9

The black sky was all around them. Below was nothing but darkness. The RN Dragonfly helicopter rose and fell on the wind as it headed for the Beryl Field, powered by its single Pratt & Whitney R-985 450bhp engine. Masters was at the controls with Barker beside him. The Prime Minister, seated close behind them, coughed lightly to clear his throat.

Masters glanced down at the sea and saw a dark, vitreous void. He didn’t like to look down – it was the black void of a dream. They were fifteen hundred feet above the sea but couldn’t see a thing. Masters felt very strange, slightly high, his nerves tingling. Excitement was mixed up with his natural fear and clinging sense of disbelief.

He was a Royal Marine Commando, a member of the SBS, trained rigorously at the Amphibious School of the Royal Marines at Eastney and elsewhere in a remarkably wide variety of specialist activities, including offensive demolitions, close-quarter combat (CQB), firing rifles and automatic weapons from the hip, stalking, fighting in densely wooded country and on the streets, abseiling, navigation, assault-opposed landings, elementary bridging, the use of assault boats and scaling ladders, tactical manoeuvres involving endurance, living on concentrated rations, ambushes, night operations, general boating, parachuting and flying single-pilot aircraft and helicopters – all that and he was still nervous, not because of the nature of this operation, but because he was now in charge of the fate of the British Prime Minister.

Luckily, if he survived this op, he would no longer be alone. Just before flying from Bravo 1 with the PM, he had been ordered by the latter to obtain proper authorization from his CO to make this flight and engage with the terrorists. Shocked by what he had been told, the CO, Lieutenant-Colonel Ben Edwards, had insisted on flying out to Bravo 1 to confer with the others in the boardroom and personally supervise all further SBS activity in the matter, including, if necessary, a full rescue assault against Charlie 2. On hold with his SBS squadron in the old Commando Basic Training Centre at Achnacarry, near the foot of Ben Nevis, Lieutenant-Colonel Edwards had decided to fly with one of his most experienced officers, Captain Rudolph ‘Rudy’ Pancroft, to Bravo 1 even as Masters was en route to Charlie 2. By the time Masters returned from Charlie 2 – if he returned – his two superiors would be relocated on Bravo 1. This thought gave him some comfort.

Masters looked down again and saw blackness everywhere. There was no moon, but he did see the clouds as deeper stains on the darkness. He shivered a little, his excitement warring with fear, as the Dragonfly dropped into an air pocket, shook violently, then picked up speed again and flew on.

‘Are we close?’ the PM asked.

‘Yes, Prime Minister,’ Masters replied. ‘We should be seeing their lights any minute now. We’ll be descending soon.’

‘What time is it?’

‘Eighteen-fifty hours,’ Barker informed him.

‘Ten minutes,’ the Prime Minister said. ‘I trust they’ll be amenable now.’

Masters didn’t reply. His brain was racing with possibilities. He wondered where he would be held, where the bomb was hidden, if he could make his escape and stay out of sight long enough. It wouldn’t take long to dismantle; the time spent would be in locating it. He had to elude his captors long enough to find and destroy the bomb. And what if he succeeded? Would that help in the long run? He tried to think of a way of escaping but couldn’t come up with one. After all, he had the Prime Minister and Barker to think about as well. He couldn’t simply disarm the bomb and run away, leaving them trapped with the terrorists. His mind was racing, yet his eyes scanned the dark sky systematically. Looking down, he saw distant, winking lights and knew they were close.

‘That’s it,’ Barker hissed.

‘Yeah, I can see it.’

‘I feel trapped,’ Barker said. ‘Utterly useless. What can we do down there?’

Masters looked ahead and saw the distant lights approaching, pinpoints growing bigger in the darkness to become stars in space, then lamps floating on high. There was something chilling in that sight, something unreal and frightening. Suddenly, he felt all alone, floating free in the cosmos. He blinked and swallowed, torn between dread and excitement, then gave in to a cold, competitive rage against the men on that rig. He had to beat them somehow, deprive them of victory. His own future, and that of his country, both hung in the balance.

‘I’m starting the descent now,’ he said.

‘I’m glad,’ the PM replied gamely. ‘I want to get this over and done with. I don’t like not knowing.’

The distant lights were approaching rapidly. Moonlight fell on the water. The Dragonfly, shaking a little, dropped lower and Masters saw Charlie 2. It was a pyramid of lights that rendered the rig invisible. The lights seemed to be floating in the dark sky above the moon’s reflection in the water. That water was almost black – a bottomless well. The lights of Charlie 2 shone above it, danced and leapt in the lapping waves. Masters tried to concentrate, taking the helicopter lower. He had a vision of the lights of Manhattan, sweeping out, soaring skywards. It was a beautiful sight that made him catch his breath. He looked down and saw the silhouetted derricks, the black mat of the platform.

‘There they are,’ he said. ‘The bastards are waiting down there for us. Now let’s find out what’s happening.’

He turned the Dragonfly around and started descending towards the rig, heading for the circle of lights on the edge of the platform. Now he could see the whole rig, the towering derricks and tiered modules, a patchwork of shadow and light, stark black and white brilliance. There were dots in that mosaic, moving back and forth, gradually taking shape and becoming the human beings surrounding the landing pad. The Dragonfly shuddered as it dropped below the lights. Far below, beneath the illuminated landing pad, was the dark, surging sea. The helicopter descended vertically until the derricks towered above it. Dropping lower, it touched lightly on the deck and finally came to a halt.

Masters switched off the engine and waited patiently until the props had stopped rotating and the slipstream had subsided.

‘Here we go,’ Barker said.

The men moving in on all sides were wearing overalls and were armed with 5.56mm Heckler & Koch MP5 sub-machine-guns, 7.6mm Kalashnikov AK47 semi-automatic assault rifles, and a variety of handguns, including the 9mm Glock 17 semi-automatic and the .455-inch Webley Mark 6. The lights washed across their faces, rendering them ghostly white and featureless. They closed in, surrounding the Dragonfly, as Masters moved towards the door. The PM hesitated when he saw those floodlit faces. Beyond them were the blazing lights of the derricks and the stark, jet-black shadows.

Masters smiled reassuringly at the PM, then unlocked the door. After sliding the door open, he threw out the short ladder and made his way down, followed by Barker. A cold air rushed into the helicopter as the PM stood up, bit his lower lip, then moved to the exit and stared down at the brightly lit landing pad. The terrorists were keeping Masters and Barker covered, but otherwise they seemed calm. The PM took a deep breath and made his way down the ladder until he stood between Masters and Barker.

‘So,’ Masters asked, ‘where’s McGee?’

One of the terrorists stepped forward and grabbed Masters by the shoulder, jerked him around, threw him against the side of the helicopter and then roughly kicked his legs apart. Masters offered no resistance. The terrorist ran his hands up and down the SBS man’s body, then stepped back and motioned to Barker.

‘Your turn,’ he said.

Barker faced the Dragonfly, putting his hands above his head and spreading his legs. The terrorist frisked him expertly, then stepped back and nodded at the Prime Minister.

‘You, too,’ he said quietly.

The PM straightened his broad shoulders and stared straight at the terrorist. ‘I am the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom,’ he declared. ‘I do not carry weapons.’

The terrorist raised his MP5 sub-machine-gun and aimed it at the PM. ‘I don’t give a fuck,’ the terrorist said. ‘Put your hands on that chopper.’

The PM bristled, but did as he was told. The terrorist frisked him and then stepped away, saying: ‘Right, turn around.’ The three men did as they were told, facing the circle of armed terrorists. The wind moaned and stark shadows formed a web on the steel of the platform.

‘Where’s McGee?’ Masters asked again.

‘In the radio shack,’ replied the terrorist who had frisked them.

‘I know where it is,’ Masters said. ‘Are we going there now?’

‘Right now. After you.’

The terrorist motioned with his MP5, the surrounding men parted to form a pathway, and Masters, followed by the PM and Barker, headed for the catwalk. The PM glanced left and right and saw the weapons pointing at him. He felt a tension that wasn’t quite fear – more a heightened awareness. Some armed terrorists went on ahead while others fell in behind. Masters mounted the catwalk, Barker close behind, and then the PM also stepped forward and felt the blast of an icy wind. Following Barker across the catwalk, he glanced down and felt dizzy. The surging sea way below was a dark pit flecked with silvery lights. The PM took a deep breath and gripped the railing tighter. There was nothing on either side but the sea and the sky, both black, both offering lonesome sounds: splashing water, the moaning wind. The PM stopped once. He was prodded with a gun barrel. Advancing again, he walked carefully down the catwalk, eventually finding himself standing on the main deck, beside Masters and Barker.

‘Keep going,’ the leading terrorist said. ‘You’re not here for the scenery.’

The gunmen formed a circle around them as they crossed the main deck. There were more terrorists standing along the modules, looking on with great interest, some laughing, others shouting derisory remarks. The PM kept his dignity, not responding in any way, following the others past huge oil tanks and derricks, under cranes and catwalks. The deck was slippery under foot, filmed with mud and oil, and they walked either through the dazzling brilliance of the floodlights or through a stark, blinding blackness. It was very quiet here. The drilling floor had been silenced. They heard the wind, the sea, their boots banging on metal.

They came to a steel ladder leading up to another deck. The terrorists in front climbed up, Masters and Barker followed, and then the PM, breathing heavily. It was a vertical climb and he wasn’t used to such exercise; when he reached the top he found himself gasping, felt the strain in his muscles. Barker was grinning at him, at once amused and admiring. Masters was intently studying their surroundings, fixing them in his memory. Following the SBS man’s gaze, the PM saw the radio shack. The front door was open, light was flooding out, and a man was silhouetted in the doorway, surrounded by armed guards.

‘Is that McGee?’ the PM asked.

‘Yes,’ Masters replied.

‘Obviously he has a flair for theatrics,’ the PM said.

They walked across the deck and stepped into the light. McGee, unarmed, was in the doorway, a grin on his face.

‘Have you come?’ he said to Masters, using that oddity of speech peculiar to Ulster.

‘Yes. Here we are.’

‘Did I surprise you?’

‘Yes, McGee, you surprised me. I would never have guessed.’

McGee’s grin was not good-humoured. His brown eyes, bright and hard, turned from Masters to Barker to finally settle on the PM, whom he studied for some time. The PM was unflinching. McGee turned away and motioned the three men inside. Brushing past him, they entered the radio shack, which was small, bright and sweltering. McGee stepped in after them, flanked by two armed guards. One of them closed the door, the other moved up beside him, and both of them levelled their MP5s at the three visitors. McGee grinned, sat down by the radio and looked up at his hostages.

‘Sure, I thought I’d make this radio shack my HQ,’ he explained. ‘Particularly when we’ve so much to talk about.’

No one smiled. ‘All right,’ Barker said. ‘You’ve got us here, so just tell us one thing. Is there really a bomb?’

‘Ackaye,’ McGee replied.

‘Where?’

‘Where do you think? Inside one of the pontoon legs – just like the first one.’

‘Which leg?’ Masters asked.

‘Don’t be daft, Tone. Do you think I’d be dumb enough to tell you? Ask me something else, like.’

‘Would you really use it?’ the PM asked.

‘Ackaye, Prime Minister.’

‘You must be mad,’ Barker told him.

‘No, I’m not. And you damn well know it.’

McGee stopped grinning, looked at each of them in turn, then settled his gaze on Masters.

‘Tell us about the bomb,’ Masters said.

‘Sure, Tone, why not?’ McGee grinned again. ‘It’s about the size of a tea chest and weighs . . .’

‘We already know that,’ Masters interrupted.

‘Right,’ McGee said, grinning even more broadly, though with no sign of humour. ‘It was shipped in in separate parts in various supply crates, over a period of time, and the parts were hidden in the rig’s regular storage space. A lot of my men were on the night shift and often had to check the pontoon legs; so bit by bit they took the parts down into the pontoon leg and gradually reassembled the bomb down there. It’s now resting on a girder halfway down – and it’s all primed to go.’

He grinned at the three of them. They all looked at him in silence. The floor was undulating from side to side, very slowly, hypnotically. Eventually the PM coughed into his fist, clearing his throat.

‘What are your demands?’ he asked quietly.

‘I speak for the IRA,’ McGee responded portentously. ‘I want you to understand that. These demands are on behalf of the Irish . . .’

‘I don’t wish to hear your nonsense,’ the PM snapped. ‘I just want your demands.’

‘We want one million pounds sterling. Then we want four of our men out of the Maze prison. It’s as simple as that.’

‘What men?’ the PM asked.

‘You mean you agree to the money?’

‘I haven’t said that,’ the PM replied firmly. ‘Now who are these men?’

‘Seamus McGrath, John Houlihan, Kevin Trainor and Shaun McGurk – the four best men we’ve got.’

‘That’s rather a large demand,’ the PM said after a lengthy pause. ‘I seriously doubt that I could order their release.’

‘Sure you can, Prime Minister. You can dream up an excuse. They’re political prisoners, there’s already doubt that you can hold them long, but we want them to be pardoned and set free before this week’s out. We won’t settle for less.’

‘That’s impossible,’ the PM said.

‘Sure, nothing’s impossible, Prime Minister. We don’t care how you explain it to the public; we just want them pardoned.’

‘I can’t do it,’ the PM said.

‘Yes, you can,’ McGee insisted. ‘They’re in the Maze awaiting trial, their guilt hasn’t been proven yet, so you can say that the evidence against them was all circumstantial and wouldn’t have held up in court.’

‘That will make fools of our intelligence people.’

‘That’s part of our general plan.’

‘And the million pounds? You want us to give you a million pounds so you can finance more terror?’

‘Ackaye, that’s right, Prime Minister. That’s just what we want, like.’

The PM stared at him with cold rage in his eyes, then scratched his chin and studied the floor, clearly deep in thought. Eventually raising his eyes again, he said: ‘Then what? You’ve already done all the damage you can. I can’t see us recovering from the public knowledge that all this has happened.’

‘That’s correct,’ Barker interjected. ‘You’ve done too much damage already. We’ll lose international confidence when this gets out and that will finish the North Sea.’

‘It won’t be public,’ McGee explained. ‘It doesn’t have to be known. Sure, if you give us what we want, we’ll pull out and keep quiet about it. Then you people put out a statement. You say the loss of Eagle 3 was due to a serious earthquake on the seabed that caused damage as far away as Charlie 2. You say most of the crew on Charlie 2 were killed and will have to be replaced. Naturally, we’ll be gone. You then bring the new crew in. They’ll take over without knowing what’s gone on – nor will anyone else.’

‘To your advantage,’ the PM said.

‘Ackaye, Prime Minister. Sure we’ll stay quiet as long as our men stay out of the Maze. We’ll only talk if you try to drag them back in or otherwise harm them.’

The PM was thoughtful, pursing his lips and tapping his chin with his fingertips as the hut swayed from side to side.

Eventually, to break the silence, Robert Barker said: ‘So what if we agree? What guarantee do we have that the Prime Minister will then be released and that the bomb won’t be set off?’

‘Now why would we do that? We’d be cutting our own throats. Why destroy British oilfields and kill the Prime Minister, turning public sympathy against us, when we’ve got everything we need with minimum damage? We rely on public support as much as you do and we don’t want to lose it.’

‘So why demand the PM’s presence here in the first place?’

‘Because there’s something I have to tell you in his presence – and you’re not going to like it.’ He glanced at each of them in turn, grim-faced now. After checking the guard by the door, he turned back to them. ‘The IRA couldn’t have financed an operation this big on its own. No, we were approached by the spokesman for some overseas backers who wanted us to assassinate the Prime Minister.’ McGee’s thin smile at this point was not returned by the PM. ‘We only had one meeting with this single representative and he didn’t say who the others were. He only described them as a group with unlimited funds. But since he specifically wanted the assassination to take place during the PM’s visit to the oilfields, I think it’s safe to assume that they’ve some interests here.’

Masters felt a sudden chill sliding down his spine. He was shocked by this fresh revelation, the thickening plot, and felt that he, an SBS commando, a good marine, was out of his depths in this murky world of conspiracy.

‘This unknown group,’ McGee continued, ‘wanted the assassination to look like the act of a local terrorist group. For reasons not explained they didn’t want it to be connected to anyone outside the United Kingdom. They wanted us to do the job. We also had to take the blame. In return, they would finance the hijack operation and pay a separate fee of two million pounds.’

Barker glanced at his granite-faced Prime Minister, then lowered his gaze to the floor. Masters knew he was shocked.

‘As I said before,’ McGee continued, ‘it’s not in our interest to lose public sympathy by assassinating the Prime Minister – but we needed the money and we did want our men out of the Maze. So we accepted the job, receiving full finance for the hijack and with the first half of the two million to be paid to our representatives in Aberdeen the minute you all stepped aboard this rig. The other million was to be paid when we killed the Prime Minister.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Barker said. ‘How would these men, your backers, know that the Prime Minister had boarded this rig? Would they take your word for it?’

‘Of course not. They’d know because one of them – and I honestly don’t know who – is one of the men who took part in your conference back on Bravo 1. He’ll know the Prime Minister’s here. He’ll know everything that’s happened. He’ll be contacting the mainland right now, to arrange for the first million to be handed over. When my man rings to say that’s been done, I’m to kill the Prime Minister . . . begging your pardon, sir!’

The PM responded with a flat gaze. ‘But you won’t kill me,’ he said.

‘No,’ McGee replied. ‘And I’ve already told you why. I don’t know who these men are, but alienating the British public is something we wouldn’t do for their benefit. They offered two million pounds. We want you to offer more. Their first million plus your million makes two million – the original fee – but we also want our men out of the Maze and that’s really the capper.’

There was silence for a long time while they tried to digest the facts. Masters, Barker and the PM were all thinking of Bravo 1 and the unknown traitor in their midst. Which one of them was it? What was his motivation? Who on earth could have set all this up while pretending to be one of their own? Barker looked stunned and drained. Masters was still and self-contained. The Prime Minister, by contrast, was shocked and outraged, his icy-blue eyes bright with a burning anger.

‘I won’t agree,’ he said harshly. ‘The price is too high. I will not release your murderous friends from the Maze just to watch them organize more terrorism. Nor will I give you the money. I won’t finance the IRA. To capitulate will merely be a sign that you can get away with this again. No, I won’t do it. Nothing you say will make me do it. There are limits and I think you’ve just reached them. You won’t go any further.’

‘That I will,’ McGee promised.

‘I don’t think so, McGee. You said yourself that you depend on public opinion, so I don’t think you’ll risk turning it against you. You won’t do what you’re threatening.’

The second he finished speaking, he realized how wrong he was. He looked into the growing rage in McGee’s eyes and saw the truth of fanaticism. McGee was pushing his chair back, standing up, his eyes widening. He grabbed the PM by the collar to tug him forward and breathe right in his face.

‘Sure, I’ll do it,’ McGee snapped. ‘Believe me, mister, I’ll do it! I’ll do anything that puts you bastards down, even if I go with you!’ He pushed the PM aside, snatched a pistol from the table, then violently kicked the door open and stepped out of the hut. ‘Bring the bastards out here!’ he bawled.

One of the guards grabbed the PM and threw him out through the door. When he nodded curtly at Masters and Barker, both men left the radio shack, stepping into the light beaming out from the doorway and further dazzled by the lights shining down from the derricks and modules. Temporarily blinded, they blinked and then saw the two survivors: Griffith and Sutton, the geologist and the driller, both on their hands and knees on the deck, surrounded by gunmen. Sutton had been badly beaten; his face was bruised and he was weeping. Griffith, kneeling beside him, was untouched, but his eyes shone with fear.

McGee didn’t waste any time. He grabbed Griffith by the hair, jerked his head back, placed the barrel of the pistol against his head and then glanced around wildly at the PM. The latter tried to step forward, but two of the guards stopped him, then twisted his arms behind his back and held him there while he looked on in horror.

‘No!’ the PM cried out. ‘No! For God’s sake, you can’t . . .’

His voice was cut off by the gunshot. Griffith’s head exploded. His body jerked like a puppet on a string and then collapsed to the deck.

‘Do you believe me?’ McGee hissed.

He spun around and grabbed Sutton and jerked his head back. Sutton shrieked and the Prime Minister cried ‘No!’ and then the gun fired again. Sutton convulsed and collapsed. His body shuddered and then was still. The blood dribbled from the shadows where his head was to touch the PM’s boots. The Prime Minister started sagging, but the guards pulled him back up. He shook his head from side to side as if dazed, then started shaking all over. McGee walked up to him, his eyes bright and obsessed, and waved his gun in the PM’s face as if wanting to hit him.

‘Do you believe me?’ he hissed again. ‘Well? Is that enough for your conscience?’

The Prime Minister did not reply, but simply gasped and shook his head. Barker bit his lower lip and Masters clenched both his fists as the two bodies were thrown overboard. They didn’t hear the splash: the sea was too far below. They glanced down and saw the blood on the deck, seeping out of the shadows. The PM shuddered and Barker bit his lip again. Masters opened his clenched fists and spread his fingers as he fought to control himself. The huge derricks soared above him, their lights merging with the stars. Masters dropped his gaze only when he was prodded, none too gently, at gunpoint, back into the hut.

The PM was in a chair, covering his face with his hands, shuddering. Barker was standing beside him, clearly as shocked but trying to hide it. Masters, turning away in embarrassment, came face to face with McGee.

‘You have one hour to decide,’ McGee said, before slamming the door shut.