been awake and had seen what happened were shaking those nearby who were still asleep.

‘Stay calm and keep your voices down,’ Stratton said firmly, addressing everyone. ‘Any more ex-servicemen here?’

Heads began nodding and affirmative answers were called out around the room. Stratton scanned each row, hoping to find Jordan there.

Stratton handed the knife to the man he had freed. ‘Cut everyone free,’ he ordered. ‘Listen in,’ he addressed the room as the man did what he’d been told. ‘You soldiers take charge. I want you to stay here until I say otherwise. You’ve got four weapons to guard the entrances. If you go up there you’ll get in the way and someone could get hurt. Is that understood?’

The soldiers nodded. Those with their hands freed got to their feet and immediately picked up the weapons that had belonged to their jailers. The atmosphere was typical of what one would expect from restrained men whose lives had been threatened and were now getting a chance to fight back. They wanted blood and were ready to take it.

‘Is there a Jordan Mackay here?’ Stratton asked.

Silence. The men looked to each other for an answer.

‘He’s the bloke that they took away,’ one said.

‘Aye, there was a shot outside in the corridor shortly after and I’m certain someone died,’ another said.

‘I heard him say it was one of their own that had been shot,’ yet another offered, indicating Jock.

Stratton’s hopes of a clean grab of his friend and a getaway were momentarily dashed. He was already of no further use to the men in the galley and he turned to leave.

‘What’ll happen now?’ one of them asked.

‘Are we getting off the rig?’ asked another.

‘Can we head to the lifeboats?’

‘Where’s the rest of your team?’

Stratton put up a hand, signalling silence. ‘For the time being, stay here, stay quiet, get organised for a move but just wait.’ He looked at the questioning faces and felt suddenly guilty. He could not tell them that he was the only rescuer, that he was all alone. They would stampede onto the deck looking for a fight and many of them could get killed. There was also the issue of the platform itself. It had a lot of highly inflammable material on board and would literally become a bomb if something went wrong. But their chances of survival had increased. Now they were at least masters of their own destiny, to some extent. Depending on the number of hijackers, theirs had become a defensible position. It all now depended on how they would react to the changed situation. ‘I’ll try and get back to you soon. But be prepared to wait here for several hours.’

He couldn’t think of anything else of use to tell them and turned to the doors once again.

‘Watch out for their leader,’ a man nearby offered. ‘He’s a mean bastard.’

Stratton heard it and headed through the doors.

‘So’s he, by the look of it,’ one of the old soldiers said as Stratton left. ‘Right. Let’s get organised,’ he called out to the room.

The sound of the outer door opening focused both men’s attentions on the inner one. It had to be one of Deacon’s men. Yet all of them were currently on full alert due to the presence of the reconnaissance team below. The door opened and Banzi backed into the room, his waterproof soaked, his rifle slung over a shoulder, a pistol in his hand and aimed into the airlock. He was not alone.

Banzi urged whoever it was to come inside.

It was Binning, in assault gear minus hood, his face and hair soaking wet.

Deacon got to his feet, stupefied.

Jordan looked expectant.

‘Hi,’ Binning said, appearing relaxed and offering his usual understated smile. ‘Sorry about the intrusion. I actually found this gentleman before he found me and asked him to take me to the hijackers’ leader.’ Binning looked between the two men, wondering who that leader was.

‘He was on the machinery deck,’ Banzi offered in his stunted English.

‘Who the bloody ’ell are you?’ Deacon asked. Then, glancing at Jordan, ‘Is he one of your blokes?’

Binning had no idea what the man was talking about. ‘Name’s Binning. I’m a few days earlier than expected. Things are a little off schedule but all for the better, I’d say.’ He beamed.

Jordan had taken a good look at Binning, noting his familiar attire, harness and accessories, including the empty holster at his thigh, the gun from which was now in Banzi’s hand. ‘Who are you?’

Binning held up the plastic box that had been attached to his body since leaving the helicopter. ‘It’s why we’re all here.’

‘It was supposed to be left on the spiders where I could find it at first light,’ Jordan said.

‘Change of plan. The SB surveillance team was going to leave it for you to pick up but I had a bad feeling about our people. Time for me to get out of there. So I’ve brought it along personally. And, of course, I’m coming along with it.’

Jordan looked unsure.

‘Don’t worry, old boy,’ Binning said in response to the look. ‘I’m sure it will be approved. Give your boss a call. Tell him that Binning is moving over earlier than planned. You see, I’m almost as important as the device.’

Deacon had been staring at the scientist with his mouth slightly open, utterly lost as to what he was going on about. He glanced at Jordan, hoping that he might enlighten him about the situation.

Jordan nodded, as if he was beginning to understand. ‘I see. And that’s it?’ He was referring to the black box.

‘Yes. Let me show you. Excuse me,’ Binning said politely to Banzi as he shuffled past him.

Banzi was not sure how to take the man who had accosted him from the rainswept shadows with a polite ‘Excuse me’.

Binning cleared away the cups and paperwork from a table and placed the box on it. He unclipped the latches and opened the waterproof seams, dividing the container into two equal halves. ‘This is the G43,’ he said, indicating a robust rubber-coated electronic device.

‘The monitoring system?’ Jordan asked.

‘That’s right,’ Binning confirmed, looking between Jordan and Deacon, still unsure who was in charge. He removed the G43 from its sponge-rubber moulding, laid it down and opened a waterproof panel on its side. ‘This is the battery housing,’ he said. He took a small screwdriver from a pouch on his upper arm and used it to unclip several tiny catches inside the housing. He removed another cover and deftly pulled out what looked like a black ceramic tile. He placed it on the table with a reverent gesture. ‘This is it,’ he announced.

Jordan leaned closer to inspect the device without touching it, paying particular attention to its thin sides where there were several miniature USB-type sockets. He reached inside his pocket and took out a BlackBerry which he turned on, applying a password to start it up. He dug out a cable from the same pocket, plugged one end into the phone and the other into one of the sockets on the side of the tile. ‘You know what I’m doing?’ he asked Binning.

‘Of course. You have a piece of software in your Rim that can input and verify the modulated output.’

Jordan was lost after ‘software’ but carried on doing as he had been instructed.

‘You want to ensure it’s the real McCoy,’ Binning went on. ‘Personally, I don’t see the point. Why would I be coming along if it wasn’t?’

Jordan didn’t know or care.

‘But then, you didn’t know I was coming,’ Binning added.

Jordan knew one thing: he wished the man would shut up. He opened an encrypted file inside his phone’s download folder. It couldn’t read the file. He frowned.

Binning leaned closer to take a look. ‘If you look back inside your downloads folder I suspect you’ll find a new file. It’s the decoded data that your phone just input through the tile.’

Jordan wasn’t the most technical of people but he found the file and clicked on it. The BlackBerry’s screen lit up and a few seconds later the encrypted file opened. Jordan smiled as he looked at the screen. He showed it to Binning. The scientist grinned.

‘Can I see?’ Deacon asked, feeling left out.

Jordan showed it to him. It was a short phrase in quotation marks: ‘By Strength, By Guile.’

‘What do you think that is?’ Jordan asked Deacon.

‘It’s the poxy logo of the SBS.’

‘It’s also the proof that we have the decryption device,’ Jordan explained. ‘We need to call this in.’

Deacon was still highly confused. ‘Am I to understand that all of this, this capturing of the oil platform and everything, was for this?’ He pointed at the small black tile.

Jordan shrugged as if, amazingly, it was.

‘This is no ordinary “this”,’ Binning said.

‘What is it, then?’ Deacon’s patience was starting to wear thin.

‘It’s the vital part of the world’s fastest encryption device.’

Deacon looked at him blankly. He might as well have said it in Albanian.

Binning persevered. ‘The fastest decryption machines anywhere in the world would take between a thousand to a million years to decrypt a hundred and thirty-bit key. The different combin - ations would equal the number of grains of sand in the Sahara Desert. This is still in its development stage but when it’s complete it will have the potential to decrypt the same data in six months to a year.’

Deacon wasn’t remotely impressed. ‘Six months to a year?’

Binning decided that he was talking to an unappreciative moron. He replaced the tile inside the G43 and closed the device. ‘You’re being paid a considerable amount for your efforts, I imagine. Somewhere in the region of a million dollars, or pounds even. Well, that amount of money is a mere drop in the ocean compared to what this is worth in the right hands.’

Deacon understood that much. Still not why, though.

‘Boss,’ Banzi interrupted, talking to Deacon. ‘I was looking for Pirate when I found him.’ He indicated Binning.

‘That’s nice work,’ Deacon replied sarcastically.

‘I couldn’t find Pirate. He’s gone,’ Banzi said, making his point.

‘You can call him on the radio,’ Jordan said. ‘No one’s listening to us now.’

Deacon nodded. Banzi took a radio from his pocket and stepped away to talk into it.

Deacon still wasn’t satisfied. ‘Why go to all this trouble?’ he asked. ‘Why didn’t you just meet up in a pub somewhere and ’and it over?’

‘Where I work it’s impossible to get anything out,’ Binning explained. ‘You couldn’t get a digital watch in or out under normal circumstances. The only way it can be transferred through secur - ity is if it’s required by an outside source. Impossible with this device since it’s not complete. And once it is, it would no longer be in our hands anyway. Since it couldn’t come out on its own, a little playing around needed to be done in order to bring it out with something else. Such as the G43.’

‘Like in a Trojan ’orse,’ said Deacon in a moment of unusual intuition.

‘Worth every penny of all our wages.’ Jordan was suddenly more cheerful than he had been in a long time.

‘Boss?’ Banzi interrupted. ‘I can’t raise Pirate.’

‘Then go look for ’im,’ Deacon suggested tiredly. ‘Go on.’

Banzi held up the pistol he’d taken from Binning as if asking what he should do with it.

‘Give it back to ’im,’ Deacon said.

Banzi handed the pistol to Binning and left the control room.

‘Where’s the rest of your team?’ Jordan asked. ‘I suppose they think you fell overboard?’

‘That reminds me. We have a rather annoying SBS operative with us. He’s somewhere on these upper decks right now.’

Jordan and Deacon were both suddenly wearing similar looks of concerned curiosity.

‘Why has he come to the upper decks?’ Jordan asked, his stare boring into Binning.

‘I don’t think it’s as bad as it might sound,’ Binning said, attempting to reassure them. ‘He’s here for something specific. Give him what he wants and I’m sure he’ll go away.’

‘And what would that be?’ Deacon asked.

‘He’s looking for a man, an old friend, a worker on the platform.’

‘Who?’ Deacon asked, becoming irritated.

Binning frowned. ‘Buggered if I can remember his name. I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. You were going to execute him along with a few others. You filmed them all . . . His first name was—’

‘Jordan?’ Deacon said, remembering very well that they’d filmed Mackay.

‘That’s it,’ the scientist said. ‘Jordan Mackay.’

Jordan clenched his jaw as he faced Deacon. ‘You stupid prick. Selecting me for the damned film shoot.’

‘I didn’t know you then, did I, you arse-wipe. Why would an SBS operative be looking for just you, anyway?’ Deacon asked angrily.

‘I can answer that,’ Binning said. ‘His name’s John Stratton and he owes this gentleman a life.’

Jordan looked up at the mention of the name. ‘Christ.’

Deacon registered his concern.

Jordan suddenly felt completely frustrated. ‘I told you about him,’ he said to Deacon.

‘Your team leader in Afghanistan? That’s brilliant,’ Deacon guffawed. ‘He’s come all the way ’ere, risking life and limb to rescue you, thinking you’re about to be executed, and all the while it’s you who’s doing the robbing.’

‘He’s dangerous,’ Jordan warned.

‘He’s one man,’ Deacon said cockily. He went over to his bag, took out a cable with a sucker on the end and stuck it to a window. ‘And ’e’s not the only dangerous one.’ He plugged his satellite phone into the other end of the cable. ‘Let’s ’ope we get a connection,’ he said, bringing up a number.

A moment later someone answered the call. ‘This is me . . . yeah, Thanatos. We’re ready to go blue . . . That’s right . . . Yes, of course we’ve got it . . . By strength, by guile,’ he said. ‘Can I confirm that the obvious is ready?’ he asked. ‘Good. See you out there.’

Deacon collapsed the phone’s antenna, unplugged the cable and put it all back in his pocket. ‘We’re good to go,’ he said, taking the explosive-charge initiator out of his bag and extending a thin aerial from it. ‘It looks like our work ’ere is done.’ He flipped open a cover and pushed a button. It began to flash red. ‘We’ve got ’alf an hour to get clear of the platform.’

Jordan could not believe his eyes and ears. ‘Tell me you haven’t done what I think you’ve just done,’ he said.

Deacon squared up to him. ‘Now it’s your turn to listen to me. My orders were to give you command until your job was done. From what I’ve seen, that just ’appened. My orders were to then get us out of ’ere. That’s what I’m doin’.’

‘I’m curious to know how,’ Binning said. ‘The entire area is surrounded by Royal Navy ships and aircraft.’

‘They must want that little tile of yours pretty bad,’ Deacon said. ‘Come on. The signal they’re waiting for is the oil platform going up. Like I said, we ’ave ’alf an hour.’

‘Going up?’ Binning said, suddenly the one who didn’t understand.

Deacon rolled his eyes. ‘Catch up, genius. What do you think this is?’ he said, holding up the initiator.

Binning’s thoughts shot to Jason and Rowena. He could only hope they would be off the platform already.

‘You bastard,’ Jordan hissed, moving towards Deacon. ‘What about the workers? Are you going to let them know before it’s too late?’

‘I’m only thinking of you, Jordan, me old mate. You see, when the rig goes up the authorities’ll think that you’re dead. They’ll never know the part you played in it. If they thought you were still alive they’d come looking for you. You wouldn’t be able to spend all that money. Bet you never thought of that, did you?’ Deacon grinned.

‘The escaping workers in the other lifeboats would add to our cover,’ Jordan said, raising his voice. ‘You need to let them go.’

‘They’ll only get in the way.’

The anger swelled in Jordan and although he was hampered by his injured leg he took a swing at the former SAS man. Deacon avoided the blow easily and countered viciously with an uppercut into Jordan’s gut. He cocked his other hand to punch him again but Binning grabbed it. The man’s vicelike grip took Deacon by surprise.

Binning smiled as he looked into Deacon’s eyes. ‘That’s enough. We need to get going.’

Deacon pulled his arm away and stepped back, looking at the scientist with renewed respect. ‘Make sure he doesn’t step out of line again or I’ll kill ’im.’ Deacon picked his pack off the floor and went to the door.

‘Where to?’ Binning asked, picking up the G43.

‘A lifeboat. I’ll tell the team to close in.’

‘Let’s put all this behind us, Jordan,’ Binning said, helping the former SBS man to the door. ‘Think about the money you’ll have to spend in just a few days.’

Outside it wasn’t just the storm that was waiting for them.