Nevins finished reading the last paragraph of the bio. Kaan had been born in Dubai and was part of a wealthy family with connections to the ruling family. ‘Who is your decision-making authority?’
Kaan did not respond.
‘Who do you answer to?’ Nevins asked.
‘I’m afraid that has to be confidential, for the time being at least.’
‘I see. Well, it’s been nice talking with you, Mr Kaan,’ Nevins said. ‘Good day.’ He handed the phone back to the aide and looked up at the screen. ‘What are our options for taking it back?’
‘Remove the battery from your cellular phone, please,’ the operations officer said to the aide.
The aide almost dropped the phone in his speed to obey. The ops officer looked at the other aide who held up his cellphone with the battery already removed.
The operations officer redirected his attention to Nevins. ‘Technically this comes under the Grampian Police.’
Nevins glanced at him, a confused frown on his face. ‘Since when did the police have the capability to recapture an oil platform?’
‘They don’t. But every UK offshore structure now falls under the responsibility of its coastal police force. Our special forces are too thin on the ground and too overworked to maintain that role. It’s all part of a programme to have Home Security eventually deal with all domestic issues, terrorist or otherwise.’
‘Are you telling me that if I want to take the platform back by force I’m going to have to rely on a troop of constables?’
‘Of course not. None of the forces are even remotely trained and equipped to carry out such a task.’
‘This is clearly an SBS option.’
‘The duty squadron in Poole has already been placed on standby. But they’re severely undermanned. The majority of the service is currently in Afghanistan.’
‘Isn’t a squadron big enough to do the job?’ Nevins asked.
‘If it was up to strength. The current duty squadron has just six operatives.’
Nevins looked at him questioningly. ‘The SAS?’
‘They can only offer limited support to the SBS on a rig as complex as the Morpheus. I’ve requested that two SAS packets move to Afghanistan to relieve two SBS packets.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Realistically, four days minimum but probably more. The SBS standby team could carry out the preliminaries - a technical attack, for instance - and put in surveillance while we’re waiting for the assault teams to get into position.’
The ops officer was suddenly distracted by information coming in over his wire headphones. He looked up at the big screen where a red marker began to flash.
Nevins noticed it. ‘What’s that?’ he asked.
‘The Eurocopter that delivered the hijack team to the Morpheus. They’ve ditched.’
Nevins scrutinised the screen. ‘I don’t see any vessels in the immediate area.’
‘There isn’t another vessel for twenty miles.’
‘Did they crash?’
‘One can only assume so. Or sabotage. The storm front is still miles to the north.’
‘Sir, the Nimrod has the Morpheus visual,’ an operator called out.
They all looked at the big screen where a section displayed a long-range bird’s-eye-view image of the platform.
‘Thermals have picked up people on the main deck,’ the operator continued. ‘Close to a dozen by the helipad. Two people outside the control room.’
The image became grainy as it gradually zoomed in on the top section of the platform. It was clear enough to make out a figure moving in the open.
‘They’ve identified something on the end of a cable. It’s dangling from a crane. Looks like a body.’
On the screen the thermal qualities became more visible.
‘It’s cooler than the others,’ the ops officer pointed out. ‘I would have to say the person died not that long ago.’
Nevins’s thoughtful frown returned. ‘Is that storm front going to hit the Morpheus?’
‘Without a doubt. It’ll be in for a couple of days, too.’
‘Something working in our favour, then. Let’s get that SBS section into the arena. Have them ready to put in surveillance.’
The operations officer acknowledged and nodded to one of the operators.
‘I’d better have a chat with the PM,’ Nevins said, heading across the room to the heavy black curtains.
His aides followed him.
6
Stratton stopped the Jeep in a narrow lane lined by black leafless hedges. An icy breeze gusted as he studied the empty crossroads in front. He pulled the thick Afghan scarf down from over his mouth, removed one of his sheepskin gloves and pulled a map from between the seats.
The map showed a T-junction at the point where he thought he was, not a crossroads. On the far side of the junction a bereft-looking wooden signpost leaned at an angle. It was