Traitor

by Duncan Falconer

  Everyone in the control room stopped what they were doing to look at him jump out of his chair and into the room. The engineer’s finger was already pressing down on the button. The door opened with a clunk. The security supervisor stared in horror at it.

  Deacon walked in, brandishing his short automatic rifle, followed by the Bulgarian, who stood by the door. The Lebanese remained outside.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Deacon announced, with a broad smile. ‘I hope you appreciate from the outset that this is a no-win situation for you and that you won’t do anything stupid. And don’t feel bad about opening the door for us,’ he said, looking at the security supervisor. ‘This entire operation was not dependent on you letting us in.’ He held up an explosive charge the size of a cigarette packet. ‘I brought my own key, just in case.’

  The rig’s general manager pulled himself together and stepped out from behind his desk. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ he demanded. ‘What are you doing here and what do you want?’ The weapons in their hands gave him a pretty good idea.

  ‘It’s really quite simple, Mr Andrews. General manager, yes? We’re taking over the platform.’

  ‘What on earth for?’ the GM asked, dumbfounded. ‘You can’t seriously hope to gain anything from this. It’s ridiculous.’

  ‘No need to go off on one now, Mr Andrews. My boys and I didn’t just all meet up in a pub, ’ave a few beers and decide to knock off an oil platform for a giggle. I might sound a bit thick but I’m not. So respect that. Respect us. Respect the threat. Be good. And no harm’ll come to you. But if you come the ’ero, you’ll only piss me off. You’ve all been around this crazy world long enough to know that things like this can end in tears if it all gets bollocksed up.’

  The GM remained stoic, along with the security supervisor. Several of the technicians looked about ready to piss their pants.

  ‘Your emergency distress button is over there,’ Deacon said, pointing to the wall-mounted red box with a small hinged panel on its front. ‘I suspect you’re itching to press it.’

  ‘And I suppose you’ll kill me if I try,’ the platform boss said, jutting out his chin defiantly. ‘I was in the Royal Air Force and my father fought in the Battle of Britain.’

  Deacon raised his eyebrows. ‘I love the RAF. The only military unit that sends its officers to war first. I won’t kill you if you try. In fact, I want you to go ahead and press it.’

  The GM glanced at his security supervisor, suspecting a catch of some kind. The security man had nothing to offer apart from a fearful stare.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Deacon said, encouraging the man. ‘It’s all part of the plan. You wanna do it. I want you to do it. So let’s just do it.’

  The manager remained anxiously hesitant, suspecting a trap.

  ‘Go on,’ Deacon urged.

  The GM took a step towards the button, scrutinising the hijackers for any sign of a reaction. There was none. He took another step.

  Deacon gestured for him to get on with it, looking at his watch as if he needed to be somewhere else. ‘I don’t ’ave all day.’

  The GM clenched his jaw and decided to go for it, whatever the outcome. He felt close enough to activate the alarm even if they did shoot him. He faltered just before pressing it in order to take a look and see if the large thug with the machine gun had it aimed at him. He did not. The GM gritted his teeth and depressed the button all the way. Seconds later a red LED light above the box began to flash, accompanied by a soft beeping sound.

  Everyone remained still, waiting for the terrorist’s next move. But the man simply checked his watch, looking as if he was impatient for something else to happen.

  The phone on the general manager’s desk rang.

  ‘I expect that will be a response to your general-emergency activation,’ Deacon said. ‘You can go ahead and answer it.’

  The manager remained uneasy. ‘What do you want me to tell them?’

  Deacon shrugged.‘Whatever you like. Start with what’s ’appenin’. The truth . . . Go on, then.’

  The GM brought the phone to his ear. ‘This is Andrews . . . Yes. We . . . we have a situation. The Morpheus has been hijacked . . . Yes, that’s what I said. Hijacked. Armed men arrived by helicopter and . . . well, it would seem they have control of the platform . . . No. No violence yet. No damage as far as I’m aware,’ he said, glancing at Deacon. ‘I don’t know what’s happening outside the control room but they appear to be quite serious . . . They’re in the room, with me, here, right now. Their leader. They’re armed.’ He listened to a further question and looked at Deacon. ‘What exactly is it you want?’

  ‘The usual. A shitload of money or we destroy the platform. And if anyone tries to attack us we’ll kill everyone on board.’

  The manager was unbalanced by Deacon’s casual manner. ‘How much money?’

  ‘A small percentage of the platform’s value plus loss of productivity if it met with a disaster. Two billion dollars, US. Pretty cheap, really.’

  The GM cleared his throat. ‘They want two billion dollars,’ he said into the phone.

  ‘That’s enough,’ Deacon said. ‘You can put the phone down now. We can get into the details with them later. They’ve got enough to be getting on with for the time being.’

  The manager hesitated, wanting to say something that might be of use to the crisis-management team. But he could not, partly because of the possible repercussions and also because he could not think of anything to say anyway. It was all so surreal, all so quick. He placed the phone’s headset back into its cradle.

  ‘Good. That’s that part over. Now for the next step. All outside communications sources will come under my control. I’ll allow one engineer at a time in here to keep the place running. Same goes for engineering. What are you pumping right now?’

  ‘We’re at around sixty-three per cent of capacity,’ the GM replied.

  ‘You’ll maintain everything as normal. You,’ he said to the secur - ity supervisor. ‘Turn off all your CCTV now. Go.’

  The security supervisor walked quickly through the cluttered room to his office and turned off the cameras.

  ‘Unplug the hard drive and bring it here,’ Deacon ordered.

  The officer carried the small heavy box through the room and held it out to Deacon, who took it.

  ‘You try to turn on any of the cameras, I’ll find out about it and you’ll end up going for a swim without a life jacket. Understood?’

  The security officer nodded.

  ‘I like to run a pretty loose ship,’ Deacon said, facing the GM. ‘But don’t get carried away with it. This is how it will play. As we speak, radio-controlled explosive devices are being placed at key points around the platform. If anyone makes any attempt to interfere with my operation, the charges will be detonated. If any of my men are attacked, the charges will be detonated. In a little while, when I tell you, you’ll address your personnel over the platform intercom. You’ll tell them exactly what’s going on. You’ll also make it absolutely clear that there are to be no heroics. Tell them the consequences as I’ve laid them out to you.’ Deacon headed back to the entrance, pausing to look at the manager. ‘Don’t be fooled by my easygoing manner, Mr Andrews. I’m not the mastermind of this operation. But the people who hired me knew what they were doing. How many men do you currently have on this platform?’

  The GM took a moment to think about it. ‘A hundred and sixty-five,’ he replied looking at the security officer for confirmation.

  ‘That’s less than the number of men I’ve personally killed in the last six years . . . Now. Everyone sit down and don’t do anything silly or he’ll shoot you,’ Deacon said, indicating the large Bulgarian. The man looked up to the task.

  A clatter of gunfire came from outside. A ripple of panic shot through the platform workers in the room. The Bulgarian, himself unsure for a second, levelled his weapon towards them.

  Deacon stepped outside and onto the deck to see a man lying face down near the railings. He looked o
ver at the Lebanese thug and his smoking weapon. ‘What did you do that for?’ Deacon asked calmly.

  ‘He surprised me.’

  Deacon crouched by the casualty to feel for a pulse at the man’s neck. There was none. Blood dripped from the torso through the deck grilles onto the level below.

  ‘You’re paid to ’andle surprises,’ Deacon said. ‘I’m gonna deduct a hundred grand from your money. You step out of line again and all you’ll end up with is your deposit. You got that?’

  The Lebanese gritted his teeth but knew better than to argue. He had never met Deacon before the team had gathered at the safe house in the Shetlands fourteen days previously. Initially twelve team members had spent the days going over plans and each individual’s role. But four of them had disappeared one night - they simply were not in the house the following morning. Deacon said they had been removed to a secure location until the operation was complete, but the Lebanese believed that Deacon had killed them. He knew enough not to cross the Englishman, not during the operation at least. Threatening to cut his wages had been a stupid error, though, and he could already see himself killing the man. ‘It won’t happen again,’ he said.

  Deacon had in fact wanted to dump him but the four that he had already cut were worse and he needed a minimum of eight to carry out the operation. That was the first thing he had complained about. But when the escape plan was revealed he understood. It was tight but he would have to make it work. ‘You see that crane over there?’ he said, pointing across the platform. ‘Take this geezer and ’ang him on the end of the ’ook. We might as well get some use out of ’im.’

  The Lebanese wanted to ask why but that was another thing he had learned about Deacon back in the Shetlands. He didn’t like to be questioned.

  ‘Get on with it, then.’

  The Arab shouldered his weapon and dragged the dead man across the deck towards the crane.

  The radio crackled in Deacon’s ear. It was Queen. ‘Hey, sweetie. The pilot wants to get going but he’s nervous about the ditching procedure. He says there’s a storm front heading this way.’

  ‘There’s always a storm front heading somewhere in the North Sea.’

  ‘His orders are to ditch the chopper in the middle of the ocean a hundred miles from nowhere.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘He’s worried about not being picked up.’

  ‘You tell ’im this. If he fails to ditch where he’s been told to, ’is biggest worry will come when - not if - I find ’im. If he doesn’t ditch at the precise GPS coordinates he will not be picked up. And even if he survives that, I will find ’im and kill ’im. Also, remind ’im that if he does not ditch at the precise location he won’t get the rest of his considerable pay cheque. And I’ll still find ’im and kill ’im.’

  ‘Sounds clear enough to me.’

  ‘And one other thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Don’t call me sweetie.’

  A chirp sounding very much like a kiss came from the radio as Queen disconnected. Deacon frowned as he dug a satellite phone from a pocket, retrieved a number from the address book and hit the call button. It rang a couple of times before it was answered. ‘Yes,’ said a man’s voice.

  ‘This is Thanatos. Phase one is complete.’

  The phone beeped as if it had completed some kind of electronic eavesdropping scan and a monotone voice answered. ‘Understood. You can make the call to the British Ministry of Defence.’

  Another beep indicated that the signal had been disconnected and Deacon turned it off and put it back in his pocket. The first phase had gone according to plan, apart from that Lebanese twat killing the worker. Then again, it added some gravitas to the operation. It had all been so polite and amicable otherwise.

  The sound of the Eurocopter as it powered up its engines grew from the direction of the heli-deck and Deacon looked beyond the control centre to see the chopper rise into the air and turn away from the platform.

  He looked to the control room to see the GM looking at him through the open door. ‘One hundred and sixty-four,’ Deacon called out, shrugging.

  The Bulgarian closed the door.

  Deacon looked down at the hard drive in his hand, walked over to the rail and tossed it over the side, watching as it flipped and caught in the wind on the long way down to the water. On the far horizon, beyond the crisp blue sea, slate-grey clouds were forming. The plan took into consideration the North Sea’s reputation for harsh weather, but it could still prove detrimental to the operation’s overall success.

  He retrieved another stored number from the satellite phone and pressed the call button. ‘Is this the Ministry of Defence? . . . Good. Me and some friends have just hijacked an oil platform in the North Sea. Who should I speak to?’

  5

  Gerald Nevins walked briskly down a broad staircase into an Elizabethan hallway. Its ornate wooden carvings stretched from the ground- to the second-floor ceiling. He touched the perfectly tied knot of his silk tie as if to adjust it but without doing anything of the kind. It was a characteristic reflex when he was deep in thought. Two suited aides came down the steps behind him, one tapping the keys of a BlackBerry while the other talked into a phone.

  ‘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.’
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  ‘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.