‘What can I do for you, Mr Kaan?’ Nevins asked.
A technician brought up something on her monitor and transferred it to the margin of the big screen: a photograph of a well-attired dark-skinned gentleman in his forties, with a finely groomed goatee. A biographical summary accompanied it.
‘I suppose the question to begin with has to be: what are you going to do about our oil platform?’
Nevins scrutinised the information on the man with disdain. Kaan had spent two years at Eton before moving to Harvard to complete a law degree. ‘Why, everything we possibly can, Mr Kaan.’
‘I don’t need to tell you that we have over a hundred and sixty people on board the Morpheus whose lives we are responsible for.’
‘Many of them British citizens who I am responsible for . . . not to mention that the hijacking has taken place in our sovereign waters.’
‘I fully appreciate that, Mr Nevins. Nevertheless, we will be the ones liable if harm comes to any of them. Can you give me an indication of your intentions?’
‘Have the hijackers made contact with you?’ Nevins asked, still reading the man’s bio.
‘Not yet. At the moment their dialogue appears to be directed towards your government.’
‘What’s your company policy with regard to the payment of ransoms?’
‘We don’t have one. We don’t enjoy the luxury that governments have when it comes to sacrificing our personnel for political purposes. We run a business. We will take the least expensive option. If that means paying a ransom it will be a strong consideration. We would appreciate you keeping us informed of your intentions since they will have an impact on that.’
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 all very peculiar.
He considered backtracking but decided against it, confident that he was in the right place. The GPS would have confirmed it but this had become a challenge, if a minor one, and he was determined to solve it using map-reading and his instincts rather than electronics. It was Stratton’s belief that people had become too dependent on modern technology and that it would eventually lead to the erosion of basic skills.
He put the engine into gear and drove into the junction to get a better look in all directions. The grid reference he had for the MI16 compound was less than a mile away in an unmarked piece of MoD land. No one at the SBS HQ had been to the place before and so there were no clear directions.
Stratton began to turn the wheel to go left but changed his mind, focusing instead on the unmarked lane that carried on straight ahead. He usually leaned more towards taking the route to discovery if he got the chance. On the other hand, now he had a convenient reason to turn around and go home. Not that anyone would have bought the excuse. A strong residue of doubt about the visit prompted his hesitation. Mike had tried to gloss over it as some kind of meeting of minds but Stratton had not entirely bought into that. Ultimately he didn’t like people questioning his abilities and he would always challenge them. But after a couple of days to reflect on the subject, its importance had started to wane in his mind. It was all down to his level of self-confidence. Stratton rarely doubted his o
wn operational abilities. He felt as if he was still in his prime. When he started to have genuine doubts he would know he was over the hill. By then he would be out of the business anyway. It didn’t mean, though, that direct accusations, especially from those he did not respect, could be levelled at him without provoking a response.
He felt reasonably relaxed about it at that moment but he knew that could change if anyone at MI16 rubbed him up the wrong way.
Stratton accelerated the Jeep across the junction and into the unmarked lane. The tarmac quickly turned to mud. Bushes and saplings encroached from either side. The track soon became so narrow that the Jeep could barely squeeze along it. The thick undergrowth on either side was impenetrable.
A sign warned anyone using the lane that government property was up ahead and trespassers would be prosecuted. It was an encouragement to Stratton to keep going at least. At the top of a short rise the ends of a chain fence were visible at either side of the lane. The gate across the road was open. He carried on through and down a steep dip, then to the crest of another rise where the trees thinned out and the dense scrub gave way. A hut came into view on the edge of the track, a robust metal gate - this time closed - just beyond it.
Stratton half expected to find someone in the hut but there was no sign of life. Just a metal box with a card slot. Stratton dug his military ID card out of a pocket and pushed it into the reader. The card came out seconds later, a green light flashed, accompanied by a gentle beep, and the heavy gate began to open.
He must have found the place. No turning back now. There was an element of adventure to this, at least.
He drove on through and the gate closed behind the Jeep. Up ahead the trees gave way to a wide, unfenced compound. An insignificant-looking place, at least compared with the organisation’s daunting reputation and indeed with what he had been expecting. Enough for him to wonder again if it was the right location.
Everything about the compound looked as though it had been constructed during the last world war. An area the size of a football pitch had been cleared of trees, concrete had been poured and levelled, and a collection of long, narrow prefabricated bungalows had been positioned in neat rows. It must have taken all of a week to construct.
Stratton followed a path of faded white lines that turned abruptly through a gap between two buildings into a square. Parked to one side were half a dozen ordinary-looking modern cars, the only indication of human life somewhere nearby. Stratton drove into an empty slot and turned off his motor.
A sudden silence. Stillness. Refreshing until Stratton realised it was too quiet. He couldn’t even hear any birds. He climbed out of the Jeep and looked around. All the windows in the identical buildings had been either painted over or boarded up. Despite the run-down look of the place there wasn’t a speck of rubbish or debris. Stratton wondered if he had missed a sign that instructed visitors where to go or what to do. Or perhaps the super-duper MI16 organisation was unaware that someone had arrived at their secret facility.
Stratton would have loved to surprise Binning and his pals. That would take the edge off his resentment. Somehow, though, he didn’t think he was going to be that lucky.
A small sign above one of the cabin doors announced rather mutedly ENTRANCE and he headed towards it.
As he was about to open the door he glimpsed part of an odd and until now hidden structure - odd insofar as it looked out of place date-wise. A few steps beyond the edge of the cabin a short steel staircase led to a modern helicopter pad. A fire-foam system circled the entire structure, looking as if it was automated. A concrete block on the far side had what appeared to be large metal sheets sunk at a steep angle into its face. They looked like sliding doors although there were no handles.
Stratton returned to the door with the entrance sign. The handle was shiny and well used. He opened the door to reveal a snug, sterile lobby. The rest of the building was partitioned off, the floor covered in fake tiled linoleum and the ceiling stained by leaks.
A gentle humming sound, like that of distant machinery, filtered in from somewhere. Set into a wall was a bland lift door, a single call button on the frame. Stratton pressed it.
The lift opened to reveal a space big enough for half a dozen people. He stepped inside. The door closed but the lift remained still. There were only two buttons and a card slot on the control panel. He pushed the lower button. Another humming sound came from above but he felt no sense of movement. Either it was an incredibly smooth mechanism, or something else was happening.
A series of stark blue LED lights, their bulbs hitherto invisible, rippled from the lift’s ceiling to the floor.
‘Remove the battery from your communication device, please,’ a softly spoken computer-generated voice instructed.
Stratton took his BlackBerry from its hip holster and as soon as he removed the battery the voice thanked him.
‘Remove your wristwatch, please.’
Stratton frowned and removed his watch. A metal drawer slid out from the side of the lift.
‘Place all items in the drawer, please.’
Stratton obeyed. The drawer closed.
‘Thank you.’
The lift began to descend.
When it came to a halt the doors slid open. Binning stood in front of him dressed in a pair of running shorts and a sleeveless sports shirt with a towel around his neck, looking as if he’d just had a rigorous workout. His muscular arms and legs presented quite the picture of athleticism.
‘Stratton,’ he announced, wearing a broad smile and acting like they were old friends. ‘Good to see you again.’ He held out a hand.
Stratton stifled his hostility and shook the man’s hand. ‘Hi,’ he said, smiling slightly and wondering if Binning was a two-faced sod, thick-skinned, or had had nothing to do with the criticism that he had faced. He chose to believe the first option just in case.
‘Sorry you were left to fend for yourself up there. I was in the middle of a fierce circuit when I heard you’d arrived. Do come in.’
‘This box has my phone and watch,’ Stratton said.
‘Of course.’ Binning pulled a card from a pocket. ‘It’s routine, I’m afraid. It’s designed to detect electronic devices, weapons and explosives. We have no physical security in this place, no guards. Nothing’s allowed in or out without clearance. I’m qualified at least to get you your phone and watch back.’ He slid the card into the slot. A second later the drawer opened and he handed Stratton his items. ‘So. I take it you found us without any problems. I would expect so. Man of your calibre. I see you like an open-top Jeep even in the middle of winter. Man after my own heart.’
Binning was certainly in a chipper mood.
‘I don’t suppose anyone warned you about this place,’ the scientist continued as they stepped into a pristine white pentagon-shaped lobby, the ceiling low, a few chairs around the walls. ‘I don’t know the last time one of your people came up, and I’ve been here six years. Let’s start with the canteen, get a cup of tea, warm you up a bit. Then we’ll meet the boss. I think he’d rather show you around himself.’
Binning led the way into a broad curving corridor. It was a complete contrast to the dilapidated cabins above.
‘How far down do you think we are?’ Binning asked.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Stratton muttered, uninterested in guessing games.
‘The ceiling is a hundred feet from the surface. There’s supposed to be over three miles of tunnels down here but unless they’ve hidden some of them I think that’s an exaggeration.’
One of the walls gave way to plate glass from floor to ceiling, an empty conference room beyond. Then a series of offices and data-storage rooms either side of the corridor. It was all very high-tech. The place sounded alive, a mixture of electronic humming and moving air.
‘They built these tunnels at the same time as the buildings up top, a couple of years into the Second World War. Then it became some kind of government emergency evacuation centre in the event of a n
uclear attack. That was sometime during the late 1940s, early 1950s. MI16 took it over twenty years ago. It has been completely gutted and modernised, of course.’
Binning pushed through a pair of swing doors into a canteen equipped with chairs and tables for a dozen people. The place had a row of food and drink dispensers, a handbasin with a soap dispenser and paper towels, and several hatches labelled for various types of waste that were set into a wall.
‘We’re very much a help-yourself organisation down here. Everything’s self-service. All part of the security. You get used to it,’ Binning said as he pushed a button on a machine that responded by dispensing a plastic cup followed by a jet of brown liquid. ‘Tea, coffee, or something else perhaps? There are sodas, fruit juices, soup if you prefer.’
‘Coffee, thanks. White, no sugar.’
Binning pressed the appropriate button but the machine did not respond. ‘Of course, it’s a bugger when something breaks down. It’s like trying to pass a bill through Parliament to get a mechanic down here.’ The machine suddenly responded. ‘Do you know much about MI16?’ he asked, handing Stratton the drink.
Stratton shrugged. ‘Only that you make toys.’
‘Yes, I do like that expression. War toys for war boys. We’re essentially divided into three parts: research and theory, construction and development, and then testing and field trials. We have around a dozen staff down here, a dozen more low-key techs at another surface location. We work in quite a unique way, a sort of free-form system. Anyone can work on any project at any of the stages - within reason, of course. Can’t neglect the boring jobs or crowd the interesting ones. One of my specialities is simplification. Much of the equipment we produce is far too technical to hand over to you chaps.’
‘We’re a bit thick, I suppose?’ Stratton said, sipping his coffee.
‘I wouldn’t have put it quite that way,’ Binning said, with a grin. ‘You’re soldiers, not scientists. But then again, it’s not always easy or possible to make things user-friendly for everyone. Look how long it took to make the computer compatible with everyday users. We don’t have the facilities, the manpower nor the time for that kind of compliance. Once we’ve built it, we need to get it in the field as soon as we can. Most of the things we put together three years ago are already out of date. A lot of them never even reached the field, at your level, because they were too complicated.’
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